Eternally entrancing firebrand actress Yvette Mimieux scores her best, strongest, most commanding and effective role to date as a smart, classy, fiercely self-sufficient no bulls**t Los Angeles businesswoman who runs afoul of psycho hicks and rapist redneck cops when she goes down South during her cross country trek from California to New York. Poor Yvette has one of those days which justifies the age-old cliché “sometimes it’s better to stay home in bed”: her car is stolen by a creepy backwoods hick nutjob (an intense, jittery Robert Carradine, who’s genuinely frightening in a rare full-blooded sicko fruitcake part), she’s wrongly put in the hoosegow by the local yokel cops after loutish bartender Britt Leach tries to sexually assault her, kills one particularly unpleasant hillbilly fuzzball after he brutally rapes her (the rape scene itself is quite graphic and upsetting), breaks out of jail and subsequently goes on the lam with tough, but tender-hearted career criminal Tommy Lee Jones.
“Jackson County Jail” qualifies as one of those great legendary rarities: it’s a 70’s redneck drive-in exploitation movie that not only delivers the goods and then some, but also the kind of gritty, top-notch, fairly plausible flick that both wholly earns and completely lives up to its killer cult status. Mark Miller’s remarkably artful and assured direction plays a key role in making the film the grind-house classic that it is: the quick, unrelenting pace never let’s up for a minute, the action scenes are rousing and marvelously choreographed, and the solid, pretty complicated and arresting narrative hooks the viewer from the get-go. Moreover, the film’s astute depiction of the relative differences and similarities between cops and criminals is wickedly subversive: The crooks for the most part are loyal, honorable and compassionate folks while a majority of the police are total a**holes. This deliciously amoral masterstroke, a typically twisted piece of 70’s B-movie nihilism which boldly bucks convention, lifts “Jackson County Jail” well above the rut of your standard-issue by-the-numbers formula drive-in fare.
However, that’s not to say that “Jackson County Jail” fails to hit the bull’s eye in other departments; it’s an across-the-board winner in every conceivable way. The uniformly excellent cast alone testifies to this: Severn Darden as a prissy, kindly, quirky sheriff, Howard Hesseman as Yvette’s faithless smarmy husband, Mary Woronov as a butch lesbian outlaw gal, “Revenge of the Cheerleaders” ‘s adorable lead bimbo Patrice Rohmer as Jones’ jealous ex-girlfriend, Cliff Emmich as a loathsome male chauvinist CEO Yvette tells off at the start of the movie, and future “Hill Street Blues” TV series regular Betty Thomas as a saucy, outspoken greasy spoon waitress who tries to fleece Yvette out of ten bucks. Loren Newkirk’s melancholy, harmonica-heavy, nicely down-home country score, the often razor-sharp dialogue (when Yvette tells Jones to be careful when he faces off with the pigs at the film’s thrilling conclusion, Jones responds with this choice fatalistic retort: “I was born dead anyway”), the unsparingly bleak and harsh downbeat nightmarish tone, and especially Bruce Logan’s agile, polished cinematography (the use of hand-held camera for Jones’ climactic face-off with the law really does the stirring trick) are all also highly impressive. Gripping, suspenseful and exciting in comparable measure, “Jackson County Jail” stands tall as a sterling example of 70’s hayseed exploitation cinema at its tense, tantalizing zenith
