Rolling Thunder (1977)

          Based one of the many violent scripts Paul Schrader penned during his breakthrough period (Heywood Gould rewrote the screenplay), Rolling Thunder concerns Air Force Major Charles Rane (William Devane), a Vietnam vet who returns home to Texas after years in P.O.W. captivity. Numbed by torture, Rane has difficulty reintegrating into normal life, a problem exacerbated by the fact that his son doesn’t remember him and by the fact that his wife, who thought Rane was dead, is now engaged to another man. Thus, when thugs murder Rane’s family and mutilate him, Rane focuses his anger into a bloody revenge mission. Considering that Rane also has a hook for a hand throughout most of the movie, this is awfully pulpy stuff. Had Rolling Thunder been produced by, say, Roger Corman instead of Lawrence Gordon—who was just beginning a long career making smart, big-budget action flicks—the film could have become gruesome and sleazy.

          Instead, Gordon recruited sophisticated collaborators including director John Flynn, cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, and composer Barry DeVorzon, and the team created a thriller of unusual restraint. Rolling Thunder is a character-driven slow burn, because the film spends as much time depicting the hero’s devastated mental state as it does showcasing his lethal force. So, while generating tension is always the priority—witness several bloody brawls, as well as the unforgettable scene in which bad guys jam Rane’s hand into a kitchen-sink garbage disposal—Gordon’s team also makes room for nuance.

          For instance, the visual style that Cronenweth employs, which anticipates the tasty mixture of deep shadows and piercing beams of light that he later brought to Blade Runner (1982), is a strong presence—it’s as if the movie’s characters swim through an ocean of danger and menace. Furthermore, the Gould/Schrader script features terse dialogue exchanges that reflect Rane’s anguished mindset.

          Playing one of his few leading roles in a big theatrical feature, Devane is perfect casting. With his downturned mouth and heavy brow, he looks bitter even when he’s smiling, so once his eyes are hidden behind the aviator glasses he wears in many scenes, he seems believably dangerous; the sight of him in full bloodthirsty flight, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand and a hook in place of the other, is hard to shake.

          Flynn surrounds Devane with equally well-chosen supporting players. Linda Haynes is naturalistic and tough as a waitress who becomes Rane’s travelling companion; reliable figures including Luke Askew, James Best, and Dabney Coleman infuse small roles with texture; and Tommy Lee Jones nearly steals the movie with his icy performance as Rane’s trigger-happy sidekick. In fact, Jones’ chilling delivery of the line “I’m going to kill a bunch of people” epitomizes the film’s clinical aesthetic, just like the priceless scene of Jones enduring inane family-room chatter crystallizes why some vets find it impossible to adjust once they’re “back in the world.” (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

Rolling Thunder: GROOVY

Bless the Beasts & Children (1971)

          Adapted from a 1970 novel by Glendon Swarthout, Bless the Beasts & Children is a weird meditation on adolescent angst, the ostracism of oddballs, and the ugliness of killing animals for pleasure. Despite all of these conflicting elements, Bless the Beasts and Children is highly watchable, though perhaps not for any of the reasons producer-director Stanley Kramer intended. The histrionic performances by the child actors comprising the film’s main cast give the picture a so-bad-it’s-good kitsch factor, the overwrought nature of the plot offers the lurid appeal of sensationalism, and the unearned intensity of Kramer’s storytelling commands attention in a traffic-accident sort of way. Bless the Beasts & Children isn’t a disaster, but it’s an oddly beguiling mess.

          The picture begins at a summer camp in Arizona, where counselors train boys in the ways of the Western frontier. The Bedwetters, occupants of the camp’s lowest-ranked cabin, are traumatized because of a recent field trip to a buffalo ranch. During the field trip, the boys witnessed the shooting-gallery slaughter of excess livestock. Led by high-strung John Cotton (Barry Robins), the Bedwetters flee camp one night, intent on freeing the next group of buffalo marked for death. As the movie follows the kids’ odyssey across the Southwest, Kramer cuts to flashbacks of key episodes from each child’s past, and it all leads up to a ridiculous climax filled with Kramer’s usual sledgehammer moralizing.

          The concept of unruly kids sharing an adventure is appealing, so scenes of the Bedwetters traveling through the desert on stolen horses, or zipping down the open road in a stolen car, are lively. Unfortunately, the characterizations are way too arch (for instance, the effeminate Bedwetter complements his uniform with bleach-blonde hair, a headband, and a shag vest) and the villains are preposterously two-dimensional (every adult is a mouth-breathing ogre). On the bright side, the cinematography by Michael Hugo is bright and muscular, while the music is, to say the least, assertive.

          Composers Barry De Vorzon and Perry Botkin Jr. smother the movie with maudlin strings, and one of their principal motifs was later repurposed for Olympics broadcasts as the famous “Nadia’s Theme,” and then again repurposed as the title music for the long-running soap The Young and the Restless. (Years later, the music became the sample underlying Mary J. Blige’s signature song, “No More Drama”). The musical bludgeoning continues in the movie’s main-title song, performed by the Carpenters. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

Bless the Beasts & Children: FUNKY

The Warriors (1979)

          Existing somewhere between time-capsule kitsch and timeless badassery, Walter Hill’s hypnotic urban-violence fable The Warriors is a wholly unique creation. Set in a fever-dream vision of New York City populated by roving street gangs, brutal policemen, and the occasional innocent bystander, the picture tracks the adventures of a Coney Island-based posse called the Warriors. They join dozens of gangs converging on Manhattan for a rally with messianic underworld leader Cyrus, who envisions the gangs joining forces to take over the city, but nutjob gang-banger Luther (David Patrick Kelly) pops Cyrus and blames the Warriors for the murder. Our heroes then become targets for every gang in the city, allowing Hill to string together scary episodes of the Warriors clashing with colorful troupes like the Baseball Furies, whackos in sports uniforms and face paint who beat the crap out of their enemies with, naturally, baseball bats.
          Loosely based on a novel by Sol Yurick, the plot is ingenious, pushing the heroes through a nightmarish gauntlet—and since Hill and his collaborators don’t expend much energy differentiating characters as individuals, the travails of the Warriors play out like a nihilistic comic book. Michael Beck and James Remar star as two lieutenants jockeying for command of the Warriors; Beck plays a pragmatist who realizes running is the safest option, and Remar’s a hothead who wants to take on every comer.
          Yet it’s the sights and sounds that really command attention. The Warriors look like gladiators wearing just brown leather vests over their torsos, Hill shoots subway trains as if they’re boats racing down rivers, and ghostly nighttime streets feel like dangerous forests. Hill also employs several clever transitional devices, like Lynn Thygpen’s recurring role as a gang-friendly DJ (we only ever see her mouth) who gives running commentary on the action playing out on the streets. Barry DeVorzon’s synth-rock score is perfect, just the right mix of gritty swagger and mechanical menace, and the movie gets capped by Joe Walsh’s evocative tune “In the City,” which DeVorzon and Walsh co-wrote.
          The picture sparked controversy during original release because of reports that gang violence broke out at screenings, but viewed in the safe environs of the home, it’s an engrossing exercise in bloodthirsty style. As Cyrus says before he takes a bullet: “Can you dig it?” (Sidenote: Stick with the original version and avoid the “Ultimate Director’s Cut,” which adds cheaply rendered comic-book flourishes that don’t work.)

The Warriors: GROOVY