‘Taxi Driver’: The Unsettling Genesis of a Cinematic Masterpiece
Fifty years after its premiere, Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver remains a profoundly disturbing and endlessly fascinating exploration of alienation, violence, and the dark underbelly of American society. The film’s impact reverberates through cinema, prompting continued debate and analysis of its complex themes and enduring relevance. The story behind its creation is almost as compelling as the film itself, marked by a screenwriter’s personal crisis, studio skepticism, and a director fighting for his artistic vision.
On February 8, 1976, a peculiar scene unfolded outside Cinema 1 on Third Avenue in New York City. Paul Schrader, the film’s writer, had overslept and arrived late for the first public screening of Taxi Driver. To his initial alarm, he encountered a line of young men dressed in military jackets and sporting short haircuts – resembling the film’s protagonist, Travis Bickle. Schrader feared something was amiss, believing they had been denied entry. He soon discovered they were simply queuing for the next showing, a testament to the film’s immediate and unsettling impact on audiences. “Everyone screamed and screamed at the final shooting scene,” Scorsese later recalled, describing a reaction he hadn’t anticipated. “When I shot it I didn’t intend for people to react by yelling ‘Yes, kill them all!’ What I was looking for was a violent catharsis, for viewers to go from ‘Yes, we have to give them what they deserve!’ to realizing what was happening.”
Against all odds, Taxi Driver became a commercial and critical success, solidifying its place as a key film for understanding 1970s American cinema and society. This is particularly striking given the initial reservations of studio executives, who reportedly believed the story needed to be “done, but better by others.” The film, described by critic Pauline Kael as “one of the few truly modern horror films,” is fundamentally rooted in a sense of failure – the failures of the Vietnam War, the waning idealism of the counterculture movement, and, presciently, a crisis of masculinity. Taxi Driver functions as a harsh mirror, reflecting a violent and uncomfortable truth that continues to resonate with viewers today.
The genesis of Taxi Driver lies in Schrader’s own turbulent personal life. Legend has it that he wrote the script in a feverish two weeks during the summer of 1973, fueled by personal turmoil and, according to Schrader himself, the presence of a .38-caliber revolver. He has varied the timeframe over the years – sometimes claiming it took only 10 days or even a weekend – and recounted pulling the trigger of the unloaded weapon when he struggled to find the right words. From this intense period emerged the character of Travis Bickle, a Vietnam veteran grappling with insomnia who drives a taxi through the neon-lit streets of Times Square and becomes fixated on rescuing a 12-year-old prostitute named Iris.
Schrader’s inspiration stemmed from a period of profound isolation and despair. “My marriage had ended and I had lost my job as a critic,” he recalled. “I had no money and I ended up more or less living in my car, drinking a lot and going to The Pussycat Theater, an X-rated venue in Los Angeles that didn’t close at night, to try to get some sleep.” A bleeding ulcer landed him in the hospital, where he realized he hadn’t spoken to another human being in almost a month. This experience led to the metaphor of the taxi – “a kind of metal coffin that travels the streets with someone inside who seems to be in the middle of society, but who in reality is completely alone.” Schrader felt compelled to write Bickle’s story, fearing he was on a path to becoming the character himself. The script languished in a drawer for two years, awaiting the right moment.
The script’s journey to the screen was far from straightforward. Schrader initially shared the idea with Brian De Palma while playing chess, as recounted by Peter Biskind in Quiet Bikers, Wild Bulls. De Palma, then working on Obsession (1976), passed the script to producers Michael and Julia Phillips, who optioned it for $1,000. De Palma then forwarded the script to Scorsese, who experienced “a very visceral, almost mystical reaction” to its tone and the character’s internal struggle. However, Scorsese initially hesitated, feeling he needed to establish himself further as a filmmaker. Julia Phillips famously told him, “Come back when you’ve done something worthwhile.”
That “something worthwhile” arrived with Mean Streets (1973), which demonstrated Scorsese’s talent and cemented his partnership with Robert De Niro. The studio insisted on having both Scorsese and De Niro attached to the project, effectively ruling out earlier candidates like Robert Mulligan and Jeff Bridges. The success of The Sting (1973), which earned the Phillips an Oscar, De Niro’s Best Supporting Actor win for The Godfather Part II (1974), and Schrader’s own financial gains from Yakuza (1974) – for which he and his brother Leonard received $300,000 – bolstered the project’s viability. Despite the initial resistance from Columbia Pictures president David Begelman, the combined talent proved too compelling to ignore.
Filming took place during a sweltering New York summer in 1975, amidst a city teetering on the brink of economic collapse and plagued by strikes. De Niro fully immersed himself in the role, driving a taxi to prepare and even borrowing Schrader’s clothes to embody Travis Bickle. The cast also included Cybill Shepherd, Albert Brooks, Peter Boyle, Harvey Keitel, and a then-12-year-old Jodie Foster. Scorsese ensured Foster’s comfort during potentially sensitive scenes by using her older sister, Connie, as a double. A last-minute casting change occurred when George Memmoli, originally cast as the husband spying on his wife, was injured, prompting Scorsese to step in himself, a decision Schrader initially feared would lead to the scene being cut.
The film’s iconic “Are you talking to me?” scene arose from improvisation. Schrader recalled De Niro asking what the script specified for the mirror monologue, to which Schrader responded that anything De Niro came up with would be superior to his own writing. Scorsese remembers filming the scene during the final week of production, in a building slated for demolition. The film faced one final hurdle: to avoid an X rating, Scorsese reluctantly agreed to desaturate the blood in the climactic shooting sequence, a concession that only amplifies the film’s unsettling power.
Conceived by a Calvinist raised in a strict religious environment – Schrader didn’t see a film until he was 17 – and directed by a Catholic steeped in cinematic tradition, Taxi Driver is a potent blend of influences, drawing from the works of Robert Bresson and existentialist philosophers like Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. The film’s masterful use of visual storytelling, such as the camera panning away from a phone conversation between Travis and Betsy, and its willingness to confront moral ambiguity, have cemented its status as an inescapable and enduring work of art. It remains a film that forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about ourselves and the society we inhabit, a reflection that, half a century later, continues to fascinate and provoke.
