It starts with a sink. Just a normal, clean, white pedestal sink. You hear Herman Herrmann’s "I Get Along Without You Very Well (Except Sometimes)" playing—a sweet, jazzy big band tune that feels like it belongs in a grainy 1940s romance. Then a young man walks in. He’s anonymous. He lathers up. He starts to shave.
The Big Shave Scorsese made in 1967 is barely six minutes long, but it sticks in your ribs like a rusted needle. If you’ve seen it, you know the turn. He shaves once. Smooth. He shaves again. Not so smooth. By the time the "whiteness" of the bathroom is splattered with deep, Technicolor red, you realize you aren't watching a student film about hygiene. You’re watching a slow-motion suicide of the American psyche.
Honestly, it’s kinda wild to think this was an NYU student project. Most film students are worried about lighting a bowl of fruit or making a pretentious noir about a breakup. Martin Scorsese, instead, decided to show a man literally peeling his own face off to a jaunty soundtrack. It’s visceral. It’s mean. And it’s arguably the most important short film in American history because it captures a very specific kind of 1960s nervous breakdown.
The Bloodiest Student Film Ever Made
When we talk about The Big Shave Scorsese produced for a "Sight & Sound" production class, we have to talk about the color. This isn't the gritty, brownish-grey realism of Taxi Driver. It’s bright. It’s pop-art. Scorsese and his cinematographer, Arik Barenholz, used Agfacolor stock to make the red look like house paint. It’s thick.
The protagonist, played by Peter Bernuth, doesn't scream. That’s the kicker. He just keeps going. He drags the razor over his jawline over and over until the sink is a swamp of gore. There’s no narrative reason given for why he’s doing it. He just... is. This lack of explanation is exactly why the film works. If he were crying, it would be a melodrama. Because he’s stoic, it’s a horror movie. It’s also a deeply personal reflection of Scorsese’s own headspace at the time. He was dealing with a failing marriage and a looming sense of dread about the world. He basically took his internal panic and poured it into a bathroom sink.
Is It Really About Vietnam?
For decades, critics have labeled this a "Vietnam protest film." The alternate title, Viet '67, makes that connection pretty hard to ignore. But it’s more nuanced than just "war is bad."
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Think about the juxtaposition. You have the "Great American Morning" routine—the clean-shaven youth, the sterile bathroom, the nostalgic music—being utterly decimated from the inside out. It’s a metaphor for a country that looked perfect on a postcard but was tearing its own flesh off in a jungle halfway across the world. The man in the film isn't being attacked by an outside force. He is the one holding the razor. He is the one choosing to bleed.
- The music represents the "Old America," the era of his parents.
- The razor represents the systemic, repetitive violence of the present.
- The blood is the reality that can no longer be hidden by soap bubbles.
Scorsese didn't need to show soldiers or helicopters. He just showed a guy in a bathroom. Sometimes, the most effective way to talk about a massive global tragedy is to shrink it down to a six-minute routine. It’s about the self-destruction of the "innocent" American male.
How This Short Predicted Scorsese’s Entire Career
If you look closely at The Big Shave Scorsese serves as a blueprint for everything that came later. You can see the DNA of Travis Bickle here. You can see the religious obsession with blood and penance that defines The Last Temptation of Christ.
Scorsese has always been obsessed with the idea of "the ritual." In Goodfellas, it’s the ritual of making sauce or folding money. In The Big Shave, it’s the ritual of the morning groom. He takes something mundane and turns it into a religious experience—even if that experience is a bloody one.
The pacing is also pure Scorsese. It starts slow, almost hypnotic. The cuts are precise. Then, the rhythm changes. It gets more frantic, more claustrophobic. By the end, the camera is tight on the wounds. It forces you to look. He’s been doing that to us for sixty years now. He refuses to let the audience look away from the "messy" parts of humanity.
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Why It Still Works
Most student films from 1967 look like relics. They’re dated by their clothes or their clunky dialogue. But because The Big Shave Scorsese opted for a minimalist, almost timeless aesthetic, it hasn't aged a day. That white tile could be in an apartment in 2026. The razor could be on your counter right now.
There’s a legendary story about the first time it was screened. Apparently, the audience was horrified. People didn't know whether to laugh or vomit. That’s the sweet spot Scorsese has lived in his entire professional life. He wants to provoke a physical reaction. If you aren't uncomfortable, he hasn't done his job.
What You Can Learn from The Big Shave
If you’re a creator, or just someone who loves film, there’s a lot to take away from this tiny masterpiece. It proves that you don't need a massive budget to make a statement. You don't even need a script. You just need a strong visual metaphor and the guts to follow it to its logical, bloody end.
- Simplicity is King. One room. One actor. One action. That’s all it took to create a classic.
- Sound Design Matters. The contrast between the upbeat music and the grim visuals is what creates the "uncanny" feeling. Without that song, it’s just a gore fest. With the song, it’s art.
- Don't Over-Explain. Scorsese never tells you why the man is shaving his skin off. He lets you decide. Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s a soldier with PTSD. Maybe he just messed up and couldn't stop. The mystery is the hook.
To really appreciate The Big Shave Scorsese, you have to watch it on a big screen—or at least a high-def monitor. Pay attention to the way the water swirls in the sink. Watch how the lather disappears. It’s a masterclass in textures.
It’s easy to forget that before the Oscars and the three-hour epics, there was just a guy with a camera and a very dark idea in a bathroom. That’s where the magic started.
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If you want to understand the evolution of modern cinema, you have to look at the blood in that sink. It’s not just corn syrup and red dye; it’s the beginning of a cinematic revolution.
Next Steps for Film Enthusiasts:
Watch the film again, but this time, mute the audio. You’ll notice how much of the "horror" is actually coming from the music. Then, watch it a third time and look only at the background. Notice how the lighting shifts from cool to warm as the blood begins to dominate the frame.
After that, seek out Scorsese’s other early short, It's Not Just You, Murray!. It’s the polar opposite of The Big Shave—fast-talking, funny, and loud—but it shows the other side of the coin that would eventually become the "Scorsese Style." Understanding these early experiments is the only way to truly "get" the man behind the legends.