Butch
Cassidy and The Sundance Kid
There’s an
overwhelming emptiness to this movie.
The humor doesn’t mitigate the emptiness, but exposes that human
propensity for ignoring death (in order to forestall it). Butch and Sundance know they’re doomed, but
they can’t face it, so they crack jokes to hide the pain. They reveal no affection for each other, nor
for Etta (at least, not in words). They
can’t say anything loving but their actions reveal the truth.
First of all, the fact
that these two men could share Etta (Sundance claims her physically, Butch
claims her spiritually) without envy or strife is a huge indicator of how tight
they really are. Butch is the brains,
Sundance is the brawn. Butch is an
innovator, Sundance likes a sure thing.
Butch reconciles, Sundance confronts; Butch is loquacious, Sundance is
taciturn; Butch is kind (but can get rough) and Sundance is cruel (or, at
least, acts that way). Together they
make a dynamite team. But they’re even
better as friends.
The long flight from
Joe LeFors bears this out. It’s the most
innovative and evocative part of the movie.
Instead of just making a dash for it, the pair make two big stops and
several shorter ones. They hide in plain
sight. They try to make sense of what’s
happening, trying to convince each other it’s all going to work out. The posse is just a pile of dots in the
distance. Butch and Sundance have eather
other. There’s that strange commingling
of fear, excitement, and reassurance that is emotionally gratifying. Their flight from justice just brings them
closer. If they’re both wanted men, they
share the same big problem and should stay tight. To solve it for one is to solve it for both.
They start being chased
surrounded by their gang. Then there’s
just four. Then there’s two, with each
man a horse. Then they share a horse. Finally, it’s just the two of them on the
edge of a cliff, with not even their hats to protect them.
They cheat death, but
soon discover that LeFors will not stop until they’re dead. Sundance agrees with Butch’s idea of
Bolivia. Etta agrees to come, but flatly
informs them that despite their flight, they will not cheat fate; they are
doomed to die in a horrific fashion.
The next day they’re
all packed, dressed respectably, and looking sober. Butch angrily discards his cherished
possession with a dismissive “The future’s all yours, you lousy bicycles.”
It wasn’t just a means
of transportation. It held the promise
of a new century. We associate it with
the happiest time in the movie, Butch and Etta cavorting in the barnyard and the
apple orchard. Now Butch angrily rejects
it, and the effect is like seeing a master kick his loyal dog. Sure, the bicycle doesn’t have feelings, but
the image we’re left with lets us know there’s more going on here. Abandoned to an idyllic stream, its spokes
glisten as the wheel slowly comes to a stop, the image going from color to
sepia tones.
Butch knows he’s going
to die, and it won’t be very long. And
even if that interpretation’s going too far, this is the first time Butch is
forced to do something he doesn’t want to do.
Bolivia was a great idea when it meant greener pastures. Now it just means failure, fear, and
flight. By rejecting the bicycle, Butch
rejects the prospect of happiness and the expectation of a long life. For the first time, he realizes he’s not in
control.
Stubbornly, he decides
to continue thieving. He only stops
because LeFors has caught his trail in Bolivia.
He and Sundance decide to go straight.
In a brilliant twist, they get a job as gunslingers to guard mine
payrolls. On the first trip, their boss is
killed. Butch flings the money up to the
bandits, and we think Butch and Sundance are chickening out. But they confront the bandits. Butch implores them to leave the money and
go. We see that he wants to fulfill his
responsibilities. But to do so, for the
first time, Butch must kill.
It turns out that
stealing from faceless entities is nothing compared to taking a life—even when
it was in self-defense.
Chagrined, Butch
rejects farming and ranching as too staid and labor-intensive. He wants ease and freedom. Etta, seeing the writing on the wall, leaves,
and the boys return to robbery.
We never hear why Butch
and Sundance want to rob. They go to
dinner in fine clothes, but they don’t go out for ostentatious luxuries. So why take there risks? Is it a compulsion? Is it merely something to pass the time? After all, they accrue so much money it’s not
like they’re just trying to stave off hunger.
Butch doesn’t seem to
think much of property rights. He’s more
into hard-core economic efficiency: “If he’d just pay me what he’s spending to
make me stop robbing him, I’d stop robbing him!”
It’s not all economic
efficiency for Butch. He seriously
thinks that if he and Sundance volunteer as officers for the war with Spain
that all their wrongs will be forgotten.
He doesn’t seem to grasp that the titans of the Union Pacific railroad
value money (and their wounded pride) more than patriotism.
Taking these matters
into consideration when analyzing the death of the bandits, the movie seems to
be an indictment of capitalism. The
bandits are not sympathetic. They are
dirty, and their leader seems to be cheating one of the men out of his fair
share. Regardless, they don’t know
whether Butch and Sundance are going to gun them down. Maybe they see drawing their weapons as
self-defense. And their deaths are
agonized over by the camera. It’s all
very sad. Perhaps the bandits considered
the land distribution in Bolivia to be unjust.
What if they thought a share of the mine’s profits were rightfully
theirs? Still, they did kill the boss man in cold blood, so if the filmmakers are
trying to make hay of capitalism they couldn’t find less sympathetic characters
to make their points.
But Butch and Sundance
are very likeable. They’re not giving
the money they steal to the poor.
They’re so quick, resourceful, and sympathetic that we cheer them on for
their audacity and joyful recklessness.
As with many movies (most notably Psycho)
the filmmakers establish a morality unique to the movie, defined by the
protagonist’s actions. We, the audience,
are eager to embrace this alternate moral scheme and gratefully forget the
world outside the theater for a couple of hours. It’s especially easy when, as here, it’s a
period piece. A contemporary filmic bank
robber may raise too many questions. In
contrast, the world of Butch and Sundance is very remote. It’s like another world. So let them have their fun robbing trains and
banks. They deserve it. They entertain us.
For all the myriad
interpretations this film allows (one of its strengths, for sure), it’s
ultimately a film about friendship. The
finale in the village brings us home.
This extraordinary sequence is distinguished by a well-spring of
counter-balancing humor, and in the freeze-frame/pull-back we have one of the
most pioneering, innovative endings to any movie. But the significance of two moments in this
sequence are easily missed. They both go
to the matter of friendship.
First, Butch decides
that he’ll go out to retrieve the ammunition.
He doesn’t want to do it, and Sundance has already volunteered. But Butch reasons that Sundance is the
superior shot, so it does no good to have Butch laying down fire. Butch may be thinking about the objective of
retrieving the ammunition and returning it to the house. However, he may also be thinking of
Sundance’s vulnerability. Butch would
rather risk sacrificing himself to a hail of bullets than see his friend
slaughtered because he couldn’t provide cover.
A couple of minutes
later, a more substantive example of sacrifice emerges. Where Butch’s demonstration of love was a
touch ambiguous, Sundance’s is anything but.
It’s the second best shot in the movie.
It carries more of a visceral, emotional impact than the bicycle wheel
in the stream, but it’s not as pretty.
Butch has grabbed the
ammo, but in the process of bringing it back to safety he is shot. Sundance, who has barricaded himself behind
some crates, now steps out and in front of Butch. Sundance substitutes himself as a
target.
All Sundance needs to
do is grab the ammo and head in for safety.
But he decides to save Butch. A
series of quick shots ensues, but the most important one is Sundance turning to
his right, the gun in his right hand still perched on his left shoulder; dipping
and twisting, he pivots hard and fires the gun in his left hand. Butch is four feet behind him, struggling to
get up. The shot lasts a mere ten
frames. But it is inspiring for the
balletic majesty of Sundance’s shooting; for the relentless, dogged grit that
Sundance demonstrates; for his ability to deliver under pressure; but most of
all for the beauty of his defense of his friend. Sundance gains nothing by abandoning his
cover. He is risking his life for his
friend.
Sundance doesn’t return
to the house without Butch. Both men now
shot, they fall into the house together.
Just before the two men
make one last run for it, Butch asks Sundance if he saw LeFors out there. Sundance answers in the negative. Butch, greatly relieved, sighs, “Oh, good. For a moment there I thought we were in
trouble!”
This is about the
funniest line in the movie. It’s
shocking to see such a comedic moment juxtaposed with the stark drama of their
consequent death. But more than that,
the line is valuable for informing the audience that these guys aren’t trying
to hide their fears. Yes, they’re both
shot-up, but they truly think they can handle whatever is out there. They’re optimists, and they trust in each
other.
It’s a great finish to
the movie, because we don’t have to see these guys lamenting their choices and
despairing in the face of death. What a
relief it is for the audience; they aren’t forced to see their heroes Learn A
Lesson. We get to have an exciting,
inspiring ride right to the end.
And if we have learned a lesson once the
credits roll, we’re secretly glad that Butch and Sundance didn’t live to be
proven wrong. We live in reality. So we have to understand the consequences of
wrong-doing. But Butch and Sundance are
mythic. It’s best that they don’t know
the hard truths, for them as well as for us.
We think too much of them, and we want to remember them for what they
were, not for what they should have become.
By freezing the frame,
the last moment of their lives is extended, seemingly beyond the movie’s
end. Thus, those mythic figures, Butch
and Sundance, live on.