"I'm sorry about your son - sorry he was on drugs!" -- Doberman
Walking home from work, fall day, Cheap Trick's "Surrender" came on my iPod and whisked me back to New Grenada, 1979... walking home from Knapp Elementary; "Let's Blow Up the School" was the movie I filmed in my mind; I didn't even need a camera. My own imagining of the carnage ignited a tingle up and down the spine. Eventually, I forgot it, grew out of it, focused my rage on playing war games in the back yard with the kind of realistic (black or grey, not orange) cap guns that are all but illegal now. But the inchoate pyromaniac manic fury of my elementary school years roared up from the depths on that walk home from work: "Surrender." Maybe surrender to the system, maybe to the urge to destroy it. Sure they had conformity then too, but it was out of fashion. Desire for destruction was healthy in the 70s; we kids were allowed freedom enough to see the full extent of our prison. And if we wanted to smash our heads against the bars, mom didn't even make us wear a helmet.
That raw, powerful, dangerous, sexy thrill of running 'loose' seems absent in the kids of today, as gone as the analog hiss of old eight tracks. My hiss is gone too. I'm old, man. So why do the kids today seem even older? Is it the cell phone addiction? Has the virtual so taken over their lives they have no time for actual destruction?
Blowing up the school is not a new idea, of course, and nowadays it gets muddied in terrorism and Columbine. Now it's no longer permissible to even blow up the school in one's mind, let alone in cinema. Only a handful of films have ever acted on this basic childhood fantasy: ROCK AND ROLL HIGH SCHOOL (see: Columbine Queen) and OVER THE EDGE. Both came out in 1979. Coincidence? I was twelve, in 6th grade, wild in the streets... as long as we kept within range of mom's shout for dinner, we could do damn near anything.
None of us knew about either film in 1979 of course, nor did we know that the arrival of the 1980s would signify the end of all our freedom, the arrival of AIDs and paranoia, etc. All references to explosives in schools would become verboten (unless portrayed as odious villainy rather than anarchic rock heroism). HIGH made some drive-ins but we were too young to go to them; EDGE was quietly shelved for being too dangerous. It found its audience later, on VHS and cable. I myself stumbled on it via a TBS afternoon screening while loafing around at my parent's house after college. It was 1991 by then; I was unemployed, alcoholic, bitterly single. At first I thought it was some dumb typical after-school special of the era. By the time it was over I was drunk, crying with joy and triumph --the real me was back!
If we ruined freedom for the kids of today by wasting that freedom on petty vandalism and games of doctor, well, sorry about that, boppers.
The escalation of kid resistance in retaliation to the mindless parental authority crackdown is truly galvanizing. When the lost poetic soul of the film, Claude (Tom Fergus), is busted by Doberman after the kid who sold him the hash rats him out, the reprisal against the rat is the first real shot across the bow, but it leads to Doberman's killing Richie, and from there onward in escalating disaster until even catharsis is pushed too far.
In EDGE we see it all, and we see it all slowly being taken away: cigarette smoking privileges being revoked as a reprisal against school vandalism; Claude thinking he's taking speed to help him with a test but realizing it's actually acid and we in the audience being trusted to know the difference and to be knowingly bemused and sympathetic rather than clueless and appalled (presuming we've all been there, in that Bosch moment); Vincent Spano with his mook sidekick delivering a pre-emptive squealer beat-down; Matt Dillon with his real pistol and preteen rebel smirk.
Free from the urge to bow to parental rule-making hysterics, the kids in this film know the thrill of breaking and entering, the sting of unjust police harassment, the frustration of only sporadically open rec centers; promises of bowling alleys and theaters all yanked away at the first sign of economic instability; first feints at sex that are the result of affection rather than hormonal lust, an affection about to be steamrolled into cookie-cutter post-Porky's exploitation; great rock on the bedroom hi-fi giving way to crisp but strangely soulless synth pop.
Any kid who's ever been hassled by petty cops like Doberman (above) knows the deal. He considers you dangerously strung out on 'narcotics' if he catches you with a sliver of hash. He chases you on a high speed pursuit if you throw a narc-rat-fink kid into the pond ("a kid who tells on another kid is a dead kid"). He doesn't understand the difference between keeping a community safe and declaring war on children. He mistakes protecting citizens with insisting free souls surrender to the same illogical boot heel of anxiety and voter-appeasing restrictions of liberty that have him so cowed and surly, so eager to flex the only power over others he has.
Most of us who grew up harassed by these types of LEOs just get over it and move on. We understand and forgive the hopelessly entangled process by which genuine democracy lurches blindly around the seesaw of freedom /experimentation and remorse/ repression. Kids shouldn't have to understand, or forgive, this surrender. Parents may just seem a little weird, as Cheap Trick sings on the soundtrack, but if they give themselves away, it's just because they know there's no real escape, only symbolic evasion, what the 12-steppers call 'a demographic.'
These kids may be fucked up and angry but they're mainly bored, and who wouldn't be? They aren't archetype cliches cobbled together for an after school lesson about drug abuse, vandalism, guns, and curfew-breaking. They're real. Stuck in the isolated hypocrisy of New Grenada, trapped by the world, by parents and cops and teachers all of whom push and prod in directions handed down by rote, they are awake in a town that's asleep, and the best the town can do is try to control them by making waking up illegal.
This is my generation up there: captured right at the point where the 70s turned to the 80s, the William Macy suicide center of BOOGIE NIGHTS, the dawn of the crackdown on our freedom to live in the moment and create our own tribes, our own interlocking separate society.
But.... we didn't need freedom anymore once had cable and VHS. We stopped talking about movies we had seen or heard about as if fireside gossip, and just rented them. When those abstract shapes on the music cable channel on Claude's bedroom TV are replaced by the 24-hour music video channel MTV (in 1981, two years after this film was made), we no longer needed to sneak out the window and seek a party. Video killed the radio star... and in the process snuffed out any motivation for genuine 'real time' anarchy.
OVER THE EDGE changes the usual math of the parent-kid divide by siding itself with the kids... all the way, and allowing us to exult in the little moments of true rebellion, even if they are ultimately pointless, which is a total reversal of most after school specials: Richie standing on the hood of Doberman's car as he tries to haul off Claude; the retribution against the Leif-y narc; the kids locking the parents in the PTA meeting, etc. --it's all cathartic as hell, but then as the cars in the parking lot erupt in flames and the kids rage Lord of the Flies-like we start to become afraid of ourselves for the primal inner wild child joy of seeing the school--the kid equivalent of a soul-deadening prison-- destroyed. We fantasize about blowing up the school, but when we actually blow it up, we see the ugly core that drives that fantasy. We devolve along the Hawksian axis all the way out of ONLY ANGELS HAVE WINGS and find we've been running amok in the climax of MONKEY BUSINESS with the drugged Cary Grant as the painted savage preparing to roast his rival. By then it's too late to save the baby in the boiling bathwater; the wild chaos of death and anarchy tails childhood idealism like a dogged detective and the reactionary rabble roll over everything like a tide, shedding the old skin of the country as they come ripping through the amber waves like a sloppy surfboard Erica Jong zipper.
Today the juggernaut of parental outrage has slowly been gaining steam anew as it roars forward into the new world of cyber-bullying, teen online suicides, and a million forms of new veiled draconian rubrics, from being ignored to micro-managed with nothing in between. We all knew the catch-22 as kids in the earlier eras-- in order to convince your parents you were really depressed and needed to see a shrink you had to commit suicide successfully.` Similarly coming home traumatized from bullying was just 'adjustment' and ultimately a lesson in learning to stick up for oneself. Now--only now--after this string of suicides--are parents admitting maybe there might be a problem with the way inter-child harassment---extortion (for lunch money), assault, sexual harassment, stalking--is tolerated, or was. So now, metal detectors and routine searches, kids expelled for just pointing a finger and making a gun sound.
Too late. When the cat's out of the bag, only then, do parents outlaw cat-bagging, and by the time the justifiably furious are done smashing things, and the crazed parents done erecting new 'freedom-enhancing' restrictions, it won't even matter which side was wronger. The repressed will be off to erupt in a new dimension, a new location, and the restrictive laws will just hang there like a coastline of empty straitjackets, waiting for the next wave of kids, who shouldn't have to wear them --they didn't do nothing---but you'll make these kids put them on anyway won't you, mom? Just in case. And so good for their posture!
Looking back over THE EDGE now, sober and "serene," it seems that the ultimate factor that destroys New Grenada is the refusal of the parents to admit that the base of their pyramid will probably not widen, and that their kids can't slow their own maturation to suit their parent's stunted growth rate. Nowadays kids grow up big in tiny domes, cracking the roofs on their backs. Maybe I'm jaundiced from growing up free with no roof to worry about. Now I can only watch the film, hear the song, and know that one day, we'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun, Matt Dillon shall move on and create modern indie junkie cinema with Gus Van and Francis Ford Coppola. Motorcycle Boy will live! But we, Mr. Claude, and Mr. Richie, we belong dead. We who have burned so very brightly, but not to last.