Thieves Like Us

One hears of a movie being gritty and there's an automatic feeling of defeat. Gritty is to realistic as realistic is to tragic, and most go out to the theater to escape from all that. I bet you'd pick Singin' in the Rain over Love Streams, after all; you're only human. But Robert Altman doesn't do grit like Cassavetes or the Coen's — instead of consuming himself with shoddy realities, he finds the humor in the intricacies of everyday life, especially when those everyday mundanities are suddenly shaken and stirred. His best films, like Nashville or Short Cuts, are capable of being plain and true, but they are also capable of being hysterically funny and relatable. He invites us into the worlds of his films instead of pushing us away. There are no hints of man, I'm glad I'm not them — you suddenly correlate to their neuroses, good or bad, whether they're walking around with some drug pushers or they've just been knighted by the Queen.

The characters in Thieves Like Us only consist of criminals and the people who love them, but it's less Bonnie and Clyde and more Radio Days or A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Like the latter, the situation is dire and the people lead difficult lives, but the story is told as though the narrator is sitting by the fire in a cozy brownstone in pre-Depression era New York. The words eventually move in a cataclysmic direction, but the events building up to those eventual thunderclouds are told quietly and affectionately, appreciating even the smallest of joyful moments. Thieves Like Us doesn't deliver what we might expect in terms of straightforward entertainment, but like all Altman fills, the naturalistic dialogue and no-frills style add up to something that feels home cooked, and, in this film's case, Southern-fried.

It's about outlaws in love (a trend popular in the early 1970s, as evidenced by 1973's Badlands and 1974's The Sugarland Express), young and stupid, caring and confused. They are Bowie (Keith Carradine) and Keechie (Shelley Duvall). Bowie has always been a sort of Robin to his criminal friends, the country boy who needs guidance to pull off a particularly difficult robbery. Keechie is the crooked toothed, naïve daughter of a gas station attendant. The first time we meet Bowie, he is escaping from captivity, having been kept in a chain gang for a previous misdemeanor. He, along with his deplorable posse, hide out with the owner of the gas station and continue on a path of bank robberies. But after a confrontation, Bowie is injured, Keechie acts as his nurse, and … well, you can probably assume the rest.

These people don't have much in the way of intelligence; they're small town criminals who live small town lives who rob small town banks. They break the law not out of necessity but because they just don't know what to do with themselves. But Thieves Like Us is hardly a glamour puss trying to make this crappy way of living seem cool; we exist only as a fly on the wall. These are not slick anti-heroes but screw-ups who probably grew up too fast, in denial about the repercussions they will someday face. When not acting as bandits, they lounge around in each other's company, reminiscing over biscuits and gravy while the radio drowns out quick glimpses of silence.

That radio, oddly enough, is always playing, always matching the actions of the characters or the direction the film is going in. The speakers project stories of danger or superhero headlining serials — they contradict the characters in Thieves Like Us, who are bumbling and messed up and confused whereas the goons that define the radio programs are clever and successful in everything they do. Maybe Bowie and company admire those qualities; maybe they're not smart enough to realize that they'll ever achieve that level of calculated perfection.

The moments between Bowie and Keechie, though, are what make Thieves Like Us so touching. They aren't blindingly attractive like the other "lovers on the run" archetypes of the era, and they aren't necessarily sure why the other is person is so appealing. What they do know, however, is that they love one another and will do anything to stay in each other's arms. There's a point in the film where Bowie lies to Keechie about a trip (which turns out to be yet another criminal excursion), and she freaks out like she's a bat-out-of-hell, going from the demeanor of the sweet, affable girl to the potential wife who drives you crazy but you love anyway. For a second, she considers punishing Bowie by leaving him — but she stops herself. She loves him, sure, but if she did leave him, what would happen to him, to her? The relationship is tender and poignant, with post-coital scenes that affect us with their feelings of mutual adoration as cigarette smoke flies and silences ring.

Thieves Like Us is an imperfect Altman film — unlike many of his movies, banalities are not always enlivened by their dialogue — but its intimate, sweet-sad pathos are grandiose even when things seem small.

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Back to the 30's, folks. I was there, I know. It wasn't that you saw Coke everywhere, it was the only soft drink you saw. There were no machines with a choice. There was a big red Coke cooler sitting at the service station, another outside the grocery. Some of them were serviced by the local ice company, that is; no motor, just ice. A lot of times they had a padlock on them, in other places you just lifted the lid, helped yourself and left your nickel. Later they graduated to some with slots where you could put your nickel. No point in showing people in this movie drinking anything else, except maybe iced tea. No one else had the coolers, and so all you saw was Coke. Add to that the amount of fountain coke we drank. And it took Robert Altman to make us all think about it.

You can look at Altman's films from 1969 into the mid-70's as being dominated by his own revision of American history. This is one of that group, and one of his better films. (MASH, McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Buffalo Bill are some of the others, and all fascinating.)

While this story, on the surface, is about a group of outlaws in the 1930's, the underlying theme is unexpected. It's about people's images of themselves, and how they differ from the way others see them. Check out all the mirrors in this film. We see people through mirrors a lot, and see them clearly, but whenever a character looks at him/herself in a mirror, it's a distorting mirror.

There is a lot of layering of ideas in this film, and the performances are superb.

I think this is one of Altman's best movies. I enjoyed his use of authentic time radio shows. The movie was beautiful to look at in it's simplicity and grittyness. The characters played by Carradine and Duval were youthfully sweet. I appreciate Altman's director's eye in filming this movie. Make more like this!(all of you)

This is one of Altman's very best pictures. As another comment puts it: it looks like he took his cast and crew back in time to the 30's and shot on location. The script adaptation is first rate and things keep moving forward even when we're sitting around just observing. The thing that makes this such a great Altman pic is the growth and unfolding of the characters over the course of the movie. There isn't a plot, but there is a story, and that will prove to be a crucial distinction, separating Altman from everyone and good Altman (this) from bad, aimless Altman (H.E.A.L.T.H.). The performances are excellent. Carradine, John Schuck and Bert Remsen make the absolute most out of opportunities they've never really been given again, Remsen is an old pro and Schuck really is unforgettable. Louise Fletcher makes an impression a year before her Oscar for "Cukoo's Nest" and an eternity of typecasting. Shelley Duvall tells a rambling, loosely-if-at-all connected story with the best of them. She always sounds like she's trying to spit out her lines as quickly as she can before she forgets them. Carradine falls prey to this during some of his scenes, particularly opposite her, but his composed silence makes him an ideal protagonist, someone whose almost visible thoughts define him even more than his actions. It's just that Duvall is the same almost all the time, and while that works for some actors it doesn't work so well when they do a movie in present day then 1930's right next to one another and do everything the same. Also, there seems to be something in her contract requiring shots of her screaming her blamed head off in every movie she's in.

It is impossible not to see how this film is influenced by "Bonnie and Clyde." If it weren't so darn good everyone's subject lines would read "Bonnie and Clyde knock-off." It is set in the same time period, and the artwork on the box recalls the earlier movie. What distinguishes it is the bond between the three escapees, and the box should really show the three of them, the title isn't "A Thief Like Me." I can't vouch for mirrors and reflections necessarily meaning that the film is about self-perception and etcetera, because often with Altman he just felt like shooting it that way. But go ahead if you want to, I'm sure the film is strong enough to support any such conjectures.

Coke. I've never seen so much of one product in a movie, even when Louise Fletcher comes out of her house she has coke in a glass, the prison in Mississippi is sponsored by Coke.

I've left out the best part of the movie so far. Altman runs radio programs over some scenes, like bank robberies, and behind other scenes, humorously commenting on the action. I wish he would have stuck with it during the last half hour a bit more, but it's a brilliant device.