The first thing that stands out about Steven Spielberg’s The Sugarland Express is how noisy it is. Frame by crowded frame, a sea of automobiles swarms the Panavision camera, creating dense tableaus of vehicle exhaust and burnt tire tracks so gleefully all-consuming that they begin to resemble illustrations from one of Richard Scarry’s seminal children’s books Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. Recalling the grand vistas that defined the cinematic westerns of Spielberg’s youth—a lifelong love the director configured into 2022’s autobiographical The Fabelmans—the then-26-year-old Spielberg swaps horses for cop cars so that instead of the Wild West, our modern-day outlaws coast through the dusty roads of rural, late ‘60s Texas with a heart-hardened sheriff (Ben Johnson) and luckless deputy in tow. The film is scored to a symphony of honks, revving engines and screeching wheels, as if it’s peering into an alternate reality where Robert Altman directed an ensemble feature populated entirely by sentient automobiles.
Following 1971’s Duel—an excellent made-for-TV movie that still ranks among the director’s most purely visceral works—Spielberg convinced his co-producers, Richard Zanuck and David Brown, to give him a shot at big screen glory. Incidentally, this is the first film to be shot using the Panavision Panaflex camera—a lightweight mechanical marvel, at the time—and the result is a widescreen expansion in the advancement of his already burgeoning technical prowess, while also showcasing hints of what would become Spielberg’s pet themes.
The film follows Lou Jean Poplin (Goldie Hawn) who, newly released from prison, breaks her husband, Clovis (William Atherton), out of pre-release in order to rescue their son from foster care. The initially smooth escape goes awry when the duo encounter Patrolman Maxwell Slide (Michael Sacks) and take him hostage. A slow-motion car chase ensues with the tragically naïve husband and wife dragging the bedraggled deputy with them towards Sugarland, Texas with an increasingly absurd number of police cars in pursuit.
Despite its compelling, fact-based origins, the story is nothing special. Coming on the tail of 1967’s thematically similar Bonnie and Clyde, as well as more daring counterculture touchstones like Easy Rider (1969) and Two-Lane Blacktop (1971), Sugarland comes across a bit like the over-eager younger cousin who wants to act like the older kids. This makes sense—ever ambitious, Spielberg was still fresh. The result of his boyish enthusiasm is a film whose relentlessly bouncy energy often runs in stark contrast to the screenplay’s deeper consideration of its tragic themes. Indeed, Spielberg may be somewhat notorious for his mawkish endings (the likes of which have tarnished works like Minority Report (2002) and Bridge of Spies (2015)), but Sugarland is among his bleakest. Despite an end credits addendum assuring the audience that “[Lou Jean is] now living quietly [with her son] in a small West Texas town,” the film’s main note is one of misplaced force. “He had a gun, but he wasn’t gonna use it,” bemoans Patrolman Slide after Clovis is cruelly taken out via a gunshot wound and subsequent car crash. No one had to die, but when Clovis does, a certain innocence dies along with him.
A self-admittedly one-note tale, Sugarland launches quickly and lurches forward with the jagged momentum of a bedraggled racecar. Often typical to Spielberg’s approach, the film’s aw-shucks sentimentality rears its head in the form of cartoonish cutaway gags, both to humorous locals and the numerous police cars joining in on the chase. A prime example: an extended montage showcases police cruisers abruptly peeling away from gas stations and car washes, complete with workers and attendants looking on in astoundment. In moments like these, Spielberg’s future success as a filmmaker becomes as obvious as the fates that will eventually befall his tragic heroes. Only a year later, he would release Jaws, practically inventing the concept of the summer blockbuster and changing the landscape of movies forever. Though Sugarland was a financial flop, the filmmaker’s desire for pure and unrelenting entertainment was already in motion. The camera, expansive and detailed in its scope, moves with a swift dynamism that feels bracingly modern for its era. The effect is similar—if less formally striking—to Michael Mann’s Thief (1981), a better movie which likewise pressed its fingers onto the pulse of stylistic choices well-ahead of their time. Spielberg’s blocking often extends over near-360 degree pans, with visual gags that are timed precisely for the perfect cut.
But the film stands out in subtler ways too. Amidst the gleefully chaotic narrative, Spielberg achieves moments of serene beauty.
It could be argued, perhaps controversially, that the filmmaker is at his finest in quieter moments—at least as far as the concept of “Spielbergian magic” is concerned. In Jaws, it’s the scene where Brody’s young son, Sean, imitates his father’s hand motions at the dinner table. In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, it’s the scene where Roy plays obsessively with his mashed potatoes. In Sugarland, it’s a beautiful and unexpected moment where Lou Jean and Clovis lie together in the pull-out bed of a stolen RV while watching a Road Runner cartoon through someone else’s window. “Wish we had sound,” Lou Jeans complains, to which Clovis responds, “I’ll be your sound,” and the couple dub the cartoon themselves. It’s an impossibly gorgeous and impressionistic moment, temporarily lifting this otherwise straightforward film into the realm of something greater.
Aside from its impressive direction, the film’s other standout is Hawn. Having gained popularity through her frequent appearances on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, Hawn tackles her more serious role with unrestrained conviction. It’s hardly a controlled performance, but the unbridled energy of her approach sears through the screen. Even if Lou Jean is a bit underwritten, Hawn manages to make her feel fully fleshed-out and alive by the end. Having witnessed Lou Jean’s affable energy, it’s genuinely heart-wrenching to hear her scream at the absence of her son, and furthermore, watch her cry in abject terror while her husband drives limply towards an ensuing grave. Atherton, too, hands in a decent performance, even as the accent work across the aisle strains credulity. If the film falls short, it’s because it fails to properly develop Lou Jean and Clovis’ folk hero-like status in a convincing way. The notion of their unwitting celebrity, as well as anti-establishment inclinations, is a potentially interesting thread that remains largely unexplored.
Despite its numerous flaws, though, The Sugarland Express is an impressive quasi-first feature—entertaining in its own right, while promising even greater things to come. In the ensuing decade, Spielberg would go on to produce some of cinema’s most notable mainstream works, and the journey undeniably starts here. As a film, it’s hardly worthy of being brushed under the rug, even if history initially did that for us. Like witnessing a toddler’s first steps from waddling to full-on walking, the evolution of Spielberg is a rapid one that takes viewers through massive highs and befuddling lows. The Sugarland Express is a mild high, and that’s nothing to shake a stick at.
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