America needs a hero again, c'mon back Rubber Ducky 10-4 and remember that song "Convoy" by ole Cash McCall? Sure, now that the trucker craze is decades gone, and rap is here to stay, McCall just sounds like some grizzled old Marlboro man babbling into his CB receiver while a Curtis Mayfield instrumental plays behind him on the FM dial, but in 1975-6, his "Convoy" was haulin' ass up the charts until it became the hood ornament on a full-on cross-country trucker fad going no place at 80 mph, downhill. It was the kind of thing we all heard on the radio in the car nonstop and either loved or ignored. We didn't really 'hate' things in the 70s, there weren't enough options. We had to listen to what the DJ played, so we just figured it was 'new' and we'd get used to it. Lack of options made us less judgmental.
Well, call me old-fashioned, or 'old-school' - but maybe if we ever take a moment from the daily din of 'Civil War Mach 2' perhaps we can once again, regardless of the color of our state, listen to old McCall warn fellow drivers about the bears, and remember how, a mere 40-ish odd years ago, we all loved the same songs, hated the same things (the highway patrol), feared the same nuclear annihilation, dreamt the same dreams, and drank the same beer while watching the same sunset, and then, before it all went 'poof' with the death of John Lennon - there was one last thing we did together, as a family: we avoided the 1978 movie version of Convoy. Because by then the craze had died back down, and when a craze dies down in America, we become kind of ashamed and remorseful for letting ourselves get so carried away. We pack it up in a basement-bound box, and there it waits until bored Williamsburg college students unearth it at the local Salvation Army. The fuzzy dice hood ornament might be too dusty to use, and they don't have a car, but they like the hat, and the PBR belt buckle, and the bandanna. But the CB's busted, I think. Let me go and check....
(comes back ten minutes later:) Well, I don't know where it is, or if the fuzzbuster works, or where the batteries are, or why I'd need it without a car, but if we're ever going to get ourselves together again we need to remember, man. We need to not let alarmist hysteric news cycle warmongers and shadowy Russian sock puppeteers tear us asunder. Goddamn it, son! The Rooskies and a billionaire Aussie (named 'Rupert' of all things) are using our own patriotism, educational system, and freedom of speech against us, c'mon back! We're gonna need to use our CBs and that old trucker code to stop them, as they're listening in on our phones, man. We need a code, like how cops are bears and Kris Kristofferson is the Duck. For their handles, let's call Putin Big Red and Trump the Orange Capo.
Analog can't be hacked. Get your ears on.
But yeah, c'mon back, good buddy, all the way through, put the CB back in the box and turn to the movie of CONVOY at long last. Why? Because Pauline Kael liked it. And cuz Kristofferson. But why? Why was it ever made? It's hard to fathom nowadays, because songs are too scattered along generational formats, but back in the 70s a single song could get so big across so many demographics that movie versions of goddamn songs were commissioned. We loved some songs so much we needed, producers guessed (wrongly), to see a film version the same way we needed the novelization of a movie.
But the more we pull a song to us the harder we push it away later, so the movie inevitably bombs and today only a few of us remember they even existed. Take for another example the more northern state-style 'softie' radio obsession that came upon as after McCall's song had died away, Debbie Boone's 1977 hit "You Light Up My Life." Whole families would pull over when "Light" came on the car radio, and cry in unison. A Light up my Life movie was immediately commissioned, producers ill-advisedly presuming America wouldn't be long sick of the emotional hit by the time the film came out later in the year.
We were. And to this day no one has ever seen You Light Up My Life.
But Convoy (1978) had more than a feelin', by which I mean Peckinpah directing, which meant slow-mo bar fights. It came out three years after the song had been forgotten. Emotion didn't enter into it, not the sappy kind anyway, only a comforting feeling of strength and solidarity with the truckers of the open road. It sat in our minds next to Burt Reynolds' middle finger and our ability to get truckers to honk real loud if we turned around and made a 'toot-toot' gesture as we passed them. The real appeal for those of us too young to drive, though, was the novelty of the CB radio and all its crazy code words: You could get on there and DJ to maybe millions, maybe no one; you could tip off the reverse going traffic if you spotted a 'bear in the woods' i.e. a speed trap waiting for traffic on the other side. We didn't have Twitter or cell phones, but those didn't exist yet - CBs did - but you needed cool parents to get it and install it and teach you how to use it, a combination of elements that no one I knew managed to pull off.
Car culture was huge, still. Once in awhile we got rides in the older kids' cool Trans-Ams or Firebirds and it hooked us. The automotive store became a kind of secondary Spencer Gifts. We eyed the Playboy bunny mud flaps and bought novelty rearview ornaments to hang over our beds like dreamcatchers. We'd sit in our sixth grade class wearing black driving gloves, just in case. Meanwhile at the movies, the masses clamored in love of the motorized outlaw. Sugarland Express (1974) and Vanishing Point (1971) paved the way for the whole "mass of Americans rallying 'round one outlaw car'" cause thing, so big at (of course), the drive-in. By the time Convoy rolled off the line that thing was quite overdone. It rolled alongside High-Ballin' and Every Which Way But Loose, choking on the dust of Smokey, Handle with Care, Breaker Breaker, High-Ballin', White Line Fever... on TV, the genre devolved into Nielsen scavengers like BJ and the Bear, Dukes of Hazzard and TV movies like The Great Smokey Road Block and Flatbed Annie and Sweetie Pie. If you're curious, the junkyard in the back of Amazon Prime streaming is laden with them. Most look like shit but some still got the gleam in their grille.
I never really had more than a fleeting yen for the trucker life back, myself, as a grade schooler in the 70s and even then I was horrified by that cropped afro look rocked by Ali McGraw in the Convoy commercials, not that there were many, but they played here and there during Saturday morning cartoons, like that straggler who shows up at your party at dawn after it's already over and your parents are in bed, but you're up waiting for the cartoons to start, and he's drunk and laughing at his own jokes Your parents wake up and there he is... on your couch, snoring.
That cropped afro, man, what a bad bad bad decision.
Still, Pauline Kael defended it, and 38 odd years later, that was enough for me to get the Blu-ray:
"Peckinpah uses the big rigs anthropomorphically, and while watching this picture, you recover the feelings you had as a child about the power and size and noise of trucks, and their bright, distinctive colors. Graeme Clifford's editing provides fast, hypnotic rhythms, and sequences with the trucks low in the frame and most of the image given over to skies with brilliant white clouds are poetic gestures, like passages in Dovzhenko. As a horny trucker, Kris Kristofferson lacks the common touch that might have given the movie some centrifugal force, though he's as majestic-looking as the big trucks.Hell, forget it. As Kristofferson might say, "Dovzhenko, my ass!" But I am a Pauline Kael disciple and thanks her odd associations and my man crush on Kristofferson, for better or worse, I have joined the Convoy. Wanna ride with the Duck, come on back?
|Burt Young - the king of country|
But hey - the fight happens, the truckers all become outlaws and then folk heroes without ever bothering to question any weird plot device that happens along. Duck picks up this close-cropped perm-fro'd Ali McGraw on the way out of the diner (she jumps ship from her previous ride) and she becomes his chronicler with her fancy camera or something. McGraw may be still gorgeous, but her close cropped permed hair is continually depressing. In the annals of 'bad hair' decisions it makes Orson's cropping Rita's long tresses for a short blonde flip in Lady from Shanghai seem inspired and lovely instead of churlish and mean. Together in fact, Rita's and Ali's hair crops make a great collective illustration of how a petulant male auteur unwittingly reveals his misogyny. As Vincent Canby wrote at the time: "to transform a naturally beautiful woman into a figure of such androgyny seems, at best, short-sighted; at worst, it's mean-spirited."
Don't mean to shit on this otherwise interesting flick but considering the amount of shitting on our collective hats Peckinpah does during the movie, well, it's a good place to vent. On the plus side, there are some stretches of Peckinpah brilliance vis-a-vis his signature rapid editing through tight shots of crazy locals in various states of intoxication. A series of old faces, drinking and smoking in the proximity of flags, feels authentic enough - and all done without Easy Rider's redneck-demonizing, Altman's tacky mummery, or Smokey and the Bandit's lecherous bouncing and guileless harmonic score.
Then again, it also lacks Easy Rider's truly revolutionary spirit, Nashville's sense of moveable feast community, and Smokey and the Bandit's star chemistry. In the latter, especially, Jerry Reed, Burt Reynolds, and Sally Field bring out a special something in each other hard to duplicate. Reynolds might come off macho for the press, but he genuinely loves (and is not threatened by) strong female co-stars like Fields - and that's apparent in their chemistry; and Jerry Reed well, he loves Fred, his hound dawg. All four of them look authentic, like they could have driven straight up from Florida or Texas, and all of them got star wattage charisma to burn. By contrast, the only authentic looking 'red state American' main character in Convoy is Kristofferson, and even he feels out of place. He's too cool to behave logically, too pointlessly iconoclastic to even try to save himself from 20 years in the pen, even if it's the easier, righter thing to do. The whole mess of issues Bobby "ain't so good at stringin' words together as you are" creates for his self through his stubborn insistence on not being this and not being that, begins to feel less like working class heroism and more like of Munchausen-by-proxy stupidity, like the idiot kid who's too dumb to hide his weed going through customs, then bitches and moans when it gets taken away. He likes to drink "Everclear" and listen to "we don't smoke marijuana and we don't take LSD" like there's no hypocrisy there. Again--a joke? The alcoholic Peckinpah has no right to get anti-anti-establishment.
That said, Duck's not afraid to have a few big rigs get together to smash open a police station where Spider Mike's been violated, rights-wise. Shit gets smashed up for real (it's pre-CGI) and that's why films like Convoy will endure. If you see a cop car go flying off the interstate and through a billboard, better believe some stunt man did just that. And it just feels real good. That metal crunch got tang!
Alas, when not crashing cars or staging roadshow funerals, the Peckinpah signature over-editing and slow-mo fight thing does not always work: that truck stop cafe brawl with Cottonmouth, for example, isn't quite the same ode to violence as the opening or closing of The Wild Bunch (1969). With all its slow motion and quick cuts it becomes abstract and unseemly: cutting back and forth to about eight different characters in various states of falling, rolling, punching, ducking or running - all in a very close quarters diner environment--is numbing and dumb rather than riveting. It's a fight that would have blown our minds in the hands of a tight-editing Walter Hill (as in the bathroom fight in The Warriors) but Peckinpah infamously wasted weeks filming and it's clear that about 100 different takes are all used for one single movement to create a bewildering sense of time and relative space (a character might start falling off a stool at one end of the counter and land behind a table on the other, his eyes indicating he somehow has aged 20 years in frustration with his director in between the two angles). Then there's the big events and demonstrations as the rebel convoy gets longer and longer, word spreading analog viral through the CB network of all the 'little' people from Flyover USA who are tired of getting pushed around. Yawn. It works at times, in others, it's just a lot of nowhere shorthand for 'everyday' America. I guess it's inspiring, but man, that food in the back of them trucks crawling along is gonna spoil. And what about them poor live pigs being hauled by Love Machine? What about their freedom? The sooner I can stop associating Burt Young's harsh face with actual pigs and the tang of sulphur, methane, diesel and asphalt, the better. Son, dump them pigs loose upon the plain, and get thee to a ROCKY pinball machine (3), stat!
1. J.W. Pepper in Live and Let Die (1971) and Man with the Golden Gun (1974)
2. This coming weekend I'll be one-year quit -- not being able to absorb any oxygen in your burnt lungs - that'll do 'er.