The country makes me nervous. There’s crickets and it’s quiet…you’ve got the Manson family, possibly…you got Dick and Perry…
-from “Annie Hall”
The film “In Cold Blood” was released by Columbia Pictures in 1967. “Annie Hall” came out a decade later, in 1977. By then, and for largely the same reasons, the names “Dick and Perry” were as instantly recognizable to audiences as the name “Charles Manson”. Much like the tattoos they were covered with, Dick and Perry were symbols of random, violent forces, and their story tore a strip off the veneer of middle American comfort and security; blew a hole in the idea that hard work and clean living would somehow keep the wolves away from the door.
In Kansas, in 1959, on a cold November night, Richard Hickock and Perry Smith drove 400 miles to a small town called Holcomb to kill a family of four they had never met; Herb and Bonnie Clutter, the father and mother. Nancy and Kenyon Clutter, the sister and brother. Dick and Perry thought they had money. In a safe, in their home.
There was no money. Herb Clutter paid for everything with checks. There wasn’t a safe.
Dick and Perry slaughtered them anyway.
It was a brutal crime, stupid and senseless and all that said, if it weren’t for the movie and book, the names “Dick and Perry” wouldn’t mean squat. The film is nearly a flawless work, as much for Richard Brooks’ directorial talents as for the thespian skills of Robert Blake and Scott Wilson, the actors who play Dick and Perry. But on those rare occasions the film “In Cold Blood” comes up for discussion, the conversation sort of arcs in the same direction, I’ve noticed.
Come with me for a moment to make-believe land. You be you and I’ll be me, and we’ll pretend we’re talking about you-know-what. I’ll start.
I say, did you know they originally wanted Steve McQueen to play Dick. Before they found Scott Wilson.
You say, who? And I say, Scott Wilson. Dick. In “In Cold Blood”. And you say, oh. Right. That guy. I liked Perry better. Dick was a bastard. Through and through. A coward. A grifter. A real piece of work, and you tell me again: I liked Perry better.
Remember that scene, you say, it’s near the end. So poignant, so sad. Perry’s speech. His terrible life, his terrible dad. The rain on the window. Perry’s tears. Made me cry. Remember that scene? So sad. So sad.
Yes it’s sad and yes I remember. We always remember the part where we cry. We all like Perry better than Dick, and Perry’s speech is where we all cry.
It’s written that way and directed that way, designed and produced and scored that way, and I’ll grant you that scene with Perry’s speech is moving and poignant and artfully done.
But because Perry’s speech is so brilliantly acted and carefully crafted, it overshadows and undercuts one other artfully acted scene.
Though they’re equally guilty in the eyes of the law, Perry Smith did the actual killing. Dick was there, but Dick was a coward. Just as you said. Bookmark it for now, we’ll come back to it later. But Perry’s the killer. Keep that in mind.
We are, by the way, still in make-believe land, which is why we’re all rhyme-y, and dream-y, and why here, I can cut to another scene: Dick, in Kansas. In police custody.
Dick Hickock sits with his head in his hand; life as he’s always known it is over. His sleeves are rolled up, there’s a cop in the room. Cop looks at Dick’s arm and he asks:
Why do you people all get tattoos?
You people? says Dick. What people? And the cop says, convicts. You’re all tattooed. That tiger head. What’s it do. Make you feel tough?
This is Dick’s answer. This is the Tattoo Speech:
That cop’s badge, what’s it do? Make you feel honest? Everybody’s got a tattoo. Only you call them clubs. Elks, Masons, Boy Scouts. Salute! High sign, low sign. Secret this and secret that. No trespassing. Keep off the grass. Nice respectable tattoo clubs. Poker clubs, golf clubs. Tennis clubs, clubs for gambling and clubs for drinking—
even a real club, like Daddy-O’s got in that little brown bag—
what you gonna do, pappy? Club it out of me?
You can watch the clip here. Now exiting make-believe land. Watch your step. Please use the handrail.
So there it is. That’s the Tattoo Speech. But those are just words on a page, and I’m no actor—I’m barely a writer—but Scott Wilson’s an actor. A damn good one, too. Scott Wilson’s been in a lot of things. “In the Heat of the Night”, “The Walking Dead”, “Dead Man Walking”, etc., etc. But the Tattoo Speech is really where Scott Wilson shines. That little gem comes in at the two-thirds mark; that’s ninety minutes you’ve spent with Dick Hickock. So you know what kind of an oily, slimy, worse-than-an-used-car-salesman guy he can be.
And still, in that moment, you like him. You like him because this is the way you wanted to speak to the teacher who gave you back your research paper with a "C-" on it. This is the way you wanted to snarl at the cop who gave you a ticket when you know darn well you were under the speed limit. You like him because this is the moment he isn’t a coward. He speaks for you here—high sign, Salute!
Robert Blake gave an outstanding performance as Perry. But in my opinion, Scott Wilson doesn’t get his props. By all rights, you should find Dick as appealing as a glass of warm bug repellent. It takes real acting chops to make you care about either one of these gents; you definitely should not care about Dick Hickock.
But you do. In that moment, you care. Because it’s written that way, and directed that way, designed and produced and scored that way, and it digs at that tender spot we all have, where everyone wants to belong to something. A tattoo is more than skin and ink. It’s also the car or the boat, the diamond ring on your finger you flash, or the trophy wife you wear on your arm. They’re symbols, they speak. They say, this is my club. This is where I belong.
Art is one thing and life is another. Art is make-believe land, and in real life you wouldn’t have cared two hoots in heck about Perry or Dick, either one. But you care because it’s all so exquisitely crafted, and brilliantly acted. I give Scott Wilson kudos again. He did such a fine job.
Yet in spite of that, it’s Perry’s speech you remember. So moving and poignant. So artfully done. The rain on the window. Perry’s tears. You remember, just as I’m sure you recall our nice little trip into make-believe land.
I lied when I told you that was the exit. Line becomes blurry between real life and and not— in point of fact, we never left make-believe land. And careful there, that handrail’s a prop.
So I tell you Scott Wilson died in 2018, and you say, who? And I say, Dick, in “In Cold Blood”. And you say, oh that guy. Good actor. Dick was a bastard. A coward. A real piece of work.
The line becomes blurry but somehow it arcs the same way every time: Perry killed those four people. Yes, I say. Dick was a coward. But Dick never killed anyone.
There’s crickets. There’s quiet. I like Perry better, you tell me again, which is proof of two things. It proves, once more, what a fine actor Scott Wilson was, and what Dick really said in that moment was true.
We call them clubs. But we all have tattoos.