|Rock rock. Rockaway Beach.|
The Warriors is not a bad movie. It has its selling points. The plot is endearingly asinine, the costumes approach A Clockwork Orange in their impractical, bizzaro charm, and Lynne Thigpen's red-hot, ice-cool disc jockey -- shot exclusively in extreme close-up -- is the most tantalizing pair of lips since The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It's also really cool to see so many PoCs in a film from the Seventies, although the fact that they're all playing delinquents makes it a little less progressive.
My real problem with this movie is it's the same thing over and over. Turf war, rinse, repeat. Also, if you have any feminist proclivities whatsoever, The Warriors will make multiple attempts to piss you off. I'm not complaining that there's not a strong enough female presence in the movie -- let's be realistic, the Bechtel Test exists for a reason -- but every time they encounter double X chromosomes, the Warriors respond by immediately attempting seduction, with as much or as little force as they judge necessary to the occasion. The one female character who is not merely a target of the Warriors' erotic ambitions, the tiresomely shrill Mercy (Deborah Van Valkenburgh), is lambasted by Swan for being insufficiently virginal. Listen, Warriors, I know that you're busy guys with a lot on your plate, but you might want to check that virgin/whore complex and sexual double standard!
Basically, The Warriors is an okay movie, but life is short and who has time for an okay movie? Massively overrated. Watch Streets of Fire instead.
|Michael Rennie was ill the day the earth stood still....|
|You ain't gettin' away this time, Carmen!!!|