Road Movie (1973)

          Telling the grim story of two truckers who travel across America with a tough hooker as their passenger, Road Movie epitomizes the New Hollywood aesthetic, even though its level of notoriety is infinitesimal compared to that of similar films by, say, Monte Hellman and Bob Rafelson. As cowritten and directed by the adventurous Joseph Strick, Road Movie is a dark meditation on the circumstances of unfortunate people whose pursuit of independence leads nowhere. There’s a reason the blunt title works—for the characters in Road Movie, life is all about leaving the pain of yesterday behind while chasing the possibilities of tomorrow.

          Road Movie opens by introducing Janice (Regina Baff), a jaded young woman new to the skin trade. Older hookers laugh as she hustles drivers at a truckstop, and she pathetically drops her price in half just to turn a trick. Janice quickly discovers the danger of working the trucker circuit: Since drivers feel invulnerable inside their rigs, many of them abuse Janice as she moves from town to town, one rough ride at a time. Enter Gil (Robert Drivas) and Hank (Barry Bostwick), two young partners trying to make a go of their independent trucking operation. They hire Janice, and then Gil—a cocksure bastard who rants about not wanting to pay union dues, because why should he pay to support other people’s healthcare—slaps Janice around for a thrill while screwing her. Hank has a gentler way about him, but Janice rightly calls him on his choice to align himself with a son of a bitch.

          As Road Movie trundles along, the three have experiences that can’t rightly be called adventures—more like travails. Janice punishes Gil by yanking the power cord on the refrigerator car the boys are hauling, ruining an entire load of meat. And when the guys get into a brawl with other truckers, Janice comes to the rescue by whipping out a straight razor and slashing the guys’ attackers. Gradually, we learn what pushed Janice onto the road, and what compelled Gil and Hank to start their own business. One of the film’s tricky implications is that Janice, the character who endures the most self-inflicted humiliation, might be the only one who sees the world clearly—until she goes completely insane, that is.

          It’s hard to say whether Road Movie “works” in any conventional sense, because it seems Strick was after something more than a morality tale, although Road Movie has that sort of a narrative shape. The picture achieves its greatest impact by presenting specific characters in specific situations as a means of asking difficult questions. What is ambition? What is freedom? What is human connection? Is the portrayal of Janice feminist or misogynistic? Are Gil and Hank antiheroes or merely facets of the same prism as Janice? Is the horrific finale literal or figurative? To some degree, the answers to these questions don’t matter, because sparking the viewer’s imagination is an accomplishment in and of itself.

          Aiding Strick greatly in his peculiar endeavor are the leading performers, each of whom commits to an unsympathetic character. Yet it’s Strick’s seemingly endless directorial curiosity that drives this piece: Frame after frame of Road Movie juxtaposes vignettes about three sad people with disheartening POV shots looking out truck windows at ugly commercialization littering Middle America’s thoroughfares.

Road Movie: GROOVY

Tropic of Cancer (1970)

          Tropic of Cancer is a nasty barrage of sex, scheming, and vulgarity, leavened with a strain of ironic literary observation. However, this combination of elements should come as no surprise given the subject material: Tropic of Cancer is the first feature-length adaptation of notorious American writer Henry Miller’s work. (A Danish film of Miller’s book Quiet Days in Clinchy arrived a few months later, and that novel was also made into a French movie twenty years later.) The sex-crazed Miller’s adventures as an expat living in France also inspired the big-budget 1990 biopic Henry & June—yet while that film was a straightforward narrative infused with tasteful erotica, Tropic of Cancer is a grungy experimental film punctuated by seedy simulated sex. In Tropic of Cancer, nearly every physical encounter has a grim punchline, whether it’s the revelation that one of the partners has VD or a glimpse of one partner stealing money from the other.

          Our guide through these vignettes is Henry Miller (Rip Torn), a perpetually impoverished writer who occasionally takes day jobs doing things like editing copy for an English-language newspaper, but mostly subsists on favors from friends. A hobo without a permanent address, he crashes on couches, takes hotel rooms whenever he has money in his pocket, and persuades fellow Americans to feed him even though he offers virtually no consideration in return. In addition to leeching off everyone he knows, Henry spends every waking moment trying to get laid, indiscriminately sleeping with prostitutes, strangers, and the wives of his friends. Director Joseph Strick presents these events in fragmented little bursts, loosely connected by voiceover featuring Torn reading from Miller’s books. (Unfortunately, most of the voiceover comprises crudely rhapsodic descriptions of female sex organs.) Parisian location photography adds authenticity, although it’s peculiar that Strick shot the picture with modern clothing (circa 1970) instead of matching the 1930s era during which most of Miller’s real-life Gallic exploits took place.

          Muddying the waters further is Torn’s casting and characterization. Constantly unkempt, flashing a devil’s smile full of yellow teeth, and relentless about seeking his own pleasures no matter the cost to others, Torn’s version of Miller is an irredeemable cretin, so it’s hard to know what reaction Strick hoped to elicit: Was the idea to document the extremes of a rare man, or to incarnate Miller’s ideas about the “honesty” one finds in embracing animal instincts? The picture never speaks clearly enough to make a strong statement one way or another, and Strick’s choice to fill the screen with naked women undercuts whatever artistic aspirations might be present—Tropic of Cancer ends up feeling like a pretentious nudie flick. Having said all that, adventurous viewers may wish to probe Tropic of Cancer for hidden virtues. For example, the presence of an uncredited Ellen Burstyn in the movie provides some interest; the future Oscar winner makes a brief appearance, mostly without clothing, as Henry’s quasi-estranged wife.

Tropic of Cancer: FREAKY