Flawed, fascinating, and not-as-good-as-you-remember-it, Sam Peckinpah's Convoy is often framed as a more truthful version of Smokey and The Bandit. The truth of the matter? It is an ill-conceived mess better discussed as a noble failure undermined by the desperation, addiction, and self-destruction of its director. Like the shoot out that concludes The Wild Bunch, Convoy feels like a lost cause that ends in a slaughter. You could also make a case it is one of the first fateful steps that ends the auteur movement in Hollywood.

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