McKlusky, metà uomo metà odio

Imagine sitting down to watch one of them good ol' boys pitcher shows from the Deep South, with Burt Reynolds a'grinnin' and a'fightin' . . .

And finding out that, despite some quibbling errors, Joe Sargent's White Lightning is a small joy, a movie that has more than enough good performance, bite, and raw anger to raise it above the redneckery that Reynolds descended into as his career morphed into a cartoon.

What makes White Lightning work is that Reynolds isn't cute and Ned Beatty, as his adversary, a thoroughly corrupted county sheriff, isn't a bufoon. Beatty is in no small part what makes the movie work--his rant against those who would take his little empire away from him (Washington bureaucrats, commie college students, colored agitators) doesn't make him likable, just believable.

Plus, the movie looks good. It's grimy and sweaty; you can feel the heat coming off the engine blocks of the Ford Galaxie 500s. All the characters ooze perspiration in White Lightning; clear drops of sweat that seem interchangeable with the liquor being brewed and sold by everybody and his cousin.

Arkansas looks unbearably hot and humid, angry and nasty.

Just like Reynolds and Beatty.