Scarecrow (1973)

A Forgotten Gem of 1970s American Cinema

In the pantheon of 1970s American film—a decade dominated by gritty realism, moral ambiguity, and character-driven storytelling—Scarecrow (1973) stands as one of its most understated, poignant, and sadly overlooked works. Directed by Jerry Schatzberg and starring Gene Hackman and Al Pacino, Scarecrow is a quiet road movie about two misfit drifters forging a fragile bond on the margins of society. It’s a film of small moments and deep emotion, laced with a sense of humour, melancholy, and existential searching.

Winner of the Palme d’Or at the 1973 Cannes Film Festival, Scarecrow was initially met with mixed commercial reception but has since grown in critical stature. It is now recognized as a minor classic of the New Hollywood era—an intimate, humanistic exploration of friendship, freedom, and failure in an America lost in its own post-Vietnam confusion.

Plot Summary: Wanderers with Nowhere to Go

Scarecrow follows two rootless men:

Max Millan (Gene Hackman): a gruff, short-tempered ex-con with a dream of opening a car wash in Pittsburgh.

Lionel “Lion” Delbuchi (Al Pacino): a gentle, naive ex-sailor on his way to Detroit to reconnect with the wife and child he left behind.

They meet while hitchhiking through California and strike up a reluctant friendship, forming a partnership of sorts. Max is all bark and aggression; Lion, all whimsy and compassion. The two wander the American heartland—through fields, freight cars, diners, and bars—trying to cobble together enough money and meaning to give shape to their vague dreams.

Along the way, they encounter a parade of eccentrics, misfortunes, and brief connections. The story drifts without a tight plot, mirroring the protagonists' own lack of direction. Yet its emotional centre holds firm, powered by the unlikely chemistry between Hackman and Pacino.

Themes: American Desolation and the Search for Brotherhood

At its heart, Scarecrow is about loneliness and human connection. It's a meditation on friendship formed in the cracks of the American dream—where jobs are scarce, people are transient, and institutions (prison, the military, the family) have failed those who wander its roads.

Masculinity and Emotional Vulnerability:

Both Max and Lion are broken men, each wounded in ways they can barely articulate. Max’s rage is a mask for loneliness and betrayal; Lion hides trauma behind clownish innocence. The film quietly critiques the stoic masculinity of its time, suggesting that strength comes not from toughness, but from compassion.

The Scarecrow Metaphor:

The film’s title refers to Lion’s theory that scarecrows don’t scare crows—they make them laugh. His idea is that if you approach life with kindness and humour, people will be disarmed. It’s a childlike philosophy that gives the film its thematic soul—and, tragically, one that proves no match for a world bent on cruelty.

The Myth of the American Road:

Unlike romantic road films that celebrate escape and discovery, Scarecrow offers a bleaker portrait. The landscapes—rural backroads, grimy towns, prison yards—are desolate and worn down. There is no promised land at the end of the road, only fleeting solace in each other’s company.

Performances: Two Titans in Their Prime

Gene Hackman delivers one of his most intense and nuanced performances as Max. A bundle of fury and restlessness, Max could have easily been a one-note character. But Hackman imbues him with vulnerability, revealing the aching need for love beneath the surface. His scenes of silent rage or quiet tenderness are among the film’s most powerful.

Al Pacino, fresh off The Godfather (1972), shows a remarkable range in what is arguably his gentlest performance. Lion is playful, childlike, a man who tells jokes to shield himself from heartbreak. Pacino’s performance is full of subtlety and pathos, especially as Lion’s good nature slowly buckles under the weight of disillusionment.

Together, Hackman and Pacino form one of the most compelling on-screen duos of the era. Their chemistry is magnetic—volatile, humorous, affectionate—and the film’s emotional trajectory hinges entirely on their relationship.

Direction and Cinematography

Director Jerry Schatzberg, who had previously directed Puzzle of a Downfall Child (1970) and The Panic in Needle Park (1971), brings a photographer’s eye and a humanist's touch to the film. He avoids melodrama and sentimentality, letting scenes unfold naturally, allowing space for character beats and silences.

The cinematography by Vilmos Zsigmond, one of the masters of 1970s visual style (McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Deliverance, Close Encounters), is luminous and haunting. He captures the stark beauty of the American landscape in wide shots that emphasize the smallness of the characters amid vast, empty spaces. The light is often overcast, the colours muted, reflecting the emotional tone of the narrative.

Schatzberg’s direction is minimalist but effective. He trusts his actors and his camera to carry the story. The pacing is deliberate, almost aimless—but that aimlessness is the point.

Tone and Structure

Scarecrow operates without a traditional three-act structure. It’s episodic, more concerned with emotional rhythm than narrative propulsion. The tone shifts subtly from comic to tragic, with an undercurrent of sadness growing throughout.

This quiet, drifting structure was typical of the New Hollywood era, when filmmakers were less beholden to studio conventions and more willing to let characters simply be. It might test the patience of some modern viewers, but those willing to tune into its wavelength are rewarded with a deeply affecting experience.

Reception and Legacy

Despite winning the Palme d’Or at Cannes, Scarecrow received modest reviews and was largely ignored at the box office in the U.S. Its introspective tone and lack of plot likely made it a hard sell in a market still adjusting to the daring new cinema of the 1970s.

But in the decades since, its reputation has grown. Filmmakers and critics have hailed it as an emotionally rich, formally adventurous work that deserves to be rediscovered. It also represents a unique moment when both Hackman and Pacino—two of the greatest actors of their generation—met at artistic crossroads in their careers.

Conclusion: A Masterpiece of Gentle Despair

Scarecrow is a film about broken dreams, brief friendships, and the absurdity of hope. It avoids sentimentality, yet never turns cold. It is a gentle, heart-breaking journey through the desolate backroads of America—and the even more desolate corners of the human heart.

Anchored by two unforgettable performances, photographed with melancholy beauty, and directed with restraint and grace, Scarecrow deserves a central place among the great American films of the 1970s. It is a story for anyone who has ever felt lost, and for anyone who has ever found—if only for a moment—a kindred soul in the void.