Jack Nicholson’s directorial debut, Drive, He Said, had its premiere in New York City on June 13, 1971. It is not a great film—as Roger Ebert put it in his spot-on if slightly generous review, it is a “disorganized but occasionally brilliant movie.” But it remains worth watching, both for its own noteworthy merits, and because it reflects a road not taken, but which might easily have been.
Drive was a BBS production. That legendary outfit, helmed by Bob Rafelson, Bert Schneider, and Steve Blauner, was responsible for some of the landmark films of the New Hollywood, including Five Easy Pieces, The Last Picture Show, and The King of Marvin Gardens. Nicholson, a virtual fourth partner at BBS, anticipated that Drive would mark his transition from acting (it had been a long and difficult decade on that front) to writing and directing. But fate would intervene. Dispatched by Rafelson and Schneider to sort of keep an eye on the on-location shooting Easy Rider (yes, you read that right, Nicholson was designated as the adult in that room), Jack picked up the role of George Hansen after Rip Torn abruptly left the picture. Nicholson’s performance in that gigantic counterculture hit turned heads—as did his astonishing star turn the following year in Five Easy Pieces (1970). And then Drive sort of fizzled out, first showered with vituperative boos at a disastrous Cannes screening and then subsequently greeted with shrugs on the American market. It did not take a mystic to read these tea leaves, and Nicholson was soon and largely for good back in front of the camera, first, thrillingly, as one of the signature performers of the New Hollywood, and then as a big time movie star.
But there is enough to Drive to wonder what might have been. A campus-based story, one of the reasons for its tepid reception in the highly politicized context of 1971 was likely due to the fact that although the film is clearly on the side of the counterculture, it nevertheless calls attention to the movement’s limitations and often elided contradictions. And perhaps less intentionally, not only does its plot offer little glorious rebellion to cheer—the grown-ups have the best parts. Although nominally about roommates Hector (William Tepper), a basketball star on the cusp of turning pro, and Gabriel (Michael Margotta), whose radical measures to evade the draft encroach on his own sanity, invariably more interesting are Olive (Karen Black), with whom Hector is having an affair, her husband Richard (Robert Towne), and Coach Bullion (Bruce Dern), the most compelling character in the film.
Drive, He Said, is based on Jeremy Larner’s novel, of which only remnants survive—the screenplay by Nicholson and Larner reflects only tenuous links to the source material (and as such is a vast improvement). Nicholson was taken by the book, one suspects, because (and these are the vestiges that are retained) it featured two of his favorite subjects, sex and basketball. Regarding the latter, Nicholson, dissatisfied with the artificiality of movies about sport, hired UCLA All-American Michael Warren as a technical advisor. (Warren would end up with an important on-screen role as well, and has since enjoyed a long career as an actor, most notably in the T.V. show Hill Street Blues.) Regarding the former, Nicholson’s emphasis on sex (his views about which were studied, and leaned sociological), vexed the censors. In Britain, a brief edit excised Olive’s lusty affirmation of the onset of her orgasm; American authorities were taken aback by the extent to which Nicholson’s camera lingered very plainly on male nudity—reactions that perhaps reflected the distinct anxieties of each culture at the time. More important, the sex here matters. It is not a euphemism for eroticism, in fact there is a purposeful and notable disjuncture between the displays of nudity and sex in the film—the sex doesn’t even look like much fun. As in the Nicholson-starring Carnal Knowledge, released the same month as Drive, the intimate encounters are stripped of their traditional Hollywood gloss, and tend to challenge and confront, rather than titillate.
Vincent Canby observed that Drive, He Said is “not a great film, but it is an often intelligent one.” And it is also well worth seeing—even essential viewing for followers of the seventies film. Nicholson’s debut effort is thoughtfully done, and has something to say. It is well and inventively shot (and even features a good bit of guerrilla filmmaking, that riot you see, for example, was actually happening, and the actors were instructed to mix in)—all of which reflect the contributions of cinematographer Bill Butler (who also shot New Hollywood gems The Rain People, Hickey and Boggs, and The Conversation). And if for nothing else, Drive remains valuable simply to experience its key supporting performances. Consider that Karen Black’s Olive arrives on the heels of her turn as Rayette in Five Easy Pieces, a one-two punch that illustrates the extraordinary range of this key 70s player. It is fascinating to see Friend of Jack (and non-actor) Robert Towne, very creditable in his role (and having the legendary script doctor on hand improved his and likely other scenes). And Bruce Dern’s performance is as good as anything he would ever do across a long and distinguished career. In his memoirs Dern sings Nicholson’s praises as a director who “gave me the opportunity to be really good” and “encouraged me to push the envelope all the time.” It is hard to imagine the New Hollywood absent Nicholson the actor, but it would have been interesting to see what choices he might have made as a serious director.
