Film Review: Dillinger (1973)

One of the more noticeable trends of the New Hollywood era was the preponderance of films set during the Great Depression. This cinematic fascination might be explained partly by nostalgia, partly by the movement’s reverence for Classic Hollywood history, and partly as a reminder that, no matter how bleak America and the world appeared in the 1970s, the situation had been considerably worse four decades earlier. Yet there was another, more potent reason why the Depression captured filmmakers’ imaginations: it was an era of gangsters and criminals who, especially when robbing banks, attained the status of folk heroes. Their brazen disdain for authority resonated deeply with the anti-establishment views of late 1960s and 1970s Boomers, disillusioned by Vietnam, Watergate, and systemic corruption. Among the New Hollywood auteurs who seized upon this trend was John Milius, whose directorial debut, the 1973 gangster biopic Dillinger, remains a fascinating, if flawed, artefact of its time—a film that captures both the raw energy of its director and the complex cultural yearnings of an era seeking its own rebellious icons.

Written by Milius himself, the film is dedicated to John Dillinger (1903–1934), the most notorious criminal of his age. As leader of a gang of armed robbers targeting banks across the Midwest, Dillinger became synonymous with violent confrontations with law enforcement. His exploits were extensively covered by a voracious media, but they were also strategically exploited by J. Edgar Hoover, the media-savvy director of the US Bureau of Investigation (later the FBI). Hoover transformed Dillinger into “Public Enemy No. 1,” using his notoriety to justify unprecedented powers for his fledgling agency, thereby cementing its position as America’s premier law enforcement body. This historical context is crucial to understanding Dillinger not merely as a crime story, but as a narrative about the construction of myth and the symbiotic relationship between outlaw and institution.

Milius immediately establishes Dillinger’s mythic stature in the opening scene. Played with roguish charisma by Warren Oates, Dillinger robs a bank while assuring terrified customers they will have “a story to tell your children and grandchildren about meeting John Dillinger.” This self-aware theatricality defines the character. Yet the film’s narrator is not Dillinger, but Special Agent Melvin Purvis (Ben Johnson), head of the Bureau’s Midwest Office. Tasked with catching the outlaw, Purvis takes the pursuit personally after Dillinger’s associates murder several Bureau agents during a botched prison rescue in Kansas City. Purvis vows not only to apprehend Dillinger but to eliminate his entire gang, including the brutal Charles Makley (John P. Ryan), the volatile Harry Pierpont (Geoffrey Lewis), and the weary Homer Van Meter (Harry Dean Stanton). This narrative choice—focusing on the pursuer rather than solely the pursued—adds psychological depth, framing the story as a duel between two men whose obsessions mirror each other.

As Dillinger continues his spree, he encounters Billie Frechette (Michelle Phillips), a young half-Indian prostitute whom he forcibly takes as his moll. Their relationship, though rooted in coercion, develops a strange tenderness that humanises Dillinger without excusing his brutality. Meanwhile, Purvis methodically tracks the gang, arresting the flamboyant Machine Gun Kelly (who utters the famous “G-Man” line) and closing in on Dillinger himself. The outlaw is eventually captured in Arizona and imprisoned in Crown Point, Indiana, only to execute a daring escape involving a wooden gun—a moment recreated with tense efficiency by Milius. Reassembling his gang at the New Bohemia resort hideout, Dillinger is joined by the sociopathic Baby Face Nelson (Richard Dreyfuss, in a chilling early performance) and Pretty Boy Floyd (Steve Kanaly). When a robbery goes catastrophically wrong, wounding Makley, the hideout is compromised. Purvis leads a devastating raid that erupts into chaotic bloodshed, leaving numerous agents dead and scattering the surviving gang members, who are hunted down and killed one by one with grim inevitability. Dillinger alone evades capture, hiding in Chicago under an alias until he is betrayed by Anna Sage (Cloris Leachman), a brothel madam whose protégée he has fallen for—a betrayal that seals his fate outside the Biograph Theatre.

Before Dillinger, John Milius was renowned as a screenwriter for films like The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean and Jeremiah Johnson. Though the latter was recognised as a classic, creative differences with director Sydney Pollack and star Robert Redford convinced Milius that true authorship could only be achieved through directing. American International Pictures (AIP), a studio synonymous with low-budget exploitation fare, provided his opportunity. This financial constraint is evident throughout Dillinger: the entirety was shot on location in Oklahoma; many cast and crew members are uncredited; and the film’s aesthetic occasionally appears rough around the edges—a consequence of both budget limitations and Milius’s inexperience. Yet within these constraints, Milius’s passion shines through. His character introductions—Dillinger’s bold bank robbery and Anna Sage’s melancholic resignation—are masterclasses in economical storytelling, simple yet profoundly effective.

Milius handles his limited resources with ingenuity. The Great Depression is resurrected not merely through meticulous props and costumes, but through evocative stock photographs and a soundtrack rich with 1930s pop songs, complemented by Barry De Vorzon’s atmospheric score. However, historical accuracy occasionally falters: an M3 light tank, introduced eight years after the film’s events, appears anachronistically with the Indiana National Guard—a detail likely missed by all but military history enthusiasts. More significantly, like most Hollywood biopics, Dillinger takes substantial liberties with historical fact. While key events—Dillinger’s prison escape and his death outside the Biograph—are faithfully reconstructed, Milius sacrifices authenticity for drama, narrative cohesion, and, most tellingly, the opportunity for explosive action. Reflecting early 1970s cinematic trends, the film features a staggering body count and graphic violence, achieved through liberal use of squibs. Civilians are frequently caught in the crossfire, lending the film a grim, morally ambiguous texture. Yet Milius leavens this brutality with darkly humorous interludes, particularly in the scenes depicting the gang members’ fates after the New Bohemia raid—a tonal balancing act that showcases his distinctive voice.

Dillinger ultimately succeeds primarily due to its exceptional casting. Warren Oates, a formidable character actor often relegated to supporting roles, relishes his chance as the lead. He crafts Dillinger as a mythical, larger-than-life figure whose roguish charm persists despite his questionable actions—particularly his treatment of Billie. Ben Johnson, though considerably older than the real Purvis, embodies the agent’s stoic determination and simmering rage with quiet authority. Michelle Phillips, of The Mamas and the Papas fame, delivers a remarkably assured acting debut, portraying Billie’s vulnerability and resilience without sentimentality. They are ably supported by a formidable ensemble: Geoffrey Lewis and Harry Dean Stanton bring tragic depth to their doomed gangsters, while Richard Dreyfuss’s Baby Face Nelson is a terrifying study in psychotic glee. This strength in characterisation elevates the film beyond its exploitation roots.

Upon release, Dillinger achieved modest box office success but received lukewarm critical reception. Many dismissed it as a derivative exploitation piece, a knock-off of more prestigious films like Bonnie and Clyde. Undeterred, Milius attempted to continue the saga by writing Melvin Purvis: G-Man, a 1974 TV film starring Dale Robertson, which failed as a pilot for a series. Its 1975 sequel, The Kansas City Massacre, met a similar fate. Yet Milius’s career flourished. He channelled the lessons of Dillinger into a series of highly regarded films—The Wind and the Lion, Big Wednesday, and Conan the Barbarian—that cemented his reputation as one of New Hollywood’s most distinctive voices. Consequently, Dillinger’s reputation has steadily grown, particularly after 2009 when comparisons arose with Michael Mann’s Public Enemies. Johnny Depp’s miscast, overly romanticised portrayal of Dillinger in Mann’s technically polished but emotionally sterile film highlighted the raw authenticity and mythic power of Oates’s performance and Milius’s unvarnished vision.

Dillinger is a vital document of its era—a film that captures the New Hollywood’s fascination with American mythology, its willingness to challenge institutional authority, and its embrace of violence as both spectacle and social commentary. Milius, working within severe constraints, fashioned a work of genuine power, where historical truth bends to serve a greater narrative about rebellion, obsession, and the creation of legend.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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