Reeling Backward: "The Driver" (1978)

The late 1970s was an interesting time for American cars, and movies.

The 1974 oil embargo, plus new pollution standards, hit the automotive industry like a bag of bricks. Literally within a year or two, big-block engines had almost entirely disappeared from American show rooms, replaced by smaller, more efficient and often bag-over-head-ugly styles. But by 1978 or so, though, Pontiac Firebird and a few other models dared to become loud and large again.

The result was a rolling smorgasbord of modernism and throwback, muscle cars and horsepower pipsqueaks, flashy and forgettable, all occupying the same road.

Watching a movie like "The Driver," you see everything from early-1960s Cadillacs and other aging midcentury land yachts to pre-embargo beasts and newer econo-boxes.

The local movie theater was much the same. The blockbuster era was just launching, but you still had auteurs making small personal films and the burgeoning influence of foreign cinema on American movies.

"The Driver" was Walter Hill's second film as a director after the success of "Hard Times," a boxing movie with Charles Bronson. He adopted a similar spare style for this one starring Ryan O'Neal as a professional getaway driver. I admired it, but it goes too far in its taciturn tone, with its protagonist crossing over from cool reserve to seeming disinterest.

"Less is more" is mantra in Hollywood, but this film could've used a little less less.

One of Hill's conceits is that nobody in the movie even gets a name. O'Neal is simply "the Driver," while Bruce Dern as the rule-bending cop obsessed with busting him is simply "the Detective." This makes for some odd-sounding dialogue, with Dern referring to his quarry as "driver" or "cowboy."

Similarly, the card-playing quasi-hooker -- she lets a rich guy bankroll her lifestyle in exchange for occasional sex -- played by French star Isabelle Adjani in her American debut is simply "the Player." A secondary villain, a gun-happy robber (Joseph Walsh) wearing gaudy octagonal eye-wear is "Glasses"; the woman (Ronee Blakely) who sets up jobs for the driver is "the Connection"; a toothy antagonist (Rudy Ramos) is "Teeth;" and so on.

It's a microcosm of the film's major flaw of withholding too much. If you decline to name the main character, it makes him more mysterious. If nobody has a name, everybody talks like an idiot.

But the film has many admirable aspects, and you can see the stylistic flourishes that Hill would go on to display in "The Warriors," "The Long Riders," "48 Hours" and other movies. North of age 70, he's still active today as a producer and writer, and is attached to direct a thriller due next year.

This movie marked the beginning of the end of Ryan O'Neal's brief, hot career as a leading man. The same year would see the (wisely) forgotten sequel to "Love Story," followed by a romantic comedy with Barbra Streisand, a sci-fi disaster, and oblivion.

He was dismissed as being too pretty (and blond, a perpetual problem in Hollywood), arrogant and unreliable. I think it was more the classic case of writers and directors not knowing what to do with an actor of considerable skill but narrow range. As the passive, nearly wordless Driver, O'Neal just wanders around looking glum.

(I kept wondering: what if O'Neal and Dern had switched roles?)

Driver passes on jobs that involve a high risk of violence -- "I don't like shooters" is all he'll say -- and refuses to work with anyone who's even a minute late. Yet he's adept at guns and fists when called upon, and seems to operate by his own schedule and rules. The driver is a ronin, a masterless samurai who gives his ultimate fealty to his craft.

(The influences on the 2011 film "Drive" seem pretty obvious, right down to evoking the same era.)

At various times Driver pilots a Trans Am, a Ford big-block sedan, a first-generation Mustang pony car, a hot-rodded 1973 Chevy truck and a late model Mercedes-Benz -- the latter of which he completely trashes during a contemptuous "tryout" for Glasses' gang.

The driving stunts were reasonably impressive for a low-budget film in 1978, though they're a bit dated now. Turns, burnouts, controlled crashes, driving into oncoming traffic, etc. A whole lot of "extras" cars going 25 m.p.h. so the lead cars look fast doing 55. Compared to the jumps and flips in the previous year's "Smokey and the Bandit," it was fairly tame stuff.

The plot is spare as can be: Detective has been chasing Driver for some time now, but can't catch him in the act. He puts the pressure on Glasses to stage a bank robbery of $200,000 with Driver so they can pop him at the meetup. Of course, things don't go so smoothly.

It winds up as a game of chicken, with both the cop and the criminal aware of the setup, but still insisting on playing the game for its own sake.

Adjani is pretty well wasted in the movie, never showing any kind of expression even as she becomes romantically involved with Driver. (We assume; their coupling is only alluded to.) She was not happy with the resulting film, and complained that it stymied her chance to cross over into mainstream Hollywood.

Dern is obviously having a lot of fun, flashing that famous horsey smile and using his wiles to intimidate and needle everyone he encounters, including a by-the-book cop (Matt Clark) who objects to the risks he takes.

Detective's verbosity lies in obvious contrast to Driver's near silence: One's a talker, one's a doer.

The ending is funny and fitting for a heist flick, as the cop trying to con the con man finds himself out of his depth. After a long chase involving a bait-and-switch of the bank money, Detective corners Driver in a bus station with the bag of loot. He opens it to reveal the exchange man (dirty money for clean) robbed them both -- leaving Driver with an alibi and Detective with a career-ending mistake.

He offers Driver the empty satchel, but is refused, then tries to give it to the other cops, and finally just drops it on the floor on his walk of shame out of the station.

It's a wry, dry joke: You don't want to be the one left holding the bag.

Reeling Backward: "The Warriors" (1979)

I'd been meaning to see "The Warriors" for a long time. A modest hit with audiences but not critics in 1979, its footprint has grown as it has taken on a reputation that's somewhere beyond cult film status and less than cultural touchstone. If you're a Generation X male, this movie probably means something to you. If you're older or younger than that, or lack a Y chromosome, not so much.

"The Warriors" exists in a quavery dimension between silliness and sobriety that is largely impenetrable. Generally movies with a heightened reality take pains to let the audience see the smirk at the corner of their mouth to let the audience know that despite the brutality they're witnessing, it's not really meant to be taken seriously. Director Walter Hill, who also co-wrote the screenplay with David Shaber, does not tip his hand with any lighter moments to break the mood.

The story has both pulp and classic literary antecedents. It was based on the novel by Sol Yurick, who in turn created a modern-day version of "Anabasis," the most famous work of the soldier Xenophon. It involves an army of Greek mercenaries who find themselves trapped deep in the Persian Empire surrounded by enemies on all sides, and must fight their way out. In Yurick's vision, the soldiers are members of New York City gangs in a dystopian near-future where society is fraying around the edges.

Hill, though, approaches the material with a comic book mindset -- even separating the story into "chapters" with cut scenes that freeze-frame and transition to illustrated panels.

Then there are the various gangs, which are more like tribes mixed with theatrical troupes. All of them wear their uniforms or "colors," which range from the plain to the outlandish. There's a group who dresses like 1920s dandy boys in neon sparkles, brightly-hued clowns, thuggish skinheads and more. Each gang is not so much a military force squabbling over small sections of turf in New York's seven boroughs as an ethos that is constantly performed for an audience that consists mostly of each other.

In this we can see various cinematic ancestors. There are the Sharks and the Jets in "West Side Story," of course. What is their antagonism based on? The fact that they're in different gangs. I also think of the roving gangs of the Australian wasteland in "Mad Max," which came out the same year as "The Warriors."

But I believe the film that most heavily influences this one is "A Clockwork Orange." There the "droogs" dressed in outlandish mash-ups of fashion and eras of time, mixing 17th century codpieces with Prohibition bowler hats -- not to mention grown men wearing makeup. They are supposed to look ridiculous, but the fact that they're heartless killers makes their outlandish gear even more disturbing.

The Warriors, the gang that controls Coney Island, has an American Indian flavor, favoring buckskin vests over bare chests and even feathers and jewelry for some members. They are notable in that they appear to be the only one of 100 gangs invited to a big meeting in the Bronx who are racially mixed. Most of the others are split between white, black and Hispanic -- such as the Gramercy Riffs, a militant Black Panther-esque outfit that happens to be the most powerful gang in New York.

Cyrus, the leader of the Riffs, has called the meeting in an attempt to meld all the city gangs into one coherent force that will overwhelm the police and take over New York. He's assassinated by Luther (David Patrick Kelly), the head of the Rogues, who tool around in a 1956 Cadillac hearse and delight in causing trouble for its own sake.

The Warriors are fingered for the outrage, and so they must make their way back to the sea with every other gang howling for their blood. A largely unseen radio DJ keeps the "boppers" apprised of the progress.

Two scenes from the film have become certifiably iconic. One is Luther taunting the Warriors, clanging together beer bottles stuck on his fingers while playfully singing, "Warriors ... come out to plaaaaaaayyyyyy!!" It's emblematic of the entire movie -- a childish gesture intended as a chilling moment of deadly intimidation that plays out as a goof.

The other is a fight in a park between the Warriors and the Baseball Furies -- a gang that dresses in Yankees pinstripes with garish face paint. They carry baseball bats as weapons, and their leader whips his around like a master samurai in a Kurosawa epic. The scene is likewise a total guffaw, meant to be frightening but instead quite schlocky.

Other notable gangs that turn up to harry the Warriors include the Orphans -- low-level tramps who are infuriated at not having been deemed important enough to be invited to the conclave -- and the Lizzies (think "Lezzes"), tough girl gangsters who act as sirens to entice a trio of the warriors away from their quest, and then nearly kill them.

The Warriors themselves are more character archetypes than distinct individuals. Their leader, Cleon (Dorsey Wright), is killed by the Riffs as misdirected vengeance for Cyrus, leaving the stoic -- nearly mute, in fact -- war chief Swan (Michael Beck) in charge. He's challenged by hothead Ajax (James Remar), who quickly grows sick of all the running and simply wants to fight everyone, no matter what the odds.

Cochise (David Harris) straddles the thin line of hostility between the two would-be leaders. Rembrandt (Marcelino Sanchez) is the youngest Warrior, almost angelic, who marks their passing with spray cans. Cowboy (Tom McKitterick) wears a hat and Vermin (Terry Michos) is a lothario with a hairy chest.

It's interesting how lean and un-pumped the bodies of the Warriors are compared to the overmuscled Stallones and Schwarzeneggers of the following decade. It's also notable that most of the principle cast members were about 30 when the movie was made, though the undertone of spent youth would seem to indicate teenagers.

Movies of this ilk often have a totally extraneous and unnecessary female character, and here her name is Mercy (Deborah Van Valkenburgh). Women, including the Lizzies, are treated by the gangs as fungible commodities, to be bartered and won through combat. Indeed, the Lizzies entice Vermin, Cochise and Rembrandt by essentially offering themselves as sexual prizes to the Warriors to reward their prowess.

When we first meet her, Mercy is more or less the sex mascot of the Orphans. Immediately sensing that Swan and his gang represent a trade up, she abandons her old crew and tags along. It's never explained why she's there and why the Warriors tolerate her presence, since she's got a mouth on her. Swan or somebody is perpetually grabbing Mercy's arm, pulling her this way or that, demanding she stop slowing them down -- why, exactly, don't they just dump her?

The unreality of the Warriors' situation continually undercuts our ability to get caught up in their great adventure. For example, the Warriors are completely reliant on the subway system to get around -- virtually all of their battles take place inside a station or on their way toward one. It's amusing that these all-powerful gangs are considering a move to take over the entire city, yet they are almost entirely reliant on public transportation to get from here to there.

The Rogues seem to be the only gang that possesses both a gun and a vehicle. (The skinheads are the only others with mechanized transportation, piling onto a dilapidated dump truck.) Luther's use of a pistol is depicted as a dishonorable thing, a violation of the warrior (small "w") code that implies hand-to-hand fighting is the purest expression of combat. The Lizzies also have a gun, but it's not the same since, y'know, they're just girls.

2.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "The Long Riders" (1980)

I had always taken "The Long Riders" to be an overstuffed bit of Hollywood hooey, a sensationalized account of outlaw Jesse James and his gang that, in terms of historical fidelity, landed just this side of "Young Guns."

Turns out it's actually truer to the facts than most Western tales of its ilk.

It certainly has a gimmicky feel, what with the unprecedented in Hollywood history casting of three sets of real-life brothers to play siblings and members of the James-Younger Gang -- the Keaches (James and Stacy) as the Jameses, the Carradines (David, Keith and Robert) as the Youngers and the Quaids (Randy and Dennis) as the Millers.

Actually, four: Christopher Guest and Nicholas Guest have small turns (basically three scenes) as Charlie and Bob Ford, wannabe members of the gang who eventually were allowed by Jesse to join -- after everyone else had quit, been killed or imprisoned.

The Fords, of course, were the ones who betrayed and murdered Jesse James, with Bob shooting him in the back of the head while James was unarmed and had his back turned. This scene is depicted in "The Long Riders" in a curiously flat way, with little visceral impact. It feels more like a tacked-on coda than an essential part of the story.

Narratively, the film seems smaller than its story. At a mere 99 minutes, the movie has to cover a lot of plot spread out over a number of years, with various members of the gangs romancing and marrying women in between robbing banks and trains. Each romantic relationship is essentially given one or two scenes in a fleeting attempt to lend them weight.

The only pairing of any impact is between Cole Younger (David Carradine), who puts on an air of studied nonchalance, and Belle (Pamela Reed), a worldly prostitute who wants him to make an honest woman of her. He's content to let them have their fun whenever their paths cross, and have nothing tying him down. He tells Belle he loves her specifically because she's a whore.

In one of the film's most memorable scenes, she marries a half-Indian named Sam Starr and forces the men to fight over her with cruel-looking oversized knives. Cole wins the duel but abandons Belle in disgust at having to prove himself to her.

This story thread is notable in that, as near as I can determine, it is the only part of "The Long Riders" that is a pure Hollywood concoction. Despite its highly stylized texture, the movie is actually pretty faithful to the  historical facts.

I should amend that to say it is faithful to the general narrative of recorded history, though it alters or muddies some details. For example, an 18-year-old brother of the Youngers, John, is killed in a chance meeting with some agents, and it's depicted as a terrible crime because Jim (Keith Carradine) asserts that his kid brother never rode with the gang or committed any crime. In fact, John did do some robbing with them.

Similarly, the battle with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, which has been hired to track them down, escalates to tragic heights when the lawmen throw a smoke bomb into the Younger matron's house and it explodes, killing their 15-year-old half-brother. The boy was killed, but he was really only nine years old. Not depicted is that the Youngers' mother was also injured in the attack and had to have her arm amputated.

In that age, I would think that chivalrous Southern gentlemen (at least in their minds) would be more riled about their mother being attacked and maimed than anything else. These changes actually serve to make the assault seem less outrageous than it really was.

Stacy and James Keach made this film as a labor of love, producing and co-writing the screenplay along with Bill Bryden and Steven Smith. James has an intriguing take on Jesse James, playing him as a preternaturally serene leader who sees himself as smarter and more important than the members of his gang.

James Keach later segued away from acting and turned more to directing and producing. Johnny Cash and his wife June were so taken with "The Long Riders" that they befriended Keach, and asked him to produce their biopic "Walk the Line."

I hadn't seen "The Long Riders" in at least 20 years. Despite the film's storytelling flaws, I found myself still admiring it on several levels.

The performances throughout have a terse, organic authenticity -- we never feel like the actors are trying to impersonate a historical identity, but use it as a springboard to draw their own characters. For example, I enjoyed the simmering tension that exists between the Jameses and Youngers, erupting at the worst of times.

"The Jameses ride with the Youngers," one of the latter insists, annoyed by references to the Youngers being part of the Jesse James outfit.

There's also a nice quiet scene aboard a train -- for once, they are traveling inside as passengers rather than riding up on horses outside to rob it -- where Cole confides to Frank that he hopes one day to write a book about his memoirs. Frank scoffs at this idea. This is a nod to Cole's actual later life, where he spent more than 20 years in prison and started a respected newspaper for the inmates. He eventually won parole and spent his final days starring in a wild west show with Frank.

The James-Younger Gang effectively met its end with an ill-advised raid on a bank on Northfield, Minn. Why the former Civil War bushwackers, who confined nearly all their felonious activity to Missouri and surrounding states, decided to travel hundreds of miles north to knock over a bank is unclear.

Things go awry -- the film implies the townsfolk knew they were coming and set a trap for them -- and the outlaws are caught in the street and torn to pieces. Though none of the Jameses or Youngers are actually killed in the conflict, their wounds are missive. I vividly remember Keith Carrradine getting shot through the face, a bullet going in one cheek and exploding out the other. Cole famously was shot 11 times, which the prison doctor dubs a record, but one of dubious distinction.

The town of Northfield still celebrates the bloody event with an annual reenactment -- much the same way my former home of Ocklawaha, Fla., reenacts the Ma Barker shootout every year.

I think three things make "The Long Riders" a noteworthy film, or rather three people: director Walter Hill, cinematographer Ric Waite and composer Ry Cooder.

Hill's staging of the violence has a horrifying sort of loveliness. He often resorts to fetishistic slo-mo to capture the impact of bullets ripping through the characters' flesh, or bodies hurtling through the air after impact. The excellent action scenes are aided by Waite's elegiac camera work, which juxtaposes moments of cringe-inducing violence with poetic compositions.

Both filmmakers seem enraptured by the long gray duster coats the gang always wear. This, along with their lack of masks and penchant for calling each other by their real names, often and loudly, makes one wonder why it took the Pinkertons so long to find them.

Cooder's old-timey musical score, mixed with actual songs from the era performed at weddings and saloons, is positively a delight to listen to. It's more at the forefront than most music in movies.

"The Long Riders" is more or less a forgotten Western, made during the artistic valley of the genre between 1969 and 1991, when "Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid" and "The Wild Bunch" made the format seem anachronistic, and Clint Eastwood breathed it back to life with "Unforgiven."

Though hardly deserving to be counted among those films' numbers, it's certainly more memorable than its non-existent reputation suggests.

3 stars out of four