Riders of the Storm (1986)

A plane wreck of a film

By 1986, most of America was putting away their rabbit ears and plugging in their cable boxes. While paltry by today’s standards, the an increased number of cable channels carried with them a promise that their might be a channel for everyone. Of course, even today, in our on demand, 500 plus channel future, we still have a hard time finding something to suit our most personal desires. We still feel beholden to our content providers. Wouldn’t it be great if there was someone operating outside the confines of cable, some rebels broadcasting cutting edge programming?

Herein lies the fantasy that is Riders of the Storm, aka The American Way, a braindead satire for the MTV generation. War-fried Vietnam vets circle the skies in an outdated bomber broadcasting pirate television signals, bringing red-blooded American’s just what they want – music videos filled with titillation and powerful imagery.

Payloads full of exposition inform us that the warbirds may land their station in the sky and go legit, that is until a war-hungry Presidential candidate gives them resolve to keep flying. Why the feel a need to bring down this darkhorse, female candidate is just uncertain. The vets and their political motives are both rather under-developed. The filmmakers take more interest in linking the war-mongering, Reaganesque candidate to born-again televanglists. These two villians give writer Scott Roberts and director Maurice Phillips broad targets  to aim their humor at, but sadly they have little of interest to say about these subjects. Instead, what comes out is a stew of jibberish sequences laced together with videos and music. To some degree, I am certain that the references to particular songs and images are meant to further serve as political and cultural commentary, but they feel so ephemeral that everything is awash.

While Dennis Hopper and Michael J. Pollard provide the smallest dose of interest, the rest of the film, from story to execution is painfully scatterbrained and dreadfully hard to get through. When the DVD started to crap out in the final minutes of the film I felt both cheated and relieved. Perhaps in more competent hands this could have reached the level of Americathon or even Repo Man. Instead we get a film channeling Dr. Strangelove, Videodrome, a slew of other, better films, not to mention the television show Night Flight. Even with such great influences the whole film fizzles resulting in a real dud.

I can’t even think of one scene worth saving from this turkey.

Downhill Racer (1969)

Pretty Poster, Pretty Film

I’ll take any mediocre film from the late 60′s or early 70′s over and better than average film from subsequent eras.

This is not to say that Downhill Racer is not mediocre. It simply has its fingers in too many pots and more style than substance. Part character study, part sports film, and part romance, the film often sets aside one aspect to devote itself to another. The picture is wonderfully shot, with a mixture of amazing action photography and graphically minded framing that looks exotic and lush. The entire picture inhabits the world of advertisements plucked right from a Playboy magazine of that era. Soft, warm lighting indoors, rich colors outdoors, the world of Downhill Racer looks like one big advert for European sport cars, hard liquor, and sporty attire. While the images are rich, the film should be championed, most of all, for its restraint, especially in dialogue and sound design.

The narrative to Downhill Racer is nothing new. Yet, it feels weighty, thoughtful, maybe even philosophical. For all its stylistic trappings, Downhill Racer is a pretty shallow, by-the-numbers film, but it does a great job of making you believe it has a lot more to offer. Part of the reason I compare it to old Playboy magazines and why it reminds me of those materials is because both strive to elevate their audience culturally, if only superficially.

I have always admired and questioned the articles and advertisements in dated men’s magazines. Cluing reader’s into the latest works by Mailer or the latest must have jazz albums, these enriching suggestions make the consumer both more cultured as well as more appealing to the opposite sex. Compared to today’s more brazen advertisements, like the Axe body spray commercials, the ads in 60′s and 70′s Playboy magazines promise a higher society to a middle ground consumer, not the other way around. It appears that today we’ve traded the illusion of elegance for in-your-face attitude.

Downhill Racer is the same; a smooth, sleek, and well-tempered film from a bygone era, one that does not seem as bombastic or clamorous as today’s sports films. At the same time, it is more style than substance, but it has enough style to seduce you.

When We Were Kings (1997)

Fighting for better narrative conventions

When We Were Kings is a sloppy documentary. It relies to heavily on the authority of George Plimpton and Norman Mailer to add drama and significance to the Ali / Forman fight. Other times, the film leans heavily on concert footage and musical montages to pad the film. While the original footage, shot in Zaire in 1974 is the most compelling aspect of the picture, the filmmakers stare at Africa with the eyes of tourists.

I recall watching this one in the theaters when it was first released where I was more enamoured with it then I am today. I wish we were allowed to just witness the fight, to hear from those in the footage how important this match was to both men, to Zaire, and to race relations back in the U.S.. Instead, a series of talking heads is constantly popping in to stress these points.

Pink Angels (1971)

Its gay in that eighth grade way

That Pink Angels provoked me to rekindle this dormant journal is about the best thing I can say for this film.

The impetus behind a making a low-budget, drive-in minded, transvestite-biker film is what I find most perplexing. By 1971, biker films were a dime a dozen, but there was no precedent for transvestite films; Rocky Horror Picture Show was 4 years away, To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar was almost a quart of a century away. So, what inspired these filmmakers to make Pink Angels?

A) Did they really think there was a market for this sort of film and that they’d re-coop costs, maybe even make a buck or two?

B) Could this have been a near and dear personal project?

C) Were they expecting to make people laugh?

The answer must be C, but really this is not a funny film. It is a one note joke that feels as beaten to death as a bad Saturday Night Live skit, only here the pain and suffering is dragged out for 80 minutes. The production quality is sub-par and just below that is the script. The film’s ineptitude is about the only laughable aspect of the production. A series of dual plot lines never develop and only collide in the waning minutes of the film. An out-of-left-field ending provides the slimmest of excuses to stick with the picture, but the juvenile jokes one must endure to reach the shocking conclusion are hardly worth the effort.

In better, more competent hands Pink Angels could play as camp. Perhaps, even better hands are not needed. Repeatedly, I thought of Warhol’s filmic endeavours, particularly Lonesome Cowboys, only to wonder if Warhol’s reputation distorts the perception held towards his films.  Larry G. Brown doesn’t have the luxury or the notoriety of Andy Warhol and he’s probably not as daring nor as trashy, but he did go on to direct The Psychopath, a film with a wonderfully twisted premise about a children’s television show host who kills child abuser . I can only hope Larry G. Brown tackles the issue with more sensitivity than he does toward transvestites…or biker gangs, for that matter.