The Quick and the Dead  (approx 88 min B&W/Color)

This notorious documentary borrows its title from the Apostles’ Creed.  It’s meant to suggest there are two types of Grand Prix drivers.  It may seem a cold, unfeeling distinction.  But after watching the first few seconds of this film, you’ll find it all too apt. Indeed, there’s a reason why the re-release is rated R.

The film opens with one of the most horrific moments in F1 history.  Kyalami, South Africa.  1977.  One car is stricken by the side of the road.  An inexperienced marshall rushes across the circuit to help out.  Unsighted by a rise in the track surface, he walks right into the path of Tom Pryce’s Shadow. The result is as gruesome as it is shocking.  Both men killed instantly, with the horror film-like score driving home the gravity of the marshall’s choice.  Many will be so put off by this scene that they will likely stop the film.  I wouldn’t blame them;  it’s very difficult to watch.  Not for the faint of heart, let alone minors.

Following the opening credits, we’re greeted by a mustachioed Stacy Keach – our guide to the loud, violent world of Grand Prix racing.  He describes, with uncommon eloquence, the preparation of the cars, the skill of the drivers and the all too apparent risks they are taking.  He states, “During the three days (of a Grand Prix race weekend) the human capacity for excellence, for ingenuity, for callousness, for vulgarity, for sheer noise, for waste, for daring, for beauty — those capacities are stretched about as far as they can go, outside of war.”  The amazing sounds and images that follow prove him right.

One shot in particular from The Quick and the Dead lingers in my mind:  The cars cresting a rise at the Montjuïc circuit, their engines overloading the microphones with layer upon layer of shrill chords. After this dazzling display, we get to know several drivers. Turns out they’re the polar opposite of the racing imagery:  Calm, well-mannered, introspective, strangely at peace with themselves.  We get to know one of these men particularly well:  The tall, dark and very handsome Frenchman, François Cevert. As Jackie Stewart’s pupil at the Tyrrell team, he speaks candidly about the challenges he has faced and the sobering lessons that he’s learned. Relaxing under an umbrella with his shirt unbuttoned, Cevert is like an idealized, Roman vision of the Grand Prix driver.  We follow him around the circuit as he chats with his cohorts;  on the sandy beaches where he frolics with topless beauties.  I can’t help but shake my head and remark, “Wow, what a life.” But it figures. High stakes and the high life just go together.

We’re treated to more footage:  Exciting shots are thrown together with no real regard for continuity. Psychedelic colors overlay the in-car footage, dating the production considerably. Our ironic chuckles suddenly stop as we’re thrust back into reality – Roger Williamson’s March has overturned and caught fire at Zandvoort.  David Purley, a fellow driver, stops his car and sprints over to the flaming wreck. He tries in vain to right the car, getting almost no help from the passive marshalls. We share in his anguish and disgust as he finally gives up.  In classic 1970s form, the race continues.  A winner is crowned, and the circus moves on.  Minus one performer. The film ends on an equally somber note, listing the drivers who eventually paid the same price.  Our dashing friend François, who had everything going for him, is first on the list. It’s heartbreaking, but not at all surprising given what we’ve just witnessed. As Steve McQueen once said, “This isn’t just a thousand-to-one shot.  This is a professional, blood sport.  And it can happen to you.”  The Quick and the Dead is a poisoned chocolate that articulates this drama in an uncompromising fashion — a fashion which will likely never be equaled.  For better or for worse…