Ex-sentials: Used Cars (1980)

Unlike their more unruly contemporaries at the University of Southern California, Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale didn’t really want to re-shape the face of filmmaking forever. Sure, they possessed a similar longing for artistic purity as classmates George Lucas, Steven Spielberg and John Milius (OK, maybe not Milius), but even Zemeckis’ student short A Field of Honor ('73) contained a far more madcap sensibility than something like Electronic Labyrinth THX-1138 EB ('67). No, Zemeckis-Gale, as their partnership would soon be known, were as taken with the madcap as they were with the mission.

Luckily for them, Spielberg shared a similar sense of the absurd, and signed on to produce Zemeckis’ first feature (which Gale co-wrote), I Wanna Hold Your Hand ('78). A too late and mostly ignored (at least upon initial release) American B-side to Richard Lester’s iconic instance of filmic Beatlemania, A Hard Day’s Night ('64), Hand sees a gaggle of Jersey kids crossing the bridge to try and crash the invading Brits’ historic appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. Less concerned with dissecting the roots of this phenomenon, Zemeckis and Gale are instead caught up in the zany mix of emotions – ranging from horniness to loneliness – that these freewheeling teens are seemingly fueled by. The result is a screwball farce akin to Lucas’ American Graffiti (1973), minus the sobering coda that classic contains.

In retrospect, all the seeds of Zemeckis’ auteurist fascinations are sown in a single ninety-nine-minute romp. Historical fiction, pop music, and technical verisimilitude collide to provide a glimpse at just how talented the future Forrest Gump ('94) technician was right out the gate. However, as intoxicated by raging hormones as Zemeckis-Gale are, there’s a somewhat cynical side to I Wanna Hold Your Hand in terms of how it examines the way in which the Fab Four were packaged for their new American audience. One of these Jersey tomatoes – tall, mouthy redhead Janis (Susan Kendall Newman) – screams that the Beatles are nothing more than a consumerist fad being sold by Capitol Records. And to be fair, she’s right, at least in the moment*. Hand’s narrative starts in a swamped record store and ends at a monumental TV appearance, all orchestrated in the name of hocking vinyl to clueless adolescents. Set this movie during the early aughts, and you could easily swap out John, Paul, George and Ringo for Justin, JC, Joey, Lance and Chris.

Subtext aside, it’s again Zemeckis-Gale’s audacious level of comedic energy that propels the picture over its finish line; a tendency they’d double-down on in their script for Spielberg’s disastrous World War II lark, 1941 ('79). Though that garish misfire has garnered a cult following in the forty years since its debut, critics were not kind to the fantastical Japanese invasion of Hollywood, near universally labeling it a colossal mistake that could potentially derail Hollywood’s hottest blockbuster director**. Obviously, that never happened, as both Spielberg and Zemeckis went on to own a pair of the most storied (not to mention lucrative) commercial careers in American cinema, with Zemeckis again combining historical exploration with the beginnings of rock music, via his poptimist all-timer, Back to the Future ('85).

But before Marty McFly ripped into “Johnny B. Goode” for his parents’ prom, Zemeckis-Gale applied their pleasantly uncouth touch to the automobile trade with Used Cars ('80). Produced again by Spielberg (with an EP assist from Zen Madman Milius), the duo’s sophomore outing is a profane play on the “snobs vs. slobs” comedic formula, as rival car dealerships – run by twin scumbags Roy and Luke Fuchs (Jack Warden, rocking polyester and cardigans like a boss) – compete for the almighty dollar by any means necessary. The first lieutenant on the front lines of this sleazy battle? Rudy Russo (Kurt Russell), a short-tied, checkered jacket motormouth who will literally sling a dollar across the freeway on a fishing line if it means luring a customer off Roy’s “fancier” lot and toward Luke’s fleet of spray-painted beaters.

Since we live in the modern era of “shared universes”, it’s not difficult to watch Used Cars, forty-five years later, and imagine it taking place right down the block from Alex Cox’s blue-collar punk classic, Repo Man ('84). Only where that movie reveled in Area 51 psychedelia, Zemeckis-Gale set their black comedy of fast-talking hucksters in a heightened realm where full-scale demolition derby can occur in the middle of the goddamn highway at a moments’ notice. This is easily the best stunt spectacular Hal Needham never made, threatening to careen over the curb into unwitnessed levels of irresponsible anarchy. Strap in. We’re going for a test drive that might kill everyone before they can commit to a dow -payment.

When it’s all over, Rudy, his superstitious right-hand Jeff (Gerrit Graham), and trusty mechanic Jim (Frank McRae) would probably meet up for beers with Repo’s Bud (Harry Dean Stanton) and Otto (Emilio Estevez). Over cans of BEER, they’d trade stories about whatever gullible jerkoffs they pawned a rusty hooptie off to today, and share tips as to which customers are probably going to default on their low, low payments. Both movies share a similar affection for their central knuckleheads, as they live (and sometimes die) by their own steadfast, pretzel-twisted codes of conduct.

These salesmen’s methods are unorthodox, to say the least, and extend into the realm of full-blown media takeovers. Used Cars contains not only one, but TWO of the greatest fake commercials in cinema history, as the boys transmit tits into the middle of a crucial football game, and then have the audacity to hijack President Carter’s address to the nation with a literally explosive invitation to come on down and treat yourself to a new gas guzzler. The latter almost doubles as a sly political commentary, as these greasy goofballs are interrupting a POTUS most known for his “crisis of confidence” speech during a national energy emergency. But Rudy & Co. don’t give two shits about the environment. Just like Capitol Records, they’ve got units to move, and Jeff’s deafening shotgun blasts speak louder than words.

Still, for all the cartoonish mania Zemeckis-Gale and (especially) Graham*** commit to, nothing about Used Cars would work if it weren’t for Russell, who’s spent his entire career alternating between larger-than-life mythical heroes (Snake Plissken, Wyatt Earp, John “The Hangman” Ruth), and everymen you’d expect to meet on the street (Overboard ['87], Unlawful Entry ['92], Breakdown ['97]). Rudy Russo skews closer to the second, yet no doubt views himself as a living God, spitting bullshit so quickly he often puts his buyers into cars before they even know what happened. At the same time, Rudy’s completely unafraid to jump on the hood of a station wagon and boogie down with a stripper if it means sticking it to the old asshole across the desert drive. In hindsight, it’s virtually unfathomable that he consecutively produced both Russo and Plissken, as they showcase a performative range that’s mind-boggling.

There’s always been something boyishly disarming about Russell, partially due to his days as a Disney Mouseketeer, that allows him to easily slide between these Duke Wayne and Wayne Duke screen personas. Despite the brilliantly square jaw, beautiful head of sandy brown hair, and piercingly crystal blue eyes, Russell owns a softness that makes him strangely relatable; the beer-swilling neighbor you can imagine kicking back with after a tough shift, shooting the shit about whatever minor dramas your boss caused that day. What makes him an amazing actor is that he knows he possesses these traits and puts them to remarkable use, becoming vulnerable in ways most movie stars cannot. It’s a working-class romanticism, and perfect for a used car salesman who wants to get into Senatorial politics. Even after he swindled you, it’s possible you’d still vote for the guy (but certainly wouldn’t leave him alone with your wife).

To tell the truth, there’s a thin line between Russell in Used Cars and Burt Reynolds in many of Hal Needham’s country boy smash ‘em ups (Gator ['76], Hooper ['78]), especially once the full-tilt mayhem periodically takes over the proceedings. There’s a reckless disregard for anything resembling safety standards, as Russell tosses himself around like a rag doll in the name of getting the gag. Ditto Zemeckis-Gale’s attraction to leaving several dully coated metallic bodies in tatters by the time we reach the final reel, rolling and even jumping these jalopies over speeding trains. Hell, the movie basically becomes Smokey and the Bandit ('77) in its final act, as the boys enlist a legion of student drivers (some of whom will look quite familiar to I Wanna Hold Your Hand fans) to transport a literal mile of Mexican-bought vehicles back to the lot, just in the nick of time.

With all this madness occurring, you’d think there wouldn’t be time for Used Cars to insert a love story into its over-the-top narrative. But you’d be wrong. The bond Rudy forms with Luke’s estranged daughter, Barbara (Deborah Harmon), adds a palpable sweetness to a film that could otherwise border on becoming too broad and black-hearted for its own good. But again, that’s the magic Kurt works, wooing this poor girl, all while hiding the hideous secret that her old man died of heart failure only a few nights back, and the boys buried him amongst his inventory of reliable American automobiles. In another actor’s hands, Rudy would be a total sociopath (and still kind of is, if we’re being real). With Russell in the role, he’s merely the leader of lovable scamps, tirelessly scheming to keep Luke’s tarnished legacy from falling into his twin’s treacherous clutches.

Used Cars was merely a modest success, as the car chase vibe it carries belonged to an era of popular entertainment that was arguably over by the time it hit theaters. It’d take another four years before Zemeckis would make another feature – the fantastical ode to adventure serials, Romancing the Stone ('84), starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner – and one can’t help but wonder if it’s at least partially because Used Cars contains so much movie that he had to regroup/re-approach the medium entirely****. Meanwhile, Gale would continue to not only help put pen to paper for his partner, but also joined the insanely stacked writing staff of Spielberg’s Amazing Stories anthology.

As for Russell, Rudy Russo acted as an early foundation for his impressively varied body of work. Along with Plissken and his continued pairing with Hawksian genre maverick John Carpenter in horror classics such as The Thing ('82), Russell built a brand that continues to span four decades. From schlock comedies like Captain Ron ('92) to auteur-minted classics minted by Quentin Tarantino (Death Proof ['07]), Russell is a true mainstay; an iconoclast who’s never been easy to pin down beyond his trademark gruff line delivery and tough guy gravitas. Even in middle of the road junk, like the David Ayer-penned dirty cop opus Dark Blue ('02), he can be utterly hypnotic; the best thing about an otherwise mediocre viewing experience. In a weird way, Rudy’s ironic motto “trust me” helped define Kurt’s ever-reliable screen presence. Every time he shows up, you know he’s going to sell you something solid, even if the rest of the picture implodes around him.

*This is obviously just before acid and Sgt. Pepper marked the Beatles as both counterculture and recording tech pioneers.

**In his original review of 1941, Roger Ebert said: “it's a good-hearted, cheerfully disorganized mess that makes us appreciate Dr. Strangelove just a little bit more.”

***To be honest, if it weren’t for Beef in De Palma’s Phantom of the Paradise ('74), this would be the defining Gerrit Graham role. He just steals every scene he’s in with a palld, coke-dusted nuttiness that’s too real to be fake.

****Naturally, this is complete bullshit. Zemeckis is simply fastidious in choosing his projects, using Stone as an opportunity to transition into the more SFX driven blockbuster fare that would come to define the rest of his filmography.