Well, they do say that Hollywood deaths always come in threes…
I just learned that singer, songwriter, and sometimes-actor Jerry Reed has died. He had a respectable career in country music, of course, including several big hits on both the country and pop charts (this was back in the 1970s when you could do that, unlike the rigidly segregated musical categories of today). But I think most of the obituaries you read are going to focus on his role as Burt Reynolds’ sidekick in the Smokey and the Bandit films. I know when I heard the news, the image that flashed through my mind was of Snowman sitting behind the wheel with his loyal basset hound Fred riding shotgun.
Despite my recent affirmation of SamuraiFrog’s opinion that we should do away with the term “guilty pleasure,” I have to admit I’m a bit sheepish when it comes to revealing my affection for Smokey and the Bandit. People often seem to be struggling not to roll their eyes when they hear the title, and I suppose I don’t blame them. After all, it’s basically just a 90-minute car chase, leavened by silly sight gags and vulgar one-liners. Worse, its success was directly responsible for many of the worst crimes committed against American culture in the late ’70s and early ’80s, including (but not limited to), two really lame sequels; scores of bad, low-budget movies and television shows about “good ol’ boys,” truck drivers, CB radios, and stupid law enforcement officers; the resulting destruction of countless perfectly good (and frequently classic) automobiles; and, of course, the exponential increase in the size of Burt Reynolds’ head. I always worry that admitting I’m a fan says something about me that I really don’t want people to assume. And yet… and yet I just love the damn thing.
Like the original Star Wars, whose reputation has also suffered in recent years because of developments that came later and a general pattern of backlash and burnout, I think Smokey is actually a much better movie than many people give it credit for. It’s lowest-common denominator entertainment, true, but it is highly entertaining, almost ridiculously so. It’s a completely un-self-conscious film; part of the problem with Smokey 2 and all the rest of the “redneck driving” flicks that followed was that they were a little too calculated, too obviously trying to re-create the formula that worked in Smokey 1. But Smokey 1 worked because no one involved thought too much about it. They had a thin but serviceable story, they had some jokes and some charismatic stars, and they had some cars, and they went out and wrecked the cars in front of the camera and everybody had a good time, and so did the audiences. Burt Reynolds was at his most charming in this film, before his ego started demanding its own paycheck. Sally Field was both adorable and sexy, a tricky combination (yes, I had a crush on Frog back in the day; still do, if you really must know). And Jackie Gleason still cracks me up with pretty much every exaggerated, blustery move he makes in this movie.
And then there’s Jerry Reed, who functions as the steady axis around which the movie’s chaos swirls. While Bandit is off romancing Frog and sparring with Gleason’s Sheriff Buford T. Justice, Reed’s Snowman is the one who’s actually getting the job — hauling a load of bootlegged beer across several state lines — done. Reed appears to be essentially playing himself in this movie, and he comes across as an amiable, salt-of-the-earth type who, frankly, I like more than the movie’s hero. (That’s not a slam on Reynolds; as I said, I think he was at his very best in this movie. I just happen to think Reed’s contribution to the movie is often overlooked.) My favorite “stand up and cheer” moment in the whole flick isn’t when Bandit outwits Buford — again — at the end of the movie, but rather the bit when Reed gets even with a bunch of bikers who beat him up in a bar. He doesn’t do it by being tougher than they are or by pulling a gun; rather, he sees an opportunity and, with a wickedly mischievous grin, does what everybody wishes they’d have the guts to do in that position. It’s a great moment.
And of course, he contributed the movie’s theme song, “Eastbound and Down,” one of the best roadtripping songs ever recorded. Yes, this formerly mullet-headed rocker does enjoy the occasional country song. Mostly just “country-rock” stuff from the ’70s, but still…
Jerry Reed, yet another of the faces and voices who defined my childhood and seems like someone I actually knew because he was always right there on my television and my record player, died Monday at the age of 71. The cause was emphysema. Don’t smoke, kids.
[Update: The LA Times has a more extensive obit than the one I linked above, focusing more on Reed’s music career than his acting.]
