John MIlius' guilty pleasures

Milius, John. Film Comment; New York Vol. 18, Iss. 3,  (May/Jun 1982): 24-26,80.

Let us first examine this idea of Guilty Pleasures. When I was young, the world was so new with promise that it was impossible to find that feeling of self-conscious embarrassment in secrecy that could bring guilt to any pleasure. It is only in early adulthood that we come to measure our passions and, in time, forget them. So it was always in the first light that I was influenced by the movies I liked, as if seeing an ocean for the first time, or being taken to an airport to watch the planes land. There is no judgment good or bad, just noise and movement, intensity and rhythm. This is not to say that I have no guilt. But life hands out few enough pleasures.

Biker movies. This whole genre has been overlooked probably for good reason. One thing that can be said about all of these films, from The Wild One to The Losers, is that they have a rich tradition of social irresponsibility. I mean, these films should make you feel guilty. Of course, they have little to do with real bikers. Real bikers are like real Mongols -nomadic, simple hunters whose only crime is that they are the descendants of Genghis Khan. But the bikers in the movies and the ones on the road share one thing in common which has made them appealing, fascinating, and dreaded. They are free. Next time you drive up to a couple of bikers cruising slowly on their hogs, take a good look. They don’t live like you. They are outside your life, your law. They don’t share your morality, ethics, your humanity, or your conscience. They are free of all that shit.

Let’s talk about the movie that started it all, The Wild One. (1953, directed by Lazlo Benedek). This has to be one of the most important Marion Brando movies ever made. Forget your James Dean-Fifties-introverted-troubled-youth crap. Forget Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront. We’re dealing with guys that rode into town like Tamerlane-no ambitions, no apologies, and little restraint. Where else can you find such a pure sense of anarchy? Who else in modern culture really lived like Vikings? And what for? “What are you rebelling against, Johnny?” occasioned the best line in the movie: “Whaddya got?” That’s it, pure and simple. It’s never been said better in any movie. This is social irresponsibility.

As biker movies progressed, the life style itself changed and became more menacing. We soon learned that bikers were much worse than the mobile white trash we suspected. They were indeed packs of mutant, ursine predators, spawned by some hideous breach of social ecology, and they soon joined the ranks of irredeemable screen sociopaths, the way Indians used to be portrayed and Nazis still are. Soon, the plots simply had to show a horde of swastikafestooned, hairy, drug-crazed, sub-Neanderthals (led by William Smith) descending upon some worthwhile target area that gave ample opportunity for rape and pillage. The rest of the story usually had some reference to community guilt, parents who didn’t understand their daughters, etc., and a strong loner-hero, sometimes a biker himself (who could also be played by William Smith). The loners who stopped the barbarian hordes were, curiously, often Green Berets directly home from disillusioning experiences in Southeast Asia.

These men could only be pushed so far. (This stereotype also helped build the public myth that there were twentyfive divisions of loner-killer Green Berets, and no cooks or clerk-typists.) The loner prevails; a lot of virginity and private property are lost. And the Horde retreats back into the dark recesses of man’s pagan past, waiting. Great visual stuff. Low-slung choppers gleaming in early sunlight massing together gracefully as they come around that bend in the road. Fiends with their hair blowing back, wrapped in armor-like chains, being held by brazen felines who know no limits to promiscuous carnality. There simply are no other movies quite like these. They have titles like Chrome and Hot Leather, Angels from Hell, Born Losers, etc.

A superb piece from the end of the genre’s halcyon days was simply and appropriately called The Losers (1970) Directed by Jack Starrett (vastly underrated), this has the final twist on all biker movie plots: The bikers themselves are sent to Vietnam. That’s right. Bearded, leathern, latter-day Mongols astride gleaming hogs equipped with rockets and automatic weapons take on a rival club: the Viet Cong. They lose. Superb action, interesting political insight.

Another oddity is, of course, Easy Rider (1969, Dennis Hopper). In this, Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper aren’t bikers at all, just ordinary citizens who close out their retail narcotics business in order to take a peaceful vacation ride across country. Their mistake is that they look like bikers to the prudish land apes that have seen the rest of these movies and are mistaken as the advance scouts of the Golden Horde. The community rights are upheld and they pay for the sins of William Smith.

Nobody makes these movies anymore. They’ve gone the way of Italian muscle pictures and blaxploitation movies. They will leave no mark even in the annals of trivia collectors. No French critics will ever enshine them in Cahiers du Cinéma. But next time you see that bro and his old lady heading off with the wind in their hair, the light dazzling from the lacquer and polished chrome, and the big V-Twin like a quickened heartbeat and thunder, give them a thumbs-up for poor Dennis Hopper.

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974, Tobe Hooper). Yeah, I know it has a cult following. But I really like this movie. It’s really good. Best of breed in my estimation. Made for nothing, extraordinarily inventive, it just reeks of style and other things. It has horror with the best of them. Nicely achieved in that nothing in the film is supernatural. Every object is common; lots of the film takes place in broad daylight.

Things happen you just don’t expect, like the girl with the sexy backless halter-top being hung up on a meat hook. You just don’t expect that. The guy in the wheelchair being chainsawed and the great scene in the barbecue store also take you by surprise. It’s not that the scenes are unexpected, it’s just that they go so far. But what I like best is the irresistible visual humor, so sick you don’t believe it’s really happening. Leatherface-gigantic, masked, aproned-wielding the great sputtering snarling title weapon, is chasing the one surviving girl. She is nubile, buxom, and agile as a sports car as she darts in and out of the trees in headlong terror. He follows, but like a truck out of control, spinning out on the corners, shattering branches, kicking up dust, always trying to keep the saw pointed in the right direction.

Also, the great ending shot where Leatherface holds his chainsaw up to the rising sun in some ritual dance to the harvest god. I could go on and on, but see it for yourself. It deserves its rep.

Return to Paradise (1953, Mark Robson). After my other two guilty pleasures I feel I should swing the pendulum the other way. This is undoubtedly one of my favorite movies. It is faithfully adapted from a James Michener story of the same title and shot entirely on location in Fiji or Tonga or somewhere using non-actors for most of the cast-giving it a rudimentary authenticity that is to me thoroughly enchanting.

I don’t know when I first saw this film, but it was probably at a particularly idealistic and emotional stretch of adolescence, during which I was a fanatical surfer. Being a suffer in those days was like belonging to a hallowed brotherhood-a noble tribe of timeless drifters and beach bums that shared a solemn adventurism and a longing for primitive tropical places that lay in the path of the great swells. These places often had rich-sounding names, and were sparsely populated by strong simple men and lithe, brown-skinned women. White men there were regarded as higher beings and often went bad with the weight of that responsibility. All of this was majestically set forth in the works of Melville, Conrad, Stevenson, and Gauguin. I would sit in the winter classroom, spin the globe, and read the names of the islands: Atuona, Rarotonga, Manihiki, even Guadalcanal. Rich stuff, and it was all still there, all of it possible.

When I saw Gary Cooper wading ashore through the waves in the first minutes of Return to Paradise, he became an immediate role model. He is put ashore, to be exact, for reasons we’re never told, except that he has an intense dislike for authority. On the beach he is met by a crowd of exotic, innocent islanders, who are being ruthlessly suppressed under the regime of a misguided Christian missionary and his gang of truncheon-wielding wardens. All manner of oppression is levied on these children: They have to wear clothes, work steady hours, not breed freely, and attend church daily and sing hymns. Mr. Morgan (Cooper) only wants to be left alone, but he is a glaring example of individual will to the others, and must be made to bow and kiss the ring. Not Gary Cooper, no way. You’re dealing with Yankee independence, the reason America was founded and settled. Besides, he has a shotgun. His hut is eventually torn down and he asks the community, “Who will help put it back up?” In a scene that’s etched in my memory forever, a simple dark-eyed girl steps forward where all the others cower. This is romance. This is love. Nothing else will really do. Where are these women, these men? How many of you have wives, husbands, or lovers who will step forward when the odds are thrown down, when the community, the police, Fortune, and God are on the other side? With nothing in it, who will stand by your side?

With the aid of the shotgun, Mr. Morgan becomes the unwitting instrument of revolt. The people are freed, the wardens banished, and even the old missionary left in peace with his church because he was only misguided. An idealized society, no government, lots of food, sex, surf, and the intoxicating sound of the drums and the dances. Of course, it is here that Conrad always warns us that white men go bad-at the point of moral choice. They either lose control like Mr. Kurtz, or drift on because they have no anchor and can’t really be, just left alone. Mr. Morgan is the latter. He never marries the girl. She dies bearing him a daughter; he realizes he’s lost the only thing he ever had, and leaves, embittered.

It’s here that the story seems to take on an added dimension. Cooper wanders the winds, becoming a hardened, friendless man. World War II starts and something brings him back. He returns to the island to find himself a legend of the past, a part of their history and folklore. He also finds his daughter and, eventually, himself.

In this final sentimental confrontation, he discovers what all adventurers and drifters really seek, that which most people had all along-a home. It’s a simple powerful emotion, one that the cynicism in all of us constantly tries to reject. But it gnaws at the back of my heart and has colored all of my work. I’ve written parts and shades of this story into everything I’ve ever really cared about, from Jeremiah Johnson to Conan. I guess I do it unconsciously. Maybe it’s just because I, too, really want to be like Gary Cooper at the end of the movie: standing on the dock, listening to the music with my arm around my daughter, and letting the boat sail away without me.
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Copyright Film Society of Lincoln Center May/Jun 1982