The Hollywood Theatre is showing some movie called
The Warriors tonight. Sounds like it could be sorta interesting. Maybe I’ll go. I dunno...
Ok, let me be clear. The Warriors is one of the greatest films ever made. Period. I love this movie so much that when Penelope Spheeris suddenly asked me to name my favorite movie over dinner one time, my mind went blank and all I could do was swallow the rest of my beer and stammer, “The Warriors!” This sweaty mythological cartoon odyssey set against a grimy bygone New York City background is so tautly edited and brilliantly directed that it barely gives you a moment to exhale. In fact, the blitzkrieg pace of this film is so awesomely overwhelming that you almost don’t realize you’re watching a modern retelling of Homer’s epic poem (or Xenophon’s Anabasis, whatever, I don't read anyway). But that’s exactly what you’re watching. The Greek chorus is replaced with a lippy soul DJ who occasionally reminds us that there is sort of a plot and purpose to the chromatic cascade of violence, the formidable Ajax is played to the hilt by James Remar (Dexter’s dad!) who struts around drunk on his own testosterone and the sea hag Sirens are recast as a tough female clique called The Lizzies. Yes, this is the celluloid equivalent of a Frank Frazetta painting. Which is to say, it provides a visceral side effect most commonly experienced as a twitching in the groin and a clutching of the fists. The only bummer about The Warriors is that it is so goddamn good that when the lights come on and you stumble blinkingly back toward home you will be reminded how shitty the world has become. Where is brother Cleon and Swan when we need them? This film triggered a rash of subway crimes and theater violence when it was first released in 1979, and if anyone wants to fistfight in the theater tonight, just heckle the screen like an idiot or forget to silence your phone and I will gladly indulge your wishes. Can you count, suckas?? FTW.
