Reeling Backward: Boxcar Bertha (1972)

Martin Scorsese's second feature was a cheapie exploitation flick for Roger Corman, but it's still marked by some layered performances and ambitious camera work.

I’m afraid I don’t have the huge reservoir of affection for Roger Corman that many cinema lovers do.

His expansive oeuvre has become celebrated as a kitschy reservoir of cheap, decadent thrills. Snobby sorts who would no doubt turn their nose up at a horror B-movie celebrate the Corman filmography as delectable camp.

And, of course, many notable filmmakers and stars came up through his churn factory, where productions might be measured in days rather than months, including Ron Howard, Jack Nicholson, Penelope Spheeris, Peter Bogdanovich, Diane Ladd and many others.

But the sad truth is the vast majority of movies he directed or produced are just not very good. They’re cheaply made, and look it. Plots are mere supportive window dressing for prurient material. Many are properly categorized as exploitation flicks, boasting copious amounts of violence and sex for their own sake.

They were made to be watched and forgotten, and most of them properly have been.

Of course, when your filmography runs to literally hundreds of films, there are going to be some notable gems here and there. “Boxcar Bertha” was Martin Scorsese’s second narrative feature, after the underground film “Who’s That Knocking at My Door” plus a smattering of shorts and documentaries.

Following the success of “Bloody Mama” — which drew its own inspiration from “Bonnie and Clyde” — Corman was eager for another 1930s gangster picture featuring a female lead… preferably one who didn’t mind frequently doffing her clothes.

Corman’s wife and collaborator, Julie, came across the tale of fictional Boxcar Bertha from Ben L. Reitman’s 1937 story, “Sister of the Road.” Husband-and-wife writing team John William and Joyce H. Corrington, who also penned “The Omega Man” and “Battle for the Planet of the Apes,” were tapped for the screenplay adaptation.

Scorsese was chosen based on his previous filmography, and given a budget of $600,000 and 24 days of shooting — quite generous by Corman standards.

There’s not much story to speak of. Bertha (Barbara Hershey), orphaned during the Great Depression when her cropdusting father dies in a crash, hooks up with railroad union agitator Big Bill Shelly, played by David Carradine. The rest of the movie is a series of Southern-fried vignettes as they turn to crime to get by and strike back at The Man, building up to an ultra-violent denouement.

Along the way they hook up with Yankee card shark Rake Brown (Barry Primus) and Black harmonica man/enforcer Van Morton (Bernie Casey). Their main antagonist is Reader Railroad magnate Sartoris (played by Carradine’s own father, legendary character actor John). Additionally, Victor Argo and David Osterhout turn up periodically as the McIvers, shotgun-wielding, suit-wearing brother toughs in the mold of the Pinkertons.

Every now and then Bertha and Bill strip off their clothes for some lovin’ — the actors fully nude but carefully positioned for rear or sidal views — before we get to the next heist. They mostly rip off trains but do some banks as well. Their most notable job is barging in on a fancy party thrown by Sartoris himself, just to show they’re not afraid of him.

(You can sense the budget constraints by the fact this supposed multimillionaire’s swanky affair only boasts a handful of guests and is confined to a single smallish room.)

Like most Corman flicks, it played enough screens to make money and then more or less disappeared. Where it not for the participation of Scorsese and Hershey in one of her first starring roles, I’m not sure it would even register today. But it helped Scorsese garner enough juice to make his next feature, “Mean Streets,” which in turn caught Ellen Burstyn’s notice to tap him for “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore,” and one of the great cinema careers was launched.

You can certainly see some of the early promise of Scorsese’s camera work and approach to characterization. There’s some cool shots where men are blown away by shotgun blasts, and the camera tracks their bodies’ flight along with them. He will sometimes shift in and out of black-and-white to underscore the mythology-making of their crime spree.

Reportedly he storyboarded the entire film, highly unusual at the time.

Despite their smirking behavior as a stick-up team, Bertha and Bill seem to have genuine affection for each other as a couple bound by tragedy. He repeatedly expresses regret that he got pulled into criminal acts — “I ain’t cut out for this life” — and that his gangster reputation overshadows his work as a union organizer. After their first big job, he waltzes into a local union hall and donates his $3,000 cut (about $73k in today’s dollars) to the strike fund.

I also found interesting some racial dynamics that comment on the relevant periods — both the 1930s and ‘70s. Bill is targeted as an “n-word lover” when he greets Von enthusiastically when they’re tossed into the same jail, and gets beaten to a pulp by the bull cops. Later on, we’ll see it from the other side when Bertha, after a long separation when the boys were captured, wanders into a Black bar and finds Von bluesing on his harmonica, and the folks in the audience do not cotton to their warm embrace.

Bertha herself remains something of a cypher, a combination of victim and perpetrator, waif and gun moll. Rather than be chewed up by the poverty and dehumanization of the Depression, she continually strives for something better, even if it’s on the wrong side of the law. She’s never seen as the leader of the gang, though it’s fair to say she pushes Bill in nefarious directions he might not have chosen on his own.

Hershey herself in later interviews expressed a fondness for the role, though she said the movie was “crippled” by Corman’s insistence on a strong brew of sex and violence.

Just as most creative people would rather not be judged by their earliest works, I prefer to see “Boxcar Bertha” as merely practice for better things to come. Let’s put it this way: if this was Martin Scorsese’s last film rather than one of his first, none of us would know his name today.