Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception since 2006, or earlater

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Death Drivin' America - Part 3: DEATHSPORT, CANNONBALL!


Corman fans like myself are finding--in golden hindsight and reverence for all things 35mm--that many of Roger Corman's New World produced ALIEN / STAR WARS / JAWS-imitations (the one that launched Joe Dante, James Cameron, and Lewis Teague) have held up and improved with age, and even the 'period-period', the post-BONNIE AND CLYDE wave (BLOODY MAMA, BIG BAD MAMA, LADY IN RED, BOXCAR BERTHA, etc) still pack a wry punch. But we do ourselves, not the man, a disservice by forgetting Corman too wrote the original FAST AND THE FURIOUS, launched the biker subgenre with THE WILD ANGELS and helped craft the parameters of the wacky outlaw race movie with DEATH RACE 2000 and EAT MY DUST.

In the best of them, like TEXAS DYNAMITE CHASE, there are sultry glimmers of greatness, and the worst, like SMOKEY BITES THE DUST (1981), there are at least some good crashes. BUT -- remember a few miles back we talked about DEATH RACE 2050 ("the only movie that matters in 2017" - April Wolfe), and talked about how no film could match the original. Well, maybe I missed something - probably not, but there are two movies that explore different aspects of DEATH RACE 2000, a kind of Dougie/Cooper split if you will. Thanks to Shout Factory, whose New World DVD output is one of the great boons to any serious trash collector, we can shuffle back and find out which one has the real juice, if either.

The Paul Bartel-directed 1973 original DEATH RACE hypothesized that in 2000 we'd be living under the thumb of a crazy president (hey!) with a fun old-school (like Roman gladiator) sense of entertainment and population control. In the process all the tenets of 70s life were commented upon: road rage, gas crises, Carter and OPEC; America's big cathartic fuck-you to the next four days of work, Monday Night Football; Detroit demonology, the grease pit grimoire with groovy names like Gran Turino, Corvette, Trans-Am, Mitzy Bishu Gallant, Suzy Bannon the Buick; CB radios (as discussed in the earlier piece on CONVOY)

It's perhaps understandable why one who was a child in that time would return now to the auto wreck bloodsport satire genre as if some rumbling unleaded Rosebud. For our crazy prez, for our crazy country, for the Civil War that turned so cold we grew more Russian the more we tried not to be, and lo! hear the mighty engines roaring for America? Komrade, we need to rev it. Only by blazing fast and furious do we finally not stand stagnant swampish.


CANNONBALL!
(1976) Dir. Paul Bartel
**

There was the drag race juvenile 50s, the biker 60s, and then the New World team jumped lanes and drafted over behind a speeding slew of now semi-forgotten drag racing /moonshiner movies, and cross-country 'rallies,' rooted to actual events, such as the now-forgotten real-life Cannonball Dash, a cross-country race that was set up to protest the 55 mph highway law (set up in 1974) and caught the popular cinematic imagination where it congealed with the once-popular all-star cast ramshackle race-arounds like GUMBALL RALLY, VANISHING POINT and eventually SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT. In all of them, the issue of prize money, a bet, the importance of an honor system and all in the game camaraderie is easier to understand (a gum ball machine, for example, is a relatively worthless prize; a truckload of beer doesn't seem worth risking jail and doing all sorts of public damage, etc.). For $100,000. prize in CANNONBALL!, well, that's real money, and it's just too damn easy to cheat if all you need is an LA parking lot stamp at the NYC finish line.  One canny little guy flies his car in a big jumbo jet across country; others sabotage rival cars (with racers too dumb to watch their vehicle or check under the hood); and so forth.

These things bother me; and the film is choked up with actors too much alike to tell apart with your glasses off, all made even similar-er-er for no real reason. Rather than tweak cliches to archetypal amok wresling-style comic book lunacy, here Bartel just delivers them, flat: A smiling polite black dude (Stanley Bennett Clay) racing some nice Goy couples car to NY for them (we know they're deserving of a smashed caddy because they tell him not to drive at night or faster than 55 mph); Gerrit Graham (PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE's 'Meat') is wasted as a cowboy singer riding with his mobbed-up manager Mr. Redmond, who's hoping this event will boost his profile (how, exactly?) David Carradine is a 'legend' named Cannonball (so original!) whose breaking parole by driving out of California-- one speeding ticket and he's back in jail with the key thrown away!--is the height of folly, the sort of self-sabotage that dirtbags often confuse with bad luck. Luckily for him, his parole officer (Veronica Hamel) is his navigator/lover. But if you remember her from HILL STREET BLUES than it may not be so lucky for you: her character there was far too professional and competent in that show to throw away her career following such a three-strikes idiot, and so though it's nice to see her wipe the floor with a cadre of good old boys (while Cannonball watches from the sidelines), it's sad that she also seems dubbed... from far away. Faring better in our esteem is the great Mary Woronov who pilots a van carrying two horny blondes in the back (Diane Lee Hart, Glynn Rubin) and David's little brother Robert and Brenda Belaski as young newlyweds. They seem genuinely in love, young and sweet (they brought an acoustic guitar) plus the race makes sense in the terms of their character arc (elopement, money, youth, horniness).

In short, ladies, the 'Trans-America Grand Prix Auto Race" is on! Just ignore the obvious nagging questions about logic and practicality (like how gas guzzling town cars are bad at cross country races, running out of gas way more often out in the cornfields at night), the contradictory rules (does Bartel [and his co-writer Don TOP GUN Simpson] even know how races or gambling work?), and the idiocy of "Cannonball", hiss sycophantic copycat (so annoying), and Dick Miller as his bookmaking older brother, who sabotages other fast cars in the race but then, confusingly, seems to be out to sabotage his brother too (did he become someone else's brother in one of Simpson's rewrites?). He needn't bother in any case, for Cannonball is an easy mark. Never thinking to follow his enemies when they walk or crawl past his car on their way out of the parking lot, he's stunned when his jack later turns up missing or his lights don't work or his gas tanks been ice-picked. When he finally falls asleep at the wheel, you're like fuck, I'm rooting for the wrong guy.

I've barely scratched the surface with how purely stupid and incompetent Carradine's Cannonball (the driver) is, I can only presume crafty Bartel was going somewhere with the idea, some black comic joke between the 'lines' done with Simpson... lost in the nasal cavity of time.

If you can ignore all that, well, go for it: the car stunts are amazing (there's also an awesome jump across an unfinished stretch of highway overpass and plenty of wild spin-outs and crashes - all from back in the day they did that shit for real) and there's a plethora of insider cameos: Corman himself is the Los Angeles D.A.; Don Simpson is his assistant DA; Bartel is a shady fey mobster in the then-popular fey mobster vein (the type who play piano while their thugs (here Martin Scorsese and Sly Stallone) kick the shit out of someone (Dick Miller) for not holding up their this or betraying their that. Joe Dante and Allan Arkush are tow-truck drivers who help out Cannonball with a new car (though I wouldn't trust him with my Big Wheel).


That's okay though, we decided we would let that all go, man. Remember? What matters is that the good guys win, even if the good guys aren't always who you think, or something. And there's a great, grim gruesome freeway pile-up so out of step with what came before it chokes off even the most jadedly sardonic of laughter. Despite the whole sexy van thing there's no puerile snickering or silicone (Fred Olen Ray was still too young, thank god), and there's a big charnel house freeway pile-up that's not to be missed. Bloody, savage, out of place, it's like if Burt Reynolds wound up decapitating some old lady in his effort to Yee-Haw over the sheriff's patrol car and the bouncy harmonica just kept a-boinging. The ever reliable Tak Fujimoto does a good job capturing the stonewashed pink of Cannonball's open shirt and the haze of the open road. In short, America.

Even so, Simpson stopped writing and turned to producing after this, smart move. He died in 1996 and Bartel died in 2000, so there you go. Hell, there we all go...

DEATHSPORT
(1978) Dir. Allan Arkush, Nicholas Niciphor
**1/2

A film for the dirt bike-riding 16 year-old arsonist in all of us, DEATHSPORT was meant to be a DEATH RACE 2000 sequel but instead gives us moody crypto-poetry, blazing fireballs, matte paintings of futuristic dystopian cities, and that old LA desert scrub being ground underfoot by tricked-out dirt bikes and hosses. So many dirt bikes blow up in this film it's almost a pyrotechnic's demo reel. The game, like the Statham DEATH RACE remake or THE RUNNING MAN, helps prisoners win freedom via  motor cross / Rollerball / gladiator mash-up, with no sense of humor about its own absurdity. So you get tired of shots wherein a row of three to five tricked-out 'death bikes' whizz past the camera in single file to a 'zzzzzzzap' sound effect (that's just the same effect loop over and over) but I like the guns, which are like big Pringles can mini bazookas that fire huge laser bolts that vaporize opponents; and the thrift-shop dumpster dive approach to the costumes is never short of astounding. The dirt bikes are all tricked up with white paint and shoot lots of fireballs. I'm glad the film never bothers to explain rules. We're too high from huffing rush and snorting evaporated Nyquil. Just blow shit up! Hell yeah, all the teachers and short Italian burnouts who wronged you in middle school can get theirs by flaming proxy. And girls who disobey the sleazy leader get thrown naked into the room of dangling light strips, or zapped on the color filter table of abstract woe. It would be misogynist if it wasn't hilarious. Girls kind of half-heartedly pretending to get mind-probed by red gel lights is always fun. I never understood this habit some movies have of making the pain and fear of a woman so vivid and realistic it leaves you with a traumatic stomach for weeks, it's why I can't stand Noomi Rapace. Corman and company get the way fake violence is cathartic, a release, a transfigurative way of making the unconscious desires and fears visible and absurdist so they lose their power and we can breathe again. So the electro-lightshow shock treatments given to Claudia Jennings don't leave a scar on our psyche but harken the whole mess back a few years to AIP's DUNWICH HORROR (1971) and Hazel Court's initiation scene in MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH (1968). The weird lighting and enigmatic presence of David McLean's 'Lord Zirpola' as the sick spectator / torturer gives these scenes a weird vibe reminiscent of the conditioning scenes in CLOCKWORK ORANGE or the performances in CAFE FLESH. In this future it's hard to tell where the reality and the diegetic performances separate. Even in their weird cells, Carradine and Jennings are on display, the all-seeing eye of Zirpola a combination of paranoid despot and louche peeping tom.


So the evil empire catches two wandering warriors called in this post-whatever-scape, the 'range guides' (because they lead wagon-train-style herds through the wilderness); they bike their way to freedom through the indomitable skills and have some great soul meld sort of spirit sex even separated by a door so badly drippy white-washed you worry Carradine will get white paint on his chest hair. Later on there's bargain mutants with yellow ping-pong-ball-eyes and camouflage-netting dashikis. It all works because the cast is led by three New World champions: David Carradine plays an amalgam of Kane from ABC's 1972-5 KUNG FU series and of course Frankenstein in DEATH RACE 2000 (he must have had a multi-picture contract with New World, like Vincent Price had with AIP); feral playmate Claudia Jennings (similar contract; see THE GREAT TEXAS DYNAMITE CHASE) is a fellow guide and warrior (as in the best Corman stealth-feminism, she's as tough and wise and able as any of the men - and prettier too, without being trashy or even overtly feminine). Real-life burn survivor Richard Lynch (GOD TOLD ME TO) is the bad guy but he's cool because he's not afraid of death and seeks only the field of honor for a final sword fight.


And it's always amazing the way Lynch seems to wind up in films full of fire effects, considering his history (3). In fact, I'm literally in awe of his fearlessness (2). Burn scars cover almost entire body, yet there he is, striding amidst the fireballs like it's no big deal. I'm in awe. I guess, in the words of the Hephaestus-like blacksmith in MOBY DICK, "thou canst not scorch a scar." (1) And great as Jennings and Carradine are at keeping straight faces, Lynch, as the bad guy / master henchman gets all the best lines, purred in a mellow emotionless forceful calm: "You call me animal?" he declares, "after all I tried to do to make you feel at peace?" Whatever his fall from grace, he's openly admirable towards the memory of Carradine's warrior mother (whom he killed in battle), giving Carradine the ultimate warrior greeting: "Salute your mother for me"



Andrew Stein's score provides a great minimalist mess of wind sound, endless 'zap' effects as dirt bikes speed past the camera in single file and sustained notes somewhere between the Bebe's FORBIDDEN PLANET and faux John Carpenter. When he gets down to melodic refrains on keyboard proper, however Stein can get downright terrible. Jerry Garcia even noodles forth, emerging at the darndest times in and around in the mix, and as anyone who ever sat through a Dead Show more than thrice can tell you, depend on Jerry to lead you out of the caves of aimless noodling and you're going to be in there a long while. That said, all encores end at last eventually and at times the Jerry gets damned surreal as does the comically sloppy (or obnoxiously arty -like with Godard, it can be hard to tell the difference) editing.

Some of the writing is interesting with the whole samurai aspect folded into the stilted dialogue like stealing someone else's clean underwear at the laundromat; the narrator stresses the sacredness of combat, noting the range guides "ow(e) allegiance only to their foes," whom are called "statesmen." And that the greeting between range guides is "Our union is limited." In other words it's Groucho's "Hello, I must be going" all over again, but siphoned of all but the deadest deadpan winks. Another keeper, delivered with the solmemnity through which Carradine won the heart chakras of a generation of strip mall karate kids via TV's KUNG FU: "No one can touch myself," oh man, how true. I wanted to write them all down, but they got away from me. I could no more capture their fleeting beauty without that deep-set eye roll couched in Carradine's intonation than a moon capture the dragon fly's wallet.

In case you can't tell, despite my staggering levels of artsy cosmopolitan breeding and literacy, I got mad love for this terrible movie and all the deadpan jokes Carradine, editor Larry Bock, and replacement director Arkush sneak little into the crevasses, like the way Carradine every so often casts a wry glance at the camera, or the non-sequitur editing. I love the way the mutants hide their faces so we don't linger on the awful yellow ping boll eyes and the way camouflage netting that is both their clothes and their mutations (their shame over being mutated covers the shame of the make-up dept). I love how Jenning's unusual fox-like features are complimented by her white fur collar. I'm not a fan of the grating replaying of the same sound effect over and over as the pursuing bikers whizz past the camera in line along the dirt paths, but hey. Our union is limited. Noodle on, Big Jerry. Noodle on.

The Shout DVD includes the fun Bock and Arkush commentary. a kid fresh out of UCLA Nicholas Niciphor, whose THX13 style sci-fi short senior project won enough acclaim to get Corman's attention. Whatever Niciphor was intending with his initial version, it didn't work; he wasn't asked back, and Arkush was called in to direct new footage, with fireballs, nudity and enough action to make the high concept artsy parts less obtuse and stilted, which he did in spades. Perhaps the best in the world at capturing the giddy anarchic spirit of a truly great rock concert on film Arkush pours anarchic pyromaniac anarchy onto the staid sci-fi conceptualism like the Ramones crashing Vince Lombardi High in his ROCK AND ROLL HIGH SCHOOL. (that Arkush's gonzo masterpiece GET CRAZY isn't on DVD is one of the great crimes of the 21st century). DEATHSPORT is like the cool dude who hands you a one-hit of kind bud right right before you go into juvenile court. Maybe you would have been better off without it, your bloodshot eyes won't impress the judge, but on the other hand joke 'em if they can't take a fuck - rock and roll! Pickle Rick! Meep-Morp.

With the scorched featured and measured tone of the fearless fire elemental Richard Lynch, the always lovely and grounded yet gutsy, literally foxy Jennings, the cracking wry fourth wall eye rolling Carradine, the copious fireballs sending tricked-out bikes flying into the air, and the Arkush commentary, you're guaranteed a good time with the Shout DVD,  as long as you don't watch the second feature, BATTLETRUCK, even if it does have Swan (Michael Beck) from THE WARRIORS in the Mad Max role. He's a long way from XANADU...  Aren't we all? Sandahl Bergman played one of the dancing disco muses in XANADU. We couldn't have known then who she'd inspire next... one newly licensed car-driving Cimmerian who can rent XXX movies at the video store, but still needs mom to buy him R-rated movie tickets, because the Somerville Circle Cinema lady is a total bitch. Mom, Salut! 


SEE ALSO
NOTES:
1. Lynch also played a cult leader who encourages his flock to burn themselves up in BAD DREAMS, and an alien hybrid cult leader who burns himself up in a tenement basement in GOD TOLD ME TO. 
2-3. The scarred skin of Lynch's face is real --he poured gas on himself and lit a match while under the influence of too much LSD in the 1960s. I think youtube has some clips of him talking about it.

2 comments:

  1. I saw Cannonball! at a QT Fest about 20 years ago. Tarantino used to bring his personal collections of 35 mm movie prints to the Alamo Drafthouse here in Austin and introduce the movies with personal connections and cinema history. He was really excited to show this movie, giddy about it, and he got everyone else excited to see it. Then, good lord. What a dud! It has every problem you list and more! There is something weird about the idea of a lot of directors getting cameos, but the whole movie just felt like cameos, because no one made an impression as a character. The energy of the crowd was drained out by the end of it, but then he showed the George Hamilton, Sue Lyon Even Knievel movie! That was great! I have yet to see Death Sport all the way through, but I will now!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks Johnny. That Eivel movie was just on 'Movies!' a local non-HD cable channel, but I let it go not realizing Sue Lyon was in it. I now await its return eagerly.

      QT has some weird tastes at times, but god bless 'im for helping move all this old weird stuff out of the basement, so to speak, like one of my late inning favorites: SWITCHBLADE SISTERS.

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