This movie wasn't really about its plot (notice the incredible lack of exposition) but about its characters. Or really, about its actors. Kris Kristofferson and James Coburn show everybody how it's done, and look like they're having the easiest time in the world doing it. Bob Dylan stands and squints a lot, and you love it because he's fucking Bob Dylan. Peckinpah throws in some of his beloved children (creepily hanging around the gallows and various dead bodies, but not really being put in danger the way they were in The Wild Bunch), naked breasts, somber landscapes--the whole thing has this tone to it that's very odd, very solemn, but it works.
And the soundtrack fucking owns. Cause it's Bob Dylan.
Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid
dir. by Sam Peckinpah, 1973
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