Streets of Fire (Walter Hill, 1984)

Starting your movie by flashing the words, A Rock & Roll Fable" on the screen and ending with the epic bombast of "Tonight Is What It Means To Be Young" are just two of the many attention-getting touches that elevate Streets of Fire (Walter Hill's phenomenal ode to music and machismo) beyond the realm of store-bought vapidity. Played extremely straight at times, this potentially hokey tale about a trench coat-wearing tough guy who fights for love and money has just the right amount of sincerity to it, that it avoids being a parody at every turn. Filled with neon signs, rain soaked girders, forthright loners and lots of leather, the world Mr. Hill is wallowing in is sort of similar to the one he orchestrated in The Warriors in that there's a kind of dreamlike unreality permeating the proceedings. However, the raucous period piece, that takes place during a nonspecific mishmash of the 1950s and the 1980s, is quite different. For starters, the gang in this film is just one guy. Sure, he employs others to complete the task at hand, but the way he man handled those Roadmaster wimps proves that he doesn't need help from anyone, as it was a thing of ass kicking beauty. (I would wager that at least two of those chumps died of embarrassment during their long slunks home.) And secondly, the soundtrack makes its presence felt from start to finish. From the boisterous crowd pleasers that bookend the film to sweaty biker rock of the Torchy's sequence, the music drives the simplistic narrative hard and fast in the general direction of its righteous conclusion.

The disaffected Tom Cody (Michael Paré) is called upon to retrieve Ellen Aim (Diane Lane), his rock star ex-girlfriend, at the request of his wide-eyed sister Reva (Deborah Van Valkenburgh) after she is kidnapped by Raven (Willem Dafoe), the leader of the Blasters Bombers, a gang of unruly motorcycle enthusiasts. Even though he's proven that he can handle himself in almost any situation, Tom brings along Billy Fish (Rick Moranis), Ellen's manager, who knows the neighbourhood, and the equally disaffected McCoy (Amy Manigan) as backup.

On top of being fraught with danger (the bikers are renowned for their unpleasantness), their rescue mission will include run ins with The Sorels (a singing group lead by Stoney Jackson), police roadblocks, and adorable groupies (E.G. Daily plays a hanger-on named Baby Doll). Of course, none of the people I just mentioned get along with one another, which leads lots of bickering, humourous put-downs and male posturing.

A colossal slab of uninhibited manliness, Michael Paré's Tom Cody ("Pleased to meet you") is one of the most straightforward, no-nonsense anti-heroes in cinematic history. My pussy seemed to get wetter than a Cambodian toilet every time he would annoyingly turn around to utter uncomplicated verbiage at someone who dared to interrupt his rigorous brooding regiment. In other words, his tough guy act is the stuff erotic dreams are made of. I mean, to be rescued by such an unabashedly masculine figure must have been tantamount to titillation torture to those who saw it during their developmental stage.

Viewed from an expandable penis point of view, the exuberant dancing of Marine Jahan at Torchy's was the definite highlight from a heterosexual male angle. Actually, I think almost everyone, no matter what the shape of your equipment, can appreciate what Miss Jahan brought to Streets of Fire, as the wildly physical dancer swayed and thrust the air like a deranged humping machine.

The sheer villainy of Willem Dafoe as Raven was a menacing tour de force. (Mmmm, leather overalls... and the prerequisite back acne that comes with them.) And the fight between Tom Cody and Raven with those axe/hammer things was topnotch in terms of brute strength and unflashy swinging. The weapon itself was rather frightening. I wouldn't want to be struck by it that's for sure.

To be honest, I don't exactly know what perverted subgroup this particular section is geared towards. But I know for a fact that people who have a rational proclivity for women in fingerless gloves will go nuts for the amount of fingerless-ness that goes on in this flick. This tight-knit cabal who love it when fingers poke through gloves that are purposely missing the material of the glove where the fingers normally go will get to see Diane Lane, Marine Jahan and E.G. Daily all appear in a state of being completely fingerless at one time or another.

All bring the digit-based sexy, but if I had to give the sexy edge to someone, it would have to be Miss Lane. The way the light hit her fingers as she mouthed the words to "Nowhere Fast" in those long leather babies was quite the ethereal sight.

I think that covers everything. Let me see: Michael Paré creates the kind of moisture that your house plants have no use for, Willem Dafoe is an asshole, but looked cool in shiny overalls, Marine Jahan proves that you don't need long hair and large chest melons to be sexy. Fingerless gloves. What else? Oh yeah, I thought E.G. Daily's character could have been fleshed out a bit more. But then again, her Baby Doll technically should have kicked to the curb the moment Rick Moranis told her to scram. And you know what they say, a little E.G. is better than no E.G.

...

The Warriors (Walter Hill, 1979)

A manly chill washes over me every time the iridescent grandeur of the Wonder Wheel, a Ferris wheel in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn, New York, appears onscreen in the first scene of The Warriors, Walter Hill's gritty tribute to urban mayhem and vest-wearing togetherness. There's a chill because I know I'm guaranteed for one sweet night of head busting and reluctant romance. The no-nonsense film grabs you from the get-go, introducing us to a virile plethora of street gangs as they're getting on the subway (public transit was one of the few affordable forms of gangster chic back in the '70s). The outfits of the gangs ranged from menacing (I'd cross the street if I saw the guys in camouflage coming my way) to the ridiculous (what were those mime motherfuckers thinking?). But the way the sequence was put together never fails in getting me jazzed for some unlawful, yet playful acts of physical violence. I mean, it just crackles with an energy that gets the audience pumped for the big rally up in the Bronx. The gangs (nine members each) are going up there to listen to a charismatic prophet named Cyrus (Roger Hill) speak about geopolitics and ask the surly throng if they can "dig it." Since we can't follow the adventures of every gang in attendance (I would have loved to have hitched a ride with those suave dandies in the purple sequined vests), we end up leeching onto The Warriors, an interracial gang from Coney Island whose look has a bit of a Native American vibe (leather vests, feathers, etc.) Now, I always wondered why The Warriors were hesitant to go to the rally, but I now realize that it must have had something to do with the immense distance between Coney and the Bronx. I know I wouldn't want go all that way (without weapons) just hear some messianic hoodlum give a speech. Anyway, there's a bit snafu at the rally, and before anyone can yell "He shot Cyrus!" the feisty boys from the place where Nathan sells hot dogs find themselves being hunted by every gang in the city. Each itching to waste their denim-covered asses.

The fun of The Warriors, for me, anyway, has always been the disjointed comradery between the respective gang members. These guys technically have no business being together (their distinct personalities always seem to be at odds with one another), but its this friction that makes their journey so compelling. It is also the reason I find myself rooting for them to kick the snot out of the other gangs. You see, normally I would root for the rival gangs to win (I'm a dick that way).

However, since the Warriors are so darn appealing, you know, with their cocksure bragging and rakish running technique, that I couldn't help but smirk when they lay a severe beat-down on the face-painting goofballs of the Baseball Furies, the second coolest, yet most strategically incompetent gang in the movie. (They all had baseball bats!)

It should be said, though, The Orphans, a lower-level outfit in green t-shirts, had a super-lame strategy as well. Sure, the Molotov cocktail was kinda unexpected, but come on guys, you had them outnumbered by, like, a lot. Oh, and I've always had a soft spot for Paul Greco's leader of The Orphans. Perfectly encapsulating the scourge that is male pride, the ease in which this squirrelly fella was manipulated pretty much summed up everything that is wrong with the world.

Stoic to the point of catatonia, Michael Beck (Xanadu) is the righteous glue that holds this tough potpourri together. Playing Swan, the take charge leader (war chief) of The Warriors, Mr. Beck oozes a restrained form of defiance. I liked the way he chose his battles in the film. You see, his main rival Ajax (a headstrong James Remar) would constantly disagree with his decisions ("I'm sick of this running crap"), but the choice to fight or run should always be considered carefully, and Swan made the right choice almost every time. The rest of the actors in Swan and Ajax' gang were varied in their memorableness. However, it was the demented work of David Patrick Kelly as the leader of the Rogues that caused me to high-five my inner psychopath. Every strange mannerism and enunciated word he uttered was rife with originality.

Even though she is called all sorts of unpleasant names (especially the one that rhymes with chore), I thought Deborah Van Valkenburgh (Streets of Fire) was enchanting as Mercy, a gutsy chick The Warriors hook up with during their southbound adventure. Sheathed a slightly purplish getup that was alluring (but not too showy), Deborah is awash with grit and sex appeal. So much so, that she somehow managed to unfurl the sleepy contents of Swan's impassive crotch. It must have been Deborah's beautiful mouth that awoke his slumbering cock, because it is one helluva gob.

Speaking of mouths, the bite Deborah inflicts on the shoulder of one the overall-wearing punks during the washroom brawl was just one of the many fantastic deployments of violence in that wonderfully brutal scene. A raucous throw-down that pretty much puts the first exclamation mark on the film (Kelly's bottle work and beach scream are the second and third). At any rate, this toilet-based brouhaha is one of the most visceral cinematic punch-ups I have ever witnessed.

video uploaded by Turbonegro666

...