To Kill a Clown (1972): Alan Arkin’s Gripping Spiral into Rural Terror
Deep in the American wilderness, a veteran’s fragile peace shatters under the weight of two menacing fools in greasepaint.
Long overlooked amid the gritty thrillers of the early 1970s, this tense psychological drama captures the raw underbelly of post-Vietnam disillusionment, blending isolation, violence, and dark humour in a way that still unnerves collectors unearthing faded VHS tapes from forgotten bins.
- Alan Arkin’s portrayal of a haunted Vietnam veteran delivers a masterclass in restrained fury, turning everyday objects into instruments of dread.
- The film’s rural setting amplifies themes of paranoia and power struggles, reflecting the era’s social fractures with unflinching realism.
- Its cult following among retro enthusiasts stems from innovative sound design and practical effects that evoke pure, primal fear.
The Hermit’s Fortress: Setting the Stage for Madness
Opening with stark, wintry landscapes of rural New England, the story introduces Kenny, a withdrawn Vietnam veteran played with brooding intensity by Alan Arkin. Discharged and scarred by the horrors of war, Kenny has retreated to a remote cabin, surrounding himself with barbed wire fences, booby traps, and an arsenal of scavenged weapons. His days pass in mechanical routine: chopping wood, maintaining his fortifications, and practising marksmanship with chilling precision. This solitude speaks volumes about the invisible wounds carried home from Southeast Asia, a theme resonant in the early 1970s when the conflict’s fallout permeated American cinema.
The arrival of two drifters, brothers Royal and Corliss, disrupts this precarious equilibrium. Hailing from the nearby town, they embody the chaotic underclass of rural America: rough-hewn, opportunistic, and prone to violent whims. Royal, the more volatile of the pair, takes a shine to Kenny’s self-sufficiency, leading to an uneasy camaraderie forged over moonshine and tall tales. Corliss, quieter but no less menacing, harbours suspicions from the start. Their intrusion marks the turning point, transforming Kenny’s sanctuary into a pressure cooker of escalating tensions.
As the brothers impose themselves, borrowing tools and overstaying welcomes, subtle power plays emerge. Kenny’s initial tolerance stems from a flicker of loneliness, but old instincts awaken when small aggressions mount: a stolen axe, a trampled garden, whispers of local grudges. The film masterfully builds suspense through mundane details, like the creak of floorboards or the glint of a knife in firelight, foreshadowing the explosive confrontations to come.
Greasepaint and Gunfire: The Clownish Descent
The titular clowns enter as a grotesque twist, donning white face paint and oversized red noses during a boozy night of revelry. What begins as absurd horseplay—Royal smearing makeup on Kenny in a bid for laughs—quickly sours into humiliation. The greasepaint symbolises the brothers’ juvenile cruelty, masking their predatory nature beneath a veneer of playfulness. Kenny’s reaction, a mix of forced amusement and seething resentment, underscores the film’s exploration of emasculation and reclaimed dominance.
Violence erupts organically from these provocations. A brawl leaves one brother battered, prompting retaliation that tests Kenny’s elaborate defences. Traps spring with mechanical ingenuity: punji stakes, tripwires linked to shotguns, pits lined with sharpened stakes. The practical effects, achieved through low-budget ingenuity, lend authenticity, with real mud, blood, and sweat grounding the carnage in visceral reality. Sound design amplifies the horror—echoing gunshots through bare trees, laboured breaths in the dead of night—creating an immersive auditory nightmare.
Blythe Danner’s brief but pivotal role as a local woman adds emotional layers, offering Kenny a glimpse of normalcy amid the chaos. Her scenes humanise him, revealing vulnerabilities beneath the hardened exterior. Yet even she becomes collateral in the brothers’ escalating vendetta, heightening the stakes and propelling the narrative toward its brutal climax.
The finale unfolds in a symphony of savagery, with Kenny’s military training prevailing in a cat-and-mouse pursuit through the woods. No triumphant heroism here; survival comes at the cost of further isolation, leaving audiences to ponder the true victors in such primal struggles.
Post-War Paranoia: Echoes of a Fractured Nation
Released amid the waning days of Vietnam, the film taps into widespread cultural anxieties. Veterans like Kenny represented a silent epidemic of alienation, their reintegration thwarted by societal indifference. Director George Bloomfield weaves this into the fabric without preachiness, letting actions speak: Kenny’s nightmares, triggered by fireworks mistaken for mortar fire, or his aversion to authority figures. Comparisons to contemporaries like Deliverance (1972) arise naturally, both portraying urban-rural clashes, though this piece leans more introspective.
The brothers serve as foils, embodying the aimless aggression of those untouched by war yet poisoned by its ripples. Their clown personas mock the absurdity of violence, a nod to the era’s black comedy trend seen in works like MAS*H. Rural decay—boarded-up towns, idle hands turning to mischief—mirrors economic stagnation, critiquing the myth of American heartland wholesomeness.
Gender dynamics add nuance; Kenny’s interactions with Danner’s character highlight suppressed desires, while the brothers’ homoerotic roughhousing hints at repressed tensions. These undercurrents enrich the thriller genre, elevating it beyond mere exploitation fare.
Crafting Carnage on a Shoestring: Production Insights
Shot on location in Canada’s Laurentian Mountains standing in for New England, production embraced natural harshness for authenticity. Bloomfield’s background in documentary work informed the raw, unpolished aesthetic—no glossy Hollywood sheen, just unflinching close-ups capturing Arkin’s micro-expressions of unraveling sanity.
Challenges abounded: inclement weather delayed shoots, and the cast endured genuine hardships, from sub-zero nights to improvised stunts. Arkin, drawing from method acting roots, immersed himself, reportedly staying in character off-set to inhabit Kenny’s paranoia. Composer Norman Orenstein’s sparse score, heavy on dissonant strings and percussion, underscores mounting dread without overpowering dialogue.
Marketing positioned it as a sleeper hit, with posters emphasising Arkin’s star power post-The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Initial reception mixed—praised for performances, critiqued for pacing—but home video revived interest, cementing its place in grindhouse collections.
Cult Reverence: From Obscurity to Collector Staple
Today, To Kill a Clown enjoys niche adoration among 1970s cinema aficionados. Rare VHS editions command premiums on eBay, their warped tapes prized for authenticity. Festivals like Panic Fest have screened restored prints, introducing it to younger retro fans via Blu-ray releases from boutique labels like Arrow Video.
Influence ripples subtly: echoes in Straw Dogs remakes or survival horrors like The Hills Have Eyes. Arkin’s performance remains a benchmark for anti-heroes, inspiring actors tackling damaged psyches. For collectors, it embodies the era’s bold experimentation, bridging New Hollywood grit with exploitation thrills.
Its scarcity fosters community; forums buzz with anecdotes of late-night discoveries in thrift stores, swapping digitised rips or debating symbolism. In nostalgia cycles, it stands as a reminder of cinema’s power to confront uncomfortable truths.
Director in the Spotlight
George Bloomfield, born in 1930 in Montreal, Canada, emerged from a modest background to become a versatile filmmaker whose career spanned documentaries, features, and television. Initially a radio producer for the CBC, he transitioned to visual media in the 1960s, honing his craft with short films that captured everyday Canadian life with poetic realism. His feature debut, Love on the Ground (1969), showcased intimate character studies, but it was To Kill a Clown (1972) that thrust him into international notice.
Bloomfield’s influences included European auteurs like Ingmar Bergman and the gritty naturalism of John Cassavetes, evident in his preference for location shooting and non-professional elements. Lies My Father Told Me (1975), his most acclaimed work, earned an Academy Award nomination for Best Foreign Language Film, blending Yiddish folklore with universal themes of family and heritage. The film starred Theodore Bikel and Jeffrey Lynas, grossing modestly but gaining critical acclaim for its warmth.
Throughout the 1980s, he directed television movies like The Gun and the Pulpit (1974) with Marjoe Gortner, exploring religious hypocrisy, and Half a Lifetime (1986), a poignant drama on aging. His episodic work included episodes of Checkin’ In (1981), Seeing Things (1981-1987), and Street Legal (1987-1994), where he directed over 20 instalments, showcasing adept handling of ensemble casts and moral dilemmas.
Other features include The Neptune Factor (1973), a sci-fi adventure with Ben Gazzara and Yvette Mimieux about deep-sea exploration gone awry; Semester at Sea (1974), a coming-of-age tale; and Lessons in Discipline: The Mary Margaret McBride Story (1996), a TV biopic. Bloomfield’s later years focused on mentoring young filmmakers through workshops, passing on his ethos of authenticity over artifice. He passed away in 2018, leaving a legacy of understated storytelling that prioritised human complexity.
Comprehensive filmography highlights: Prophet of Evil: The Evil LeBaron Story (1991, TV) delved into cult leader Ervil LeBaron; Max (1994, TV) examined euthanasia ethics; The Sleep Room (1998, TV) tackled CIA mind-control experiments with Rufus Sewell. His oeuvre reflects a commitment to provocative subjects, often underappreciated outside Canada.
Actor in the Spotlight: Alan Arkin
Alan Arkin, born March 26, 1934, in Brooklyn, New York, to Russian-Jewish immigrants, grew up amid the Great Depression, fostering his lifelong affinity for underdogs and outsiders. A folk singer in his youth with the Tarriers—hitting gold with “The Banana Boat Song” (1956)—he pivoted to acting, studying at Los Angeles City College and honing stage skills with the Second City improv troupe.
Arkin’s film breakthrough came with The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming (1966), earning a Best Actor Oscar nomination at age 32 for his bumbling Soviet submarine captain. This led to Wait Until Dark (1967) opposite Audrey Hepburn, showcasing dramatic range as a menacing thug. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (1968) brought another nomination for his poignant deaf-mute portrayal, cementing versatility.
The 1970s solidified his eclectic career: Popcorn and Ice Cream (1978), Fire Sale (1977) where he directed and starred, The In-Laws (1979) with Peter Falk. To Kill a Clown (1972) highlighted his intensity in thrillers. The 1980s featured comedies like Joshua Then and Now (1985) and Big Trouble (1986).
Revival came with Argo (2012), winning the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor as producer Lester Siegel, plus Golden Globe. Later gems: Little Miss Sunshine (2006, nomination), Up (2009, voice of grumpy Carl, nomination), Love and Other Drugs (2010). TV shone in The Kominsky Method (2018-2021), earning Emmys.
Arkin’s filmography spans over 100 credits: Edward Scissorhands (1990), Grosse Pointe Blank (1997), No Country for Old Men (2007, nomination), Marwencol (2010), Going in Style (2017 remake). Directorial efforts include Fire Sale (1977), Samuel Beckett Is Closed to the Public (1970 short). He authored books like Tony and Me (2011). Arkin died June 29, 2023, at 89, revered for four-octave range from comedy to pathos.
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Bibliography
Canby, V. (1972) Screen: ‘To Kill a Clown’ opens. The New York Times. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/1972/01/27/archives/screen-to-kill-a-clown-opens-2-brothers-and-a-veteran.html (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
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Hardy, P. (1995) The Film Encyclopedia: The Most Comprehensive Encyclopedia of World Cinema in a Single Volume. HarperPerennial.
Kael, P. (1972) Reeling. Little, Brown and Company.
Mank, G. W. (2001) Hollywood Cauldron: 13 Horror Films from the Genre’s Golden Age. McFarland & Company.
McCabe, B. (1986) Dark Shadows and Beyond: The Adventures of the Original Barnabas Collins. Perigee Books.
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Simon, J. (1972) To Kill a Clown review. Esquire Magazine, December.
Thompson, D. (2007) The New Biographical Dictionary of Film. Alfred A. Knopf.
Welsh, J. M. and Tibbetts, J. C. (2005) The Encyclopedia of Novels into Film. Facts on File.
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