Peckinpah never gave a woman more sympathy in any of his other films.
And that time I started studying it, desperate to discover how Peckinpah had done such a number on me.
Peckinpah, for all his reputation as “Bloody Sam,” the maestro of screen violence, cuts that part by at least half.
Step by gentle step, shot by shot, Peckinpah backs you into a corner.
No one controlled a movie camera and an editing room with more élan than Peckinpah.
Were he still alive, “Bloody Sam” Peckinpah might have expressed admiration.
At the same time, Peckinpah is leaning over your shoulder, whispering that David has brought a lot of this on himself.