Recent political violence: the attempted assassination of Donald Trump, the hero worship of Luigi Mangione and the recent assassination of Charlie Kirk, have made this disturbingly poignant. These events have echoed the film’s themes, narrative, even the real violence it inspired in 1981 in which John Hinckley Jr. attempted to assassinate Ronald Reagan.
The attempted assassination of Trump at a Pennsylvania rally in July 2024 left two dead and several injured. The gunman’s motives remain unclear, but they were undeniably political. Not long after, UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson was killed. The prime suspect, Luigi Mangione, sparked international debate over socialism, corporate greed and the failure of the U.S healthcare system. The gunman, who followed Thompson to New York, left behind monopoly money and etched into casings the words “Deny,” “Defend”, “Depose”. He is now facing multiple charges, as well as public idolisation. Rolling Stone called Mangione “the most debated and polarizing murder suspect in recent history.” The President and prosecutors are seeking the death penalty.
Most recently, when visiting the Utah Valley University to promote ‘The American Comeback Tour’ for his organisation ‘Turning Point USA’, right-wing commentator Charlie Kirk was assassinated via sniper while engaging with an audience member about gun violence in the USA. The gunman, Tyler James Robinson, surrendered the next day, facing similar charges.
With these three events in mind, Taxi Driver feels more like a mirror than a character study. The film follows Travis, a lonely Vietnam veteran working nights as a taxi driver in a morally bankrupt New York City. Suffering from insomnia and PTSD, he spends his time watching pornographic films and observing New York’s ‘scum’ from behind a windshield. His hatred grows out of this nightly exposure, out of longing and disgust. He becomes obsessed with Betsy, a campaign worker for presidential candidate Charles Palantine, and his fascination with Palantine becomes a proxy of connection.
Travis insists he “doesn’t follow politics”, yet plasters his apartment with Palantine posters. Betsy describes him as a “walking contradiction” and she’s right. He doesn’t even know what he believes in.
As his psyche unravels, his “bad ideas” manifest. He engineers weapons, conceals them under coat, begins acting on violent impulse. His first victim, a young black man robbing a convenience store, is disquieting and speaks to socioeconomic failings. Travis isn’t making a statement, he simply sees an opportunity to ‘test’ himself. The victim’s desperate poverty, emblematic of America’s racial and economic divides means nothing to Travis, or even the narrative. It’s simply a prelude to demonstrate what Travis is capable of.
Travis goes on to shave his hair, which he has already cut short, into a mohawk and wears sunglasses. He is now entirely unrecognisable, standing in the crowd at a Palantine rally. It is quite unclear why he goes after Palantine to begin with, but he is nonetheless noticed by bodyguard and forced to flee. Travis instead turns his hate to a pimp named Sport and his associates, killing them in blood-soaked frenzy which is politicised as an act of heroic justice.
But justified anger isn’t justice, it isn’t righteous.
We, having sat in the passenger seat of his taxi for ninety minutes, know better. Here is the real danger of political violence: it is nearly impossible to not mythologise it. Killers become avatars of grievances and their actions are reduced to headline and ideology. Neither Travis, nor these real killers, can be solely blamed for how they feel: they have been wronged by systems that fail the poor, the lonely, the sick. But justified anger isn’t justice, it isn’t righteous. Revolutions are built on blood, but they leave bodies behind. In moments like these, life moves on, just as it does to Bickle. Travis survives his injuries, goes back to work and reacclimatises to everyday life, but his hatred is still there.
Gun violence remains America’s open wound, and yet we continue to romanticise violent men taking stands. Instead, we should ask how do we reach these people before they pick up a gun? How do we pull them from isolation and hate? Solitude and hateful ideology make a deadly mixture, especially in young men. We can’t erase violence from politics, but we can refuse to glorify it. The far-right will weaponise every killing, and the left risk turning men into martyrs. Both are destructive. The only true counter to violence is sustained, collective action: communities that protest, organise, educate and persist beyond the news cycle.
If Taxi Driver teaches us anything, it’s that isolation breeds extremism, and despair makes it seductive. The solution isn’t silence, it’s connection. Be kinder. Be louder. Challenge hate before it festers. Use your voice against fascism and injustice, but preferably, without killing anyone in the process.