Burt Reynolds made the South rise again, on-screen, not by waving a rebel flag but by waving goodbye to the racist image of the South, lampooning—and all but harpooning—that great white mass of blubber and bluster known as Sheriff Buford T. Justice: a parody in name (see Buford Pusser) and a pointillist portrait in physicality—all belly and no brains—in addition to his mirrored sunglasses and villainous mustache.
If Reynolds was the highwayman-as-hero, a guffawing Bandit behind the wheel of a black Trans-Am, then Jackie Gleason (as Justice) was his antithesis; the Smokey who was forever in hot pursuit, shedding car parts until he was the sum of the remainder of his patrol car—a chassis and a pair of seat cushions, with a broken police light, rendered naked and impotent by the roadside.
It was the finale of a chase that began in Texarkana, Texas, and ended in Atlanta, Georgia.
It ended, appropriately enough, where the New South began: in the “City Too Busy to Hate,” where a King was born and a champion of civil rights was laid to rest; where a state capital was now the capital city of the South; where capital flowed freely and freedom rolled down like a mighty stream; where all races competed for the glory of the gold and raced beside the glow of an Olympic flame.
Burt Reynolds represented the best of the South.
He greeted fans with a grin—and wore a grin when he bared it.
He was witty, fun, and a great storyteller, too.