Movie review: Hell Ride

Expect a rambling discourse on the quality of dust.

by John P. Meyer

From all indications, Hell Ride could never have been made if not for Kill Bill: Vol. 2.

That movie brought together Hell Ride producers Quentin Tarantino and Laura Cayouette, along with Hell Ride writer/director/actor/producer Larry Bishop; both Bishop and Cayouette had small parts in this Tarantino mad action opus.

Also hopping aboard for the current lusty, dusty biker tale are Kill Bill 2 acting vets Michael Madsen (in a meaty role) and David Carradine (in a brief but essential cameo). Oh, and the Weinsteins executive produced both this film and Bill 2.

As indicated, Hell Ride is in large part Larry Bishop's baby, and a look at Bishop's filmography demonstrates acting chops going back to the '60s. We're talking guest appearances on "I Dream of Jeannie," "Love, American Style," "Barney Miller," "Laverne & Shirley" and "The Dukes of Hazzard" - but more importantly for the present discussion, "Kung Fu", starring that enigmatic phone book hawker David Carradine as Kwai Chang Caine. Bishop's film career includes roles in such biker-centric fare as Angel Unchained ('70) and Chrome and Hot Leather ('71). He also portrayed a motorcycle gang member in Shanks ('74).

All of which serves as something of an explanatory introduction to what Mr. Bishop (son of Joey) has served up in Hell Ride. This movie is a beer-swillin', blood-spillin', coke-snortin', tits-out exploitation extravaganza.

If drive-in movie theaters were still around (I mean, the kind that earned their keep by showing movies like The Dirty Outlaws, Bare Behind Bars and - of course - Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS), then Hell Ride would be playing there. Since such venues no longer exist - to my knowledge - then we'll just have to consider this obscenity-laden spectacle as a crude, quirky, occasionally poetic and impossible to turn away from (like a train wreck) blast from the past.

No need paying close attention to the plot, which primarily involves rival gangs of bikers riding around the desert exacting revenge, drinking beer and observing playmate-type models engaging in various forms of visual and/or aural prick teasing. No need, because a) events don't really hang together in any logical fashion, and b) you'll be too distracted by the scenery-chewing posturing taking place amidst all those bared pneumatic breasts.

The posturing is done mostly by leather-clad 'cycle club head honcho Pistolero (Mr. Bishop, looking like a skinny Stallone channeling a stony-faced Pacino) and the members of his gang, the Victors. Notable among these Rhodes Scholars are The Gent (Madsen, in ruffled tuxedo shirt and shades, and packing a dandy ivory-handled, nickel-plated hogleg) and a new kid who takes the name of Comanche (Eric Balfour, familiar to viewers of "24" as Milo Pressman).

Judging by a disconnected series of desaturated film footage flashbacks (very arty!), some extreme death-inducing nastiness was visited upon a biker chick named Cherokee Kisum (Julia Jones), whose surviving son may in fact be the new kid known as Cherokee. (Remember what I said about poetic?)

The nastiness may have been perpetrated upon Ms. Kisum by Mr. Carradine's character, who may or may not be in league with another biker gang led by Billy Wings (Vinnie Jones - who enjoyed playing a biker outlaw so much in this movie that he went out and bought himself a Harley with his acting earnings). Billy, who at one point explains in lurid detail the origin of the various colored wings tattooed upon his body, carries about as his weapon of choice a kind of air-powered, arrow-hurling spear gun. (Speaking of pneumatic.) I guess he figures his retinue of biker followers will back him up during the time consuming process of reloading.

If it weren't for the guilty pleasure of seeing some old Hollywood iconoclasts mounting Harleys for another go at this sort of thing (including Dennis Hopper, whose Eddie Zero is a sort of trickster Coyote character), there'd be very little to recommend this movie - once again, aside from the boobs. And the oil wrestling. And the gratuitous throat-slitting. And the sex-laden monologues delivered by the various playmates. Aside from the dirty talk, the dialog leaves much to be desired (see below).

Mr. Carradine - strapped into a chair in Room 8 of the Inn 6 on Route 66 where the Victors will meet at 6 a.m. (you've gotta wonder why they didn't just go ahead and put him in Room 6) - utters the most intelligent (and thus oddly out-of-place) remark of the film when he explains, in relation to his lapse in memory, that he's no Marcel Proust. (Stony silence from my theater audience: wrong crowd for Proust, methinks.)

For the hardware freaks there are delightful distractions, such as - natch - the 'bikes (about which I know nothing, other than the fact that they seem really BOSS) and the weaponry (putting aside that silly spear gun), which emphasizes revolvers over auto pistols - a nice anachronistic touch. The film is scored with high-powered, hard-driving tunes fit for potheads and hot metal outlaws - except for the lame-ass version of C.C. Rider which begins and ends the proceedings.

If you're a junior high delinquent wanna-be, this movie might be the best excuse of the season for skipping classes and sneaking into the theater through the back door. Just don't tell the proprietors of whatever fine establishment you choose that I suggested it.