Watched on Blu-Ray

Made in Hollywood in the 1970s, undoubtedly the wildest and most experimental period of the dream factory, "Taxi Driver" is as strongly rooted in European cinema as it is dissecting the problems of its country of origin. Significantly, it won the Palme d'Or in Cannes, whereas it had to settle for a few nominations at the Oscars. But Martin Scorsese is not interested in prizes anyway. In fact, from today's perspective, it seems impossible that a film like this would have been financed by a major studio or even considered for the Oscars. It is too radical for that, aesthetically as well as in terms of content strongly interested in a socio-political discourse that was particularly topical at the time, but is, strictly speaking, still present. America is admittedly not put in a flattering light, and so the protagonist Travis Bickle is a humanized symbol for the decay and problems of an entire society.

Although "Taxi Driver" has plenty of acting potency as Jodie Foster's acting breakthrough or through a long-haired Harvey Keitel, Robert De Niro easily takes over the entire film. All of New York is his stage as he sinks shabbily into the driver's seat of his cab and picks up the social morass from the sidewalks on his nightly tours. Almost humbly, De Niro gives himself over to this character. You don't see him, just Travis Bickle, a disillusioned Vietnam returnee who, as the drab visual design makes clear from the start, suffers from unspoken problems. He is one of many trying to become a functioning part of society and, in his inability, projects his own problems into an overarching conflict. Cab Driver" negotiates its discourse primarily in this field of tension between character drama, social criticism and milieu study, which opens up unimagined dimensions especially in the mutual interaction.

At the same time, Travis actually seems to be an everyman. He drowns his loneliness in overtime, the isolation of the big city weighs on his soul, and all he really wants is to be loved. Betsy is his object of desire, and because he doesn't know exactly how to conquer women, he takes her to a dirty movie theater. This is the beginning of the end, but it aptly sums up Travis' tragedy. In his role as a frustrated outsider, he has long since lost touch with everything that is considered normal and accepted by society. And so, despite the best of intentions, he mercilessly fails the paradigms of bourgeois mores. Timeless problems are also reflected in his attitude towards politics. He supports a local politician and future presidential candidate only because of his interest in Betsy, who even works in his campaign office. When this man actually gets into Travis's cab, he assures him of his rock-solid support, but when asked about his own opinion, he pretends to be completely apolitical and answers that he has no idea about politics, but nevertheless knows exactly that he is the right man.

Towards the end, "Taxi Driver" reveals biting cynicism when Travis' desperate forced march is misunderstood as a rescue mission and his selfish sacrifice as a selfless act. He is a man who may be doing the right thing, but is acting from the wrong motives and resorting to the wrong means to do so. The film thus also portrays the tightrope walk between victim, perpetrator and hero, as well as the dubiousness of media portrayal. Scorsese also formally demonstrates again and again how quickly the apparently normal can tip over into its opposite. By holding a shot a moment too long, bringing a zoom a touch too close to the action, or playing a sound a tad too loud, the film creates a sense of unease that vividly captures Travi's emotional world. The strength of the production lies in this very unassuming but incredibly effective immersion. Travis as a social outcast, but also as a symbol of our fear of being excluded.

You can always recognize a good film by the fact that it doesn't leave you immediately after the end, but haunts your mind like a phantom. By what remains after the critical examination, by ideas, thoughts and dreams. Sometimes it is a mischievous smile or the fading echo of a characteristic gesture, which is thereupon incorporated carelessly, almost incidentally, into our repertoire of everyday movements. These are special moments when a film leaves the screen and from then on we always carry a piece of it with us. When we feel as unapproachable as Alain Delon in "Le Samurai" while walking lethargically through a lonely city, or try to look a woman in the eye as seductively as Humphrey Bogart once did with Ingrid Bergman in "Casablanca". Cab Driver" is also one of these films, when we ourselves stand in front of the mirror, reenact De Niro's most striking moment and feel a bit of his madness, his sadness, his rage.