It appears that this singular film, which I was randomly fortunate enough to catch on YouTube (see link) a double brace of years ago (ie: I can't precisely recall the presumably less-than-strictly-random sequence of events that led to my viewing it) is being re-released. I don't usually do film reviews, not because I think it an unworthy pursuit, but because if I started, I'd probably never stop, film talk being, for me, the equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet. However, in this case an exception can, and will, be made.
The Driver's Seat, or Identikit, is one of those films whose essential trajectory can be summarised in a sentence, yet which is in fact deeply complex in terms of its place both within the zeitgeist (1974) and within the filmography and career of its star, Elizabeth Taylor.
A version of that sentence, in a nutshell, might go as follows: The mentally disturbed and garishly attired Lise (Elizabeth Taylor), after a scene in a department store opposite a number of foil-headed mannequins, decamps from London for Rome with a not really fully explained death wish, and meets a number of frankly unbelievable characters, foremost among them an English aristocratic diplomat, played in cameo with disarming authenticity by Andy Warhol.
And that's all you really need to know. How could that possibly not hook you in? The meeting with Andy Warhol occurs before she's even cleared customs at the airport. And if that isn't enough to whack you where it hurts, we're probably done here. But if it is, and it does, buckle up. The rest of the runtime is an admixture of aphoristic euro-art non sequitur dialogue and artfully filmed introspection, both obviously very good things (and again, if you disagree, we're probably done here) laced with the necessary moments of shocking violence without which, given Lise's stated thanatos inclined psyche, none of this would make any sense.
For starters, Lise, en route from the airport to her hotel, is immediately required to negotiate an encounter with a deeply creepy character, Bill, played by Ian Bannen. Bill has two addictions, to a strictly macrobiotic diet, and to orgasms. Which, because he's deeply creepy, in his mind he equates as intrinsically linked. If he misses an orgasm one day, his regime requires he has two the next. "You're not my type", says Lise. And we know exactly what she means. But whose type is she? We fear, because we already know, the worst.
Anyway [spoiler], after aimlessly drifting around Rome for a while, she eventually does meet that special someone, that special someone who's prepared to fast track the romance and proceed straight to topping her. And from there, the film fulfils it's function efficiently enough, proceeding in short order to its prefigured murderous climax. Job done. It's a mark of the skill of the director, and of the sheer star quality of Taylor, that this doesn't all just seem like an ill-conceived stab at portraying post-60s existential anomie, the star an unconvincing avatar for that post-60s comedown sense of fractured identity. Although of course, viewed in isolation, and in certain lights, it does seem just like that. It all depends on how you approach it. Elizabeth Taylor was herself conceivably quite mad by this point, probably still traumatised by the knowledge that she'd been near the top, with Richard Burton, Steve McQueen and Frank Sinatra, of the Manson hit list. These things presumably leave their mark in unimaginable ways
A footnote: the notion of an apparently dissociative, jarringly discordant femme fatale seeking someone by whom to be murdered was an idea later nicked by Martin Amis for his novel London Fields. And if offered the choice, it's no great mystery as to which one might choose as the artefact which displayed the greater artistic merit. Marty might have had the smarts, but Identikit had the balls out, star quality, macrobiotic, orgasmic, avant garde, euro-art cojones. No question.
Thank you. Particularly enjoyed this "Elizabeth Taylor was herself conceivably quite mad by this point, probably still traumatised by the knowledge that she'd been near the top, with Richard Burton, Steve McQueen and Frank Sinatra, of the Manson hit list. These things presumably leave their mark in unimaginable ways." Fine writing.