Opening title from the TV version of Duel, broadcast as part of ABC’s TV Movie of the Weekend series
Guest writer Caleb Allison compares the original TV and theatrical versions of Steven Spielberg’s masterful debut feature film.
The April 1971 edition of Playboy featured a story by screenwriter, novelist, and regular Playboy fiction author Richard Matheson. Starting on page 94, the vast six-column spread is almost entirely dominated by a cryptic and vaguely unnerving photograph by Bill Arsenault. The image barely reveals the rusted-out back end of an 18-wheeler. Blurred speed-lines and a ghostly double exposure hint at the metaphysical. Etched onto the mudflap is a violently distorted and smashed figurine that looks like it may have been a child’s play toy before it was devoured and displayed like a big-game trophy head. In hindsight, the image perfectly captures the palpable dread and sunbaked anxiety of the film that emerged from it. The photo’s lack of detail and orientation lets the mind conjure up dark thoughts. Matheson is given top billing in bold type above the story, which is blocked into a single column on the far left. Tucked into the lower left corner rests the story’s title in dramatic blood-red lettering, “duel.” So, this is a contest. The first sentence: “At 11:32 A.M., Mann passed the truck.”
Cover of the April 1971 edition of Playboy alongside Richard Matheson’s story “Duel” and Bill Arsenault’s appropriately unsettling photograph for the publication’s fiction series
This simple opening — passing the wrong truck on a desolate highway — begins a white-knuckled exercise in genre purism that spans an impressive ten pages, folding in rather neatly with the rest of the issue’s salacious offerings. What follows is a clear-eyed and vividly realized shot of literary adrenaline featuring a mild-mannered motorist, simply known as Mann, who is relentlessly pursued by a semitruck from Hell. There are no overburdened storylines, lofty literary devices, or genre mashups here. This is a sweat-drenched thrill ride of the purest kind, and it would become the perfect source material for a fledgling 24-year-old contract-director, Steven Spielberg, who was hunting for any material that might elevate his reputation at Universal Studios. Leave it to Matheson’s Playboy story to do the trick, which, as it turned out, was rather popular around the studio lot. A Universal screenwriter, Kenneth Johnson, came across the story and thought it had great potential, so he shared it with another writer, Steve Bochco, who agreed. Bochco eventually pushed it up to producer George Eckstein, who quickly greenlit the project for an ABC Movie of the Weekend installment.
At the same time, Steven Spielberg’s assistant, Nona Tyson, read the story separately and, realizing the material was perfect for the industrious director, compelled Spielberg to call Eckstein and get a meeting. At that time, Spielberg’s professional experience had mainly consisted of directing a handful of short- and long-form episodic TV and a short personal project shot on 35mm, Amblin’ (1968), which may sound familiar as it shares the same name as the production company he would go on to found, Amblin Entertainment. After pitching Matheson’s story to Eckstein as a totally silent movie — an absurd idea for TV, but compelling nonetheless — Spielberg landed the directing gig. Matheson, already an accomplished film and TV scriptwriter in horror and sci-fi, would begrudgingly agree to pen the teleplay. The sheer gravity of Spielberg has come to dominate most recent discussions about Duel, but without Playboy and Matheson’s gritty story, Spielberg may have never become, you know, “Spielberg,” and if “Duel” had been published elsewhere it may not have reveled in its one-note thrills and bodily discomfort in quite the same way, and I mean that as a compliment.
Duel was ultimately met with rave reviews, even a glowing recommendation from Pauline Kael, who wrote, “Spielberg could be that rarity among directors, a born entertainer — perhaps a new generation’s Howard Hawks. In terms of the pleasure that technical assurance gives an audience, this film is one of the most phenomenal debut films in the history of movies.” Capitalizing on the success of the original TV broadcast on November 13, 1971, an extended theatrical cut was also created for international distribution. The theatrical cut comes in at a brisk 90 minutes, already a refreshing runtime compared to the current trend of three-hour auteur epics, while the TV version clocks in at an exhilarating 74 minutes (totaling 90 minutes with commercial breaks when it was originally broadcast). It wasn’t until 1983, after Spielberg’s nearly unfathomable string of blockbusters that began with Jaws (1975) and continued with Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), and E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982), that Duel would find its way to American movie theaters. By then, however, the film, including the theatrical cut, had been screening on TV intermittently for 12 years, and the commercial allure of Duel had faded. After a brief test-run in Cincinnati, Kansas City, and New York, the box-office death knell rang out and the film’s domestic run was cut short.
While the theatrical cut may now be the most prominent version seen, I want to argue for the stripped-down and skeletal thrills of the TV movie that initially aired. First and foremost, we might consider the original 1.33:1 (4:3) aspect ratio of the TV version versus the 1.85:1 widescreen of the theatrical cut. There is something inherently claustrophobic about the boxy 4:3 TV ratio. For Duel, this framing is a benefit and serves to further isolate and contain our motorist, David Mann, played with frenetic grit by Dennis Weaver. As the film progresses and Mann’s sanity starts to fray, that already-narrow frame seems to keep inching in on him. In 4:3 Mann literally has nowhere to hide; with pillar boxes on either side and a snarling grill descending upon him, he can only turn inward. If you were lucky enough to start with this viewing experience, the comparatively wide expanses of 1.85 seem downright roomy. Widescreen offers Mann a couple extra inches of legroom, and breathing room, for that matter, which doesn’t always benefit the increasingly tense tone of the film. I will admit, though, the long establishing shots in widescreen do offer a similar kind of isolation, but one that is far less impactful than the interior shots in 4:3.
There is also a slight problem with framing when the image was masked for 16:9. Since the original TV version was shot and framed with 4:3 in mind, the widescreen version occasionally conceals critical elements, like a photograph of Mann’s family clipped to the sun visor. This small but crucial detail constantly reminds us of the stakes involved in the film’s deadly duel — Mann battles not only for his survival, but for his family. Occasionally, the widescreen also reveals too much as well, like, oh, Steven Spielberg himself. Spielberg was often tucked into the rear seat of the Plymouth Valiant, directing Dennis Weaver, and clearly out of the shot for the TV frame, but when the sides were revealed for widescreen, he pops into several shots. Spying for Spielberg could be a great drinking game, but it certainly deflates the tension if you’re not playing. Besides, there is a much more prominent cameo by Spielberg, again unintended, and a consequence of the compressed production schedule which meant Spielberg didn’t have time to watch dailies from the day before.
There is also the matter of the theatrical cut’s extended runtime that was required to meet international distribution standards. This meant additional scenes needed to be shot. Spielberg and Eckstein were each tasked with developing two scenes. For a film that was exceptional because of its efficiency and utter lack of exposition, these additional scenes don’t necessarily enhance the thrills. However, Spielberg’s added scenes don’t take anything away from the film, while Eckstein’s feel somewhat contrived and heavy-handed. Spielberg, for his part, added an extended opening credit sequence that masterfully aligns the film with one of the horror genres most coveted conventions: a traversal from the familiar and safe to the foreign and dangerous. The added sequence begins in total darkness. We can hear footsteps approach, a door opens, an engine fires. We are the car. We emerge from the darkness into daylight from the low point-of-view of a car grille by way of a clever diegetic fade in as it backs out of a darkened garage. There is no wide establishing shot to let us know whose car this is or even what it looks like yet, but over the next three and a half minutes we chart its journey from the safety of a manicured suburban landscape to crowded city streets, and from the bustling city to the maze of three-lane highways on its outskirts, and finally to the sparse and arid single lane desert highway where our “duel” begins.
The TV version, on the other hand, plunges us immediately into the desert with a series of long establishing shots of Mann’s Valiant. While the theatrical cut slowly lets the dread creep in, the TV version drops us into the fray without warning or orientation. To Spielberg’s credit, the edit between the two versions is absolutely seamless. There is no dialogue in either version, only the soft babble of the car radio to offer a sense of false comfort. It is a brilliant device that pushes the film a bit further towards Spielberg’s silent movie ambitions. I also wouldn’t be surprised if Todd Haynes’s ominous vehicular opening to the equally horrific Safe (1995) wasn’t inspired by Spielberg’s approach here.
One of Eckstein’s additional scenes also shows up early in the film, but the lead-up to it deserves mentioning, because it is pure Spielberg and one of the movie’s most nuanced sequences. At this point Mann has unknowingly prompted the duel by twice passing the semitruck to get clear of its choking exhaust fumes. Once safely in the clear, he pulls into a small roadside gas station. Shortly after pulling in, the hulking 1955 Peterbilt 281 pulls in alongside, dominating the frame and Mann’s comparatively puny Valiant. Mann tries to get a peek at the driver, but all he can see is a meaty paw holding the steering wheel before the station attendant obscures our vision as he cleans the windshield. By the time this brief exchange is over, the driver has exited the truck on the opposite side and all Mann can see are his brown leather cowboy boots as he gruffly kicks his tires and gas tank — no doubt preparing for the battle to come.
To reveal the driver at this point would absolutely deflate the tension. Spielberg just wants to tease us. We would again see the director expertly teasing his monster in Jaws, but in that film, the great white is eventually revealed. The purity of Duel is that we are fully denied this satisfaction. The truck driver is never revealed and this audacious technique sustains the threadbare story. Eckstein’s addition to this mesmerizing sequence then has Mann enter an adjoining laundromat where he calls home to his wife, and the film cuts to their suburban home, pulling us out of the primary story. Mann attempts to apologize for not standing up to another man who made a pass at her the night before but fails utterly and is instead berated. Both of these elements — the fact that Mann has a family to take care of and his feelings of emasculation — are addressed more cleverly by Matheson’s story and Spielberg’s direction in the TV version. There is a family photo discretely placed on the Valiant’s visor in the TV cut that makes this clear without spelling it out, and a “humorous” call-in radio bit played during the opening sequence addresses Mann’s wounded masculinity, setting up his transformation into a “true” man of action by the film’s conclusion. Spielberg makes the most out of this sequence, though, by framing Mann creatively through the circular window of one of the washing machines as a woman starts a load, again confining him and literally gendering the frame by way of the washing machine door.
Spielberg’s creative framing for one of George Eckstein’s additional scenes in the theatrical cut
While creatively framed by Spielberg, this additional sequence feels redundant and distracting, personifying the elements that make the theatrical cut a less visceral experience overall. The TV version’s shot-of-adrenaline runtime, claustrophobic 4:3 framing, and efficient narrative structure that follows Matheson’s original story offer an experience that is rare in contemporary cinema. Duel is exactly what it promises and nothing else. The additional scenes of the theatrical cut end up compounding the dialogue in a film that truly doesn’t need it. As I recall watching the TV version, I’m left with the memory of a silent film. It’s pure competition, oppressive anxiety, desert-heat, and diesel exhaust, and the theatrical version slows it all down and talks it all up, and that’s not what this movie is about. We should all consider ourselves lucky to have so many viewing options and formats to choose from in the current media landscape. The upcoming IU Cinema screening on April 27 will be showcasing a new 4K restoration of the theatrical cut so you can savor every last minute of Spielberg’s feature debut, but if you’re strapped for time or jonesing for you daily dose of TV, ABC’s original broadcast is currently available as a special feature on the new 4K UHD dual format set released by Universal Studios in 2023. Ultimately, my vote is for the perverse pleasures of Matheson’s Playboy story and Spielberg’s essentially silent and anxiety-inducing 75-minute TV movie-of-the-weekend, but why choose one when you can watch both? Eat your piston-pumping heart out — just make sure you buckle up for the ride.
**Much of the production history cited in this story is taken from Steven Awalt’s phenomenal book Steven Spielberg and Duel: The Making of a Film Career.
The theatrical cut of Duel will be screened in a new 4K restoration at IU Cinema on April 27 as part of the City Lights Film Series.
Caleb Allison loves going out to the movies, especially when they are menacing, cryptic, or horrific. A PhD candidate at Indiana University, he splits his time between scholarly research and filmmaking. He has a passion for the look and feel of super 8mm and 16mm film and uses them whenever the universe aligns, and will watch anything by Andrei Tarkovsky, Terrence Malick, or John Carpenter anytime, anywhere.