Montreal Magnum

I’m still not exactly sure what I’m doing here, but here we go. . . 1986's Rad is one of the films that has the greatest discrepancies between critic and fan ratings – despised by the former, loved by the latter. An unknown to even the most fanatical of film fans, yet also a cult classic adored by its underground supporters, this motion picture, directed by stuntman nonpareil Hal Needham, is like a scientifically concocted adrenaline shot of cheese, kitsch, B movie badness, with a fantastical twist on the 80s. . . and, for some bizarre reason, I kind of liked it. Welcome to the town of Cochrane, a fictional place where the newspaper delivery boys are aided and cheered on by its local citizens (including the garbage men), where the cops love nothing more than playing a motorcycle versus bike version of hide and go seek against the kids in the local wood mill, where everyone’s favourite pastime is called ‘ass sliding’ – no, it’s not as dirty or fun as it sounds, where the dancing looks like a part of a Siegfried & Roy show (and that’s not to mention the sexualized bicycle tango), and each and every person (be it the Shriners on their little clown cars, or its aged population) seems to be absolutely enthralled by BMX biking.

As I sat watching the special screening of the Canadian independent film Generation Wolf (the Ontario non-festival premiere held at the historic Port Theatre in Cornwall) surrounded by a massive audience – an image triggered in my mind. . . that of two individuals playing Russian roulette. Though this may seem nonsensical (especially once you read my synopsis), please allow me to elaborate. The movie had a certain inevitability, much like the deathly contest – after all, Russian roulette always ends with a bullet to the head. Yet, it was also imbued with many other features associated with the contest – chance, luck, suspense and a certain unpredictability. It is perhaps the biggest risk/reward game that can be played. As you can imagine, Generation Wolf produces its fair share of nerving thrills. Christian de la Cortina co-writes (along with Frank Baylis), produces, directs and stars in this Canadian picture that is still surfing the festival circuit. He plays Vincent Del Toro, a smart young man who has left his home in Michigan for sunny days in California, and is on the verge of putting his business on the map. Converting classic cars of yesteryear into modern, electric cars of the future, he has already made some sales. Waiting on the licensing bureau, he soon realizes that they are actually re-possessing his cars – as they won’t accept the electric motors he has used.

An example of Indie, guerilla-style film making, Anthony Z. James writes, directs and produces his first feature film, 2020's Ghost (also known as Ex-Con); shooting on the mean streets of London, the production was simply shot with an Iphone (with an anamorphic lens) – something you will find increasingly hard to believe the longer you delve into this motion picture. Dropping us into an important day in the life of Tony Ward (Anthony Mark Streeter), the man is officially an ex-con – just released from prison. Following him in his first steps back in the real world (approximately seven minutes without a word of dialogue – somewhat bringing to mind Patrick Ryan’s sadly under-seen 2014 Irish Indie film Darkness on the Edge of Town), James places us in the man’s shoes, engrossing tracking shots reminiscent of Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory – uprooted from the muddy trenches of World War I to the gritty side-streets of London, these techniques allowing his steps to become ours. Hoping that each stride is one into a more straight-laced and balanced future, the shadows of his past linger, shrouding the very day in a gloomy, melancholic uncertainty.

How can one define ‘raw’ music? That elusive energy that record executive Richie Finestra was desperately looking for in the sadly short-lived HBO series Vinyl. . . it can be found in the first few seconds of the MC5's “Kick Out the Jams” – the listener immediately learning that they are trying to melt your face right off; or in Jimi Hendrix’s reworking of Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” – his inventive, inspirational guitar work seeping into your very bloodstream; anarchy can literally be felt in every single note of The Sex Pistols; while Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” emits a primordial energy that never lets you go. Truly transcendent, it transports you to a different plane of existence. . . a confounding place which finds vexing combinations of pure natural energy diluted with sex and drugs, innocence clashing with the realization that life isn’t fair – it is like living in the gutter of heaven itself. . . still perfection (after all, it is heaven), yet in a way you couldn’t imagine possible in such a place. A combination of youthful exuberance and unbridled energy that captures lightning in a bottle, that raw sound is not something that can be sustained. Coming from a creative and energetic place when youth meets adulthood, where simplicity combines with complexity, two things inevitably happen – you either evolve into something more refined and mainstream, or you burn out/die. An excellent example of this lengthy definition, 2010's The Runaways, written and directed by Floria Sigismondi, depicts the short lived run of the titular band.

We often generalize that old movies are dated. . . and, in some ways, this is true. Sometimes dialogue, fashion, cinematography, and numerous other aspects of a production can come across as old fashioned, yet human beings don't evolve quickly, and a well written romance, drama, comedy, or satire is practically timeless. For an example not related to the film being reviewed today, Charlie Chaplin's cocaine joke from Modern Times (though closing in on 90 years old), is still as funny today as it once was. A satire as rich and relevant today as it was when it was released back in 1969, Putney Swope, written and directed by Robert Downey Sr. (yes, Iron Man's father), holds a comedic magnifying glass up to our present predicament in regards to race and business. Opening with a magnificent overhead shot of New York City, a rather shockingly dressed Southerner (motorcycle gang member meets redneck) arrives in the Big Apple to provide a consult for an executive board of directors of an advertising firm (a large group of middle to aged white men with a token black man - in charge of the music department).

The essence of Rambo meeting the good-hearted 'save the community' nature of Billy Jack set within the arena of B movie western style silliness can be found in 1985's Savage Dawn, a little seen wild experience from director Simon Nuchtern. As the hot desert sun roasts the sandy arid landscape of back roads Texas, one motorcycle driving man, aptly named Stryker (Lance Henriksen, never looking more threatening - if that's possible), a speak softly and carry a big stick Vietnam vet drifter with no home, makes his way to the closest thing to it. . . the dying town of Aqua Dulce (an ironic name, as there is no water left in the community). Water once helped the gold mine locale thrive, but now it, and its people, are struggling to survive. It is here that he finds his only true friend, wheelchair bound Tick Rand (George Kennedy) - another former vet with a MacGyver-like ability to fashion deadly weapons out of anything at hand. He also gets reacquainted with Tick's two children, Danny (Michael Sharrett) and Katie (Claudia Udy) - who clearly has a thing for the strong silent type.