“All you old guys always say that,” he remarked, sipping his craft IPA before taking a long drag from his vape and rolling his eyes. “You can write that one.”
(Welcome back to Jalopnik Movie Club, where we delve into the world of cars in film and films about cars, inviting you to share your passionate opinions. This week, David Obuchowski offers a guest review of Steven Spielberg’s “Duel.” )
While the “old guy” comment stings slightly, I wholeheartedly welcome any opportunity to revisit “Duel,” Steven Spielberg’s remarkable directorial debut in feature filmmaking.
Seriously, just take a moment to watch the trailer. Doesn’t it make you want to drop everything and experience this cinematic ride?
[youtube:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgk-71H6Y7k]
Adapted from a Richard Matheson short story, “Duel” is a masterclass in lean, mean filmmaking, delivering thrills and chills with remarkable efficiency. Beyond the heart-pounding suspense, the film cleverly explores themes of masculinity, functioning as a potent allegory for its time.
But let’s be clear: at its core, “Duel” is unequivocally a car flick. A pure, unadulterated car movie. For 89 minutes, it’s a relentless display of road rage, a terrifying cat-and-mouse game between a menacing Peterbilt tanker truck and a hapless driver in a red (Tor-Red, for the Mopar aficionados) Plymouth Valiant.
“Duel” lives and breathes cars from its opening frame to its final shot. Out of the entire film, only three brief scenes stray from the open road. Two are set in gas stations, those essential pit stops of automotive journeys, and the other unfolds in a roadside diner, a classic American highway staple. There are no convoluted subplots here, no tales of loyalty or criminal brotherhoods, no elaborate heists, and no romantic entanglements. Love triangles are left in the rearview mirror.
Forget about tricked-out rides with extravagant modifications. “Duel” is a 100% pure, unpretentious car movie crafted for the everyman. It establishes this automotive focus right from the get-go.
Immediately after the iconic Universal Pictures logo fades, the screen plunges into darkness. The only sound is the distinct rumble of an engine starting. This blackness, we soon realize, is the dim interior of a garage. The camera, mounted low on the front of a car, offers a grille’s-eye perspective as we embark on what initially appears to be a mundane commute. We journey through quiet suburbia, then into the bustling city, and finally out onto the vast California highways, heading towards Bakersfield.
Accompanying this visual journey is the soundtrack of the car radio. The traffic report smoothly transitions to sports updates, eventually giving way to a comedic radio skit. In this bit, a man calls the Census Bureau, perplexed by a question on the census form. A friendly female voice on the other end assures him of assistance. The caller, in a somewhat convoluted manner, explains that despite being a man, he is the stay-at-home parent while his wife is the breadwinner. His dilemma? He’s unsure whether to identify himself as the “head of household.” He grapples with societal expectations, fearing judgment from the Census Bureau for not conforming to traditional masculine roles. He doesn’t feel like the head of household, but he also doesn’t want to be seen as less of a man.
Yes, this was the 1970s.
This cringeworthy, dated comedy routine, however, is surprisingly central to the film’s underlying theme: the very definition of masculinity. Over the next hour and a half, we witness traditional notions of manhood both reinforced and challenged through the experiences of our protagonist, David Mann—a name that is anything but subtle.
Mann, brought to life by Dennis Weaver’s compelling performance, drives the aforementioned Valiant (actually, three different Valiants were used, powered by engines ranging from the economical 225 Slant-6 to the more robust 318 V8, according to my research). So, yes, we have a movie about a man named Mann facing perilous roads in a Valiant. Sometimes, directness is the best approach.
In an ordinary setting, Mann would likely blend in as an average, everyday businessman. But inside Chuck’s Cafe, the roadside diner that serves as the backdrop for one of the film’s rare non-driving scenes, he appears conspicuously out of place. Surrounded by locals who seem like they’ve stepped straight out of a Merle Haggard song (emphasis on the “haggard”), Mann’s city attire and demeanor scream “outsider.”
More precisely, he projects an image of weakness in his khakis, dress shirt, and tie. This perception might not be far from the truth. Just twelve minutes into the film, shortly after his initial terrifying encounter with the Peterbilt from hell, he pulls into a gas station for a refill. In the early ’70s, full-service gas stations were still the norm. The attendant, after a quick check under the hood, suggests a new radiator hose might be in order—a detail that will foreshadow later events. Mann, dismissive, brushes it off, saying he’ll address it another time. “You’re the boss,” the attendant replies with a hint of sarcasm. “Not in my house, I’m not,” Mann mutters under his breath, revealing a simmering frustration with his own perceived lack of control.
As the attendant fills the Valiant (“Fill it with ethyl,” Mann instructs. “If Ethel don’t mind,” the attendant quips), Mann makes a phone call home to his wife. He immediately launches into an apology. It turns out he failed to defend her honor at a party the previous night. While seemingly contrite, a defensive edge creeps into his voice. “You think I should go and call Steve Henderson up and challenge him to a fistfight?” he stammers, revealing an awkward understanding of masculine assertion.
“Of course not,” his wife responds, exasperated. “But I think you could have at least said something to the man. After all, he was practically trying to rape me in front of the whole party.” She quickly dismisses the topic, wanting to avoid further conflict. Then, with a pointed barb, she adds, “and you wouldn’t want that, would you?” highlighting Mann’s passive nature and fear of confrontation.
Adding to the domestic tension, work is piling on stress (he’s facing the potential loss of a crucial account), and his mother is expected for dinner that evening—an event his wife emphasizes he must be home on time for.
Good luck navigating all that, Mr. Mann.
In short, Mann is having a terrible day within a life that already seems challenging. So, it’s perhaps understandable, though not excusable, that he becomes impatient when he finds himself stuck behind a slow-moving, black-smoke-belching tanker truck. Pressured by his schedule and choked by diesel fumes, Mann makes the decision to overtake the lumbering behemoth.
The truck driver (skillfully portrayed by stuntman and actor Carey Loftin, a driving maestro who also lent his talents to other iconic car films like “Vanishing Point,” “Bullitt,” and “Maximum Overdrive,” among many others in the realm of Best Car Movies) takes offense at this maneuver. He retaliates, aggressively passing Mann back and then, in a classic display of road rage escalation, slams on his brakes.
At this point, most drivers can relate to Mann’s predicament. We’ve all encountered aggressive drivers who take traffic personally. It’s textbook road rage. And in that moment, you might even mirror Mann’s reaction in the film and pass the truck yet again, thinking, “Enough is enough! Get out of my way!”
If that was Mann’s thought process, he was profoundly mistaken. He soon discovers that when a deranged truck driver is determined to use his Peterbilt as a weapon, there’s truly no safe haven on the open road.
“Duel” becomes a relentless chase. The Valiant desperately tries to outrun the Peterbilt, but the truck driver expertly blocks passing lanes, relentlessly pursuing, stalking, and terrorizing Mann. The Valiant, in turn, skids, speeds, drifts, and swerves in a desperate fight for survival.
What sets “Duel” apart from many other best car movies is its stark simplicity. There’s no cheesy good guy/bad guy dialogue to endure. In fact, we never hear the truck driver speak, and Dave Mann is essentially alone in his ordeal. Occasionally, we hear Mann’s internal monologue through voice-over, and he sometimes mutters pithy remarks to himself. But remarkably, the movie thrives on its sparse dialogue. (This minimalist approach might be expected in an “art film,” but it’s important to remember that “Duel” was initially conceived as a made-for-TV movie, airing on ABC. Its overwhelming success with audiences and critics led Spielberg to shoot additional scenes, expanding it to its current 89-minute theatrical release runtime.)
Despite the limited dialogue, the film masterfully ratchets up the tension. There’s no ambiguity: the truck driver is the clear antagonist. However, I take issue with simplistic interpretations that paint Mann solely as a helpless victim. The film is titled “Duel,” after all. A duel, by definition, requires two participants, and only one can emerge victorious.
Yes, the truck driver is undeniably the aggressor, actively attempting to run Mann down when he’s trapped in a phone booth and trying to shove Mann and his Valiant into the path of an oncoming train. Yet, even when Mann seemingly tries to disengage and escape the escalating conflict, he’s constantly drawn back in. He never truly turns away from the confrontation.
After nearly an hour and a half of intense road rage, the film culminates in a climactic showdown. The truck driver, in a strange way, almost seems to goad Mann into this final confrontation. This is communicated entirely through driving maneuvers, a silent language of vehicular aggression. By the film’s climax, the battered Valiant and the grimy Peterbilt are locked in a deadly dance, a danse macabre on wheels, which inevitably ends in destruction.
“Duel” is so economical in its narrative that I feel I’ve already revealed too much. I hesitate to spoil the ending of a truly great movie (even one that’s over 45 years old). But suffice it to say, Spielberg demonstrates his mastery not only of direction but also of misdirection. The movie initially sets itself up as a straightforward narrative of a man who’s been emasculated and must “man up” in a traditional (or, more accurately, outdated) sense to overcome his tormentor.
Instead, “Duel” unfolds as an hour-and-a-half-long cautionary tale about the perils of machismo, illustrating the futility of a toxic pissing contest where there are no true winners. Long before “toxic masculinity” became a common phrase, this film vividly depicted its destructive potential when taken to its extreme. What is the cowboy-boot-clad truck driver, after all, if not the ultimate embodiment of hyper-masculine aggression and unchecked male ego? In the end, the very concept of “Mann” (or “man”) goes up in flames, both literally and figuratively. The violence is ultimately pointless, and that is precisely the film’s powerful point.
Thematic depth aside, “Duel” is a quintessential car movie for those who appreciate the raw, visceral thrill of automotive action. It’s for viewers who watch classics like “Bullitt,” “Vanishing Point,” and “The French Connection” and find themselves fast-forwarding straight to the iconic chase scenes. This is a car movie for those who scoff at CGI-laden spectacles of cars leaping from helicopters onto skyscrapers. They crave authentic driving, real cars pushed to their limits. It’s a film for viewers who watched “Jaws” and wished for a real shark, complaining that it should have been devouring people in every scene for a full 90 minutes. “Duel” delivers that relentless, grounded intensity in the realm of car movies.
Filmed primarily in 1970, “Duel” boasts no CGI and virtually no special effects. It’s pure practical filmmaking. It’s just a red Plymouth Valiant and a massive Peterbilt truck locked in a brutal battle of wills and horsepower. The scenes where Mann pushes the Valiant into the 90 mph range are genuinely unsettling to watch. The Plymouth sways precariously from side to side, threatening to lose control at any moment. It fishtails, drifts, and careens off roadside posts in a way that makes you believe the stunt driver must have been drenched in sweat throughout filming.
[youtube:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRy0RTxsT3U]
There are no unrealistic, physics-defying acrobatics, no sudden moments where Mann transforms into a professional stunt driver like The Stig. In fact, one of the most compelling aspects of the film is Mann’s fallibility. He constantly glances behind him, and as he does, the car veers, sometimes dangerously close to the shoulder of the road. He drives like a normal person caught in an extraordinary, terrifying situation, not a Hollywood action hero. This attention to detail and commitment to realism are what make “Duel” so utterly convincing and impactful.
It’s an unrelenting film, and a significant part of its power stems from its authenticity. “Duel” not only instantly established Spielberg as a visionary director but also set a new benchmark for car movies, a bar that I believe remains unmatched.
After all, who needs a single great car chase scene when you can have the car chase be the entire movie? “Duel” argues, convincingly, that sometimes less is truly more when it comes to crafting the best car movies.
David Obuchowski is a writer whose essays frequently appear in Jalopnik. He is also the host and writer of the podcast Tempest, whose first season is available wherever you get your podcasts. His work has also been featured in The Awl, Longreads, SYFY, Deadspin, and other publications. Follow him on Twitter at @DavidOfromNJ.
