Misunderstood Masterpieces: Death Race 2000
Posted by Will Helm on 06.28.2005
…or, Grandma Got Run Over by a Cult Film
Much like today, back in the 1970s, gasoline prices and lack of supply were a major issue and worry in the United States. Long lines and rationing became commonplace as OPEC strangled the economy with their petroleum monopoly. Of course, American car companies weren’t helping either; the Big Three – General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler – had engineered themselves into a corner, designing and marketing giant steel gas-guzzlers instead of the more efficient cars being brought to the market by Japanese rivals Honda, Toyota, and the like. The American “car culture” – an integral part of the shifting of American society from the Baby Boom to the “Me” Generation – was taking broadside hit after broadside hit and looked to be in despair. Perhaps a film could reinvigorate the pride of a nation and send them back to the roadways confident and secure with their environment-destroying vehicles, knowing that, by sucking the world dry of fossil fuels, they’re doing their part for patriotism. Perhaps a movie could boost the flagging morale of a nation seeing its economy embattled by the whims of a few recalcitrant sheiks. Unfortunately, Death Race 2000 is not that movie.
Released in 1975 and produced by our old friend, Roger Corman, Death Race 2000 continues our foray into the dystopian future – remember, 2000 was the future in 1975 – this time a future where the car reigns supreme and a select few drivers are worshipped as heroes. You see, these drivers are competitors in the titular Death Race, a contest combining speed, skill, and body counts. In addition to its savagery, the Death Race is also a significant part of the popular culture of the time; imagine American Idol – or the national Idol of your choice – with far more bloodshed and you’ve got it. Directed by noted cult art-house auteur Paul Bartel and featuring the star of Kung Fu David Carradine and (until a year later) little-known goomba actor Sylvester Stallone, Death Race 2000 definitely fits the bill as a cult film of the decade . . .but is it as entertaining as our last study? Allow me to be the judge of that . . .
Probably because the concept for the movie sounds like something cribbed from a stoned teenager’s notebook, we get some cursory opening credits that appear to be drawn in colored pencil. Now that’s low-fi! And then, because everyone loves trumpets, we cut to a fanfare which segues into “Hail to the Chief.” Hmm . . . now there’s a ditty you rarely hear anymore; although, if it were played today, it would probably be the same as it is here: sinister and dystopian. After the coronets sound, some president/pope/emperor guy (Bill Morley) addresses the crowd assembled at a random motor speedway with a hand-drawn, “futuristic” backdrop. For some reason, he talks about Spartacus; I guess he – unlike me – is a big fan of Kubrick. After the guy in white’s short, forgettable speech, a swingin’ reporter (“The Real” Don Steele) and his brainless, pandering cohort (Joyce Jameson) introduce us to the reason for all the pageantry: the annual cross-country, all-American Death Race!
And just who is going to be competing this year? Well, just wait and I’ll tell you. He’s going to tell . . . SHUT UP! Oh, I hate it when that happens. Anyway, first to the starting line is HOT CHICK cowgirl Calamity Jane (Mary Woronov), with her bull-themed car and a dimwitted navigator by her side. Meanwhile, in a mysterious hospital, Dr. Paul Bartel – obviously taking a break from directing – announces that the recent surgery on lauded driver Frankenstein (Carradine) was a success and he wheels out his patient on a covered gurney. After the sheet is pulled, Frankenstein Vader is loosed upon the world! He miraculously gets up and stumbles down a white corridor that looks suspiciously out of THX-1138 or even the blockade running Corellian Corvette from Star Wars . . . wait, I mean Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope. Or even the end of Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith. But you didn’t hear that spoiler from me. No sir.
Anyway, back at the raceway, next to the gate is HOT CHICK Neo-Nazi (from Milwaukee) Matilda the Hun (Roberta Collins), accompanied by her nerdy navigator Herman (Fred “Rep. Gopher” Grandy). Following closely behind is eternal loser and prettyboy Nero the Hero (Martin “Cobra Kai – Never Die” Kove); meanwhile, Frankenstein – who must’ve run fairly quickly from the hospital to the raceway – meets with his new navigator, some random HOT CHICK (Simone Griffeth) named Annie. Sadly, she doesn’t have a bright orange ‘fro . . . then again, that hairstyle isn’t terribly aerodynamic. Anyway, next up is stereotypical Chicago gangster “Machine Gun” Joe Viterbo (Stallone), who also happens to be Frankenstein’s main rival and arch-nemesis. Joe, unhappy with the crowd’s reception to his arrival, sprays a few rounds from his tommy-gun in their direction. Not Tommy Gunn, though . . . that was Rocky V. Finally, just as the champion usually does, Frankenstein drives up to the line bolstered by the crowd’s adulation. Joe, not as happy to see his enemy there, spits on Frank’s car. Ooh! That’ll teach ‘em!
While the contestants idle at the starting line, the coverage cuts to the President (Sandy McCallum) – I guess the guy earlier WASN’T the president – who’s comfortably vacationing in – apparently – Xanadu. Then again, his summer PALACE is in China, so it makes sense. The President, oddly presciently, speaks with a quasi-religious fervor and tone . . . and then he starts the Death Race. Irony, isn’t it? Next thing you know, he’ll start a war in the Middle East on specious grounds. As the contest begins, some monotonous reporter guy anchors the coverage from a studio right out of the ‘70s. Meanwhile, on the roads of New Jersey – watch out for all that damned Meadowlands traffic – the combatants jostle for position while we get close-ups of their faces for “dramatic effect.” Or, more appropriately, so that we can be confused enough to think that they’re really driving those cars, instead of highly trained, highly paid stunt drivers. Sorry, movie, but that kind of thing doesn’t work on me.
After the jockeying for advantage subsides, the racers split up to go along their preferred routes; the break in the action allows the President a chance to bore us all with a bit of backstory. From this day forward, sir, you shall be known as President Exposition. Then again, wouldn’t that be a perfect nickname for Bill Clinton? Yeeow! I’m an equal opportunity bad-joke-teller! While the President prattles on and on, some Bolsheviks, who are apparently headquartered in an abandoned factory, complain about his benevolent rule. Interestingly enough, it is revealed that one of their number is in the race . . . and it’s Frankenstein’s rookie navigator! Dum-dum-DUM! Speaking of Frankenstein, Annie, tired of watching the road, starts interrogating her partner as to his mythic injuries, most of which involve losing – and then having reattached – limbs. He humors her for a bit, until she asks him to take off his mask! Sacrilege! Oddly enough, he lets her do it and . . . well, it’s just David Carradine dressed up as The Gimp from Pulp Fiction. Pretty anticlimactic, wouldn’t you say?
Over on the roads of North Jersey, Joe castrates a construction worker . . . and then puts him out of his misery. Sadly, the swingin’ reporter informs us, as well as the viewing audience, that the first victim was a little too young, so Joe missed out on some good points by about two years. Just how are the points tallied? Just wait for a bit and I’ll tell you. Anyway, Frank, wishing to test Annie’s mettle, tells her to go back and fix something . . . on the moving car! Who does he think she is, R2-D2? Annie, wanting to prove herself and earn Frank’s trust, actually does it and survives to tell the tale. While the cars head into the Pennsylvania wilderness, the monotone anchor from earlier in the picture gives us a rundown of the convoluted scoring system. To sum up: women are worth more than men, and kids and old people are worth most of all. I guess the race, in all, is a good way to cull the week from the strong. Matilda the Hun would be proud.
In the middle of, I guess, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Calamity Jane goes off road to take out a poor-man’s matador. Instead of ending up a smudge on Jane’s front fender, the guy actually bullfights her car, with generally successful results . . . until she finally gores him. Oops. While the swingin’ reporter celebrates Jane’s kill, I wonder just how they’re able to get cameras wherever a kill is going to occur. Perhaps the President is Rupert Murdoch; it’s just a thought. Outside some random, non-descript hospital, nurses and doctors line up scores of wheelchair-bound elderly as fodder for the race, knowing full well the drivers can’t pass up a score like that. Of course, their plans are foiled when Frank shows his sense of humor – and perhaps a softer side – by running down the doctors and nurses and leaving the old people there to wonder just how they’re going to get back in the hospital in time for Matlock.
While the plethora of bloodshed and gore runs rampant on the streets, the Bolsheviks argue tactics in their factory lair. Hmm . . . just like the liberals; arguing among themselves when they should be united against a common cause. Where’s Howard Dean when you need him? Perhaps I speak too soon as some old lady – Thomasina Paine (Harriet Medin) to be exact – scolds her comrades and tells them all that she wants peace and not more bloodshed. Oddly, she then seems to change her mind as some of her compatriots assassinate Nero . . . by enticing him with a pastoral picnic and then blowing him up with an exploding baby. Cobra Kai – oops, he died. And here I would’ve thought he’d stab himself in the neck or get Johnny Lawrence to sweep the leg.
While the government helpfully covers up the circumstances of Nero’s death, the fake Barbara Walters reporter from earlier interviews the widow of the construction worker that Joe emasculated at the start of the race. In addition to national sympathy and some good old American face-time, the widow (Darla McDonnell) also receives some fabulous cash and prizes! Before there can be much rejoicing, the Bolsheviks, using equipment seemingly borrowed from Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory, break into the television signal. Thomasina Paine, leader of the rebels, gives a speech to the captive audience . . . in black and white. Seriously, it almost looks like a newsreel; I’m half waiting for some guy with a shrill, clipped voice to suddenly go “Dateline – Formosa! The Reds have Chiang Kai-shek on the run!” Anyway, Ms. Paine – which would’ve been a great name for a driver in the race – outlines the desires of her movement: a return to good, old-fashioned American values, like Pat Boone and The Lawrence Welk Show. Oh . . . speaking of Lawrence Welk, a few days ago I was flipping through the channels and happened to catch a bit of Lawrence Welk on PBS. First, onstage was a black tap-dancer – the same guy that was always on – and probably the only black to ever set foot on that stage. But that wasn’t the shocking thing; instead, the most surprising element of the show was the name of the main sponsor, in giant letters, over the band . . . G-E-R-I-T-O-L. Fitting, don’t you think? Anyway, the drivers, as well as the viewers at home, hear the speech and Annie, since we all know she’s an insider, asks Frank what he thinks about it. Frank, terse individual that he is, just says that he wants to win, politics be damned. Now there’s a damned fine American zombie for you.
On the road to the first rest stop in St. Louis, Matilda runs over two guys and Joe takes revenge on some dude hanging a banner welcoming Frankenstein to that fair city. Once in St. Louis, the racers relax while a funeral is held for their fallen combatant, Nero. They even have his car – or the remains thereof – in a space in the garage. I don’t know whether that’s touching . . . or really funny. I’ll vote the latter. The government, not wanting to let on that there’s a bit of dissention in the nation – even though the Bolsheviks broke into the television signal earlier in the film – want the facts of the case of Nero’s demise covered up . . . but Joe wants the truth! The government agent, channeling Nathan Jessep, infers that Joe – glorified hoodlum that he is – can’t handle the truth. Meanwhile, while the racers get much-needed massages – except for Frankenstein because he’s legendarily spare parts – fake Barbara Walters interviews Matilda. Our favorite HOT CHICK Hun has a few unkind words to say about her fellow racers, so Jane, on the table next to her, takes exception . . . and they have a naked CATFIGHT! Damn . . . where’s Joey Styles when you need him?
While fake Barbara Walters breaks up the nude romp, Frank spies Joe and Annie chatting together; Frank, in order to get Joe away from his navigator, puts the moves on Joe’s ditzy moll navigator (Louisa Moritz). Joe gets all jealous and breaks away from his conversation with Annie . . . which is, of course, what Frank was planning all along. He’s a crafty freak, he is. After saving Annie from Joe’s greasy clutches, Frank takes a breather outside, where some groupie accosts him and tell him that she has an empathic connection with him. Meanwhile, I think he might want to get a restraining order. It’s not so bad, though, as she simply tells Frank that all of his fans are proud of him, and then she bids him adieu. Later that evening, Frank meets with Annie in her room; he confesses that he’s jealous of her contact with Joe earlier in the day, but he then apologizes for his feelings . . . and strips. Annie, since she is a young, naïve Bolshevik, gets all hot and bothered, so they slow dance together. Frankenstein: hopeless romantic. Somehow, Frank ends up with his mask back on and then Annie ends up with nothing on so, of course, they get it on.
The next day, the President’s pope guy starts off the second leg of the race with a benediction; after the drivers get going, Frank doubles back and runs over the pope guy because Frank “dropped his glove.” No word on whether or not Mark Furman put it there. Instead of mourning the fall of a great statesman and religious leader, the reporters assigned to the race instead debate whether or not the points will count for the kill. Isn’t that so wonderfully post-modern? Much to Joe’s chagrin, the race officials – not including the now-deceased pope guy – award the points to Frankenstein, making it open season on government officials as well as random pedestrians. Speaking of random – well, not-so-random – pedestrians, on the road out of Missouri Frank runs over his apparently sacrificial groupie from earlier in the picture while Jane takes out an elderly greaser who had the audacity to play chicken with her Bull. Rest in peace, Kenickie.
Elsewhere, Joe and his empty-headed navigator argue, as she thinks that the route Annie gave him earlier in the picture is fake; Joe, since he’s not about to listen to some dim-bulb dame, takes it anyway. Meanwhile, Annie tells Frank to take a detour in order to drive through a prison; perhaps it’s a ruse as, somewhere ahead, the Bolsheviks set up a trap. Frank, unfazed by the attempt on his life and livelihood, drives right through the trap and some guy that’s dressed like him. Either that, or it was a meeting of the League of Gimps. In the middle of nowhere, Joe freaks out since he’s on the wrong road and lost, hopelessly lost. Frank, elsewhere, is suspicious of Annie . . . or is he? He decides to let her drive for a bit, so he pulls over and they switch sides. Don’t worry; this little bit of minutia becomes important later.
Joe, still lost – hopelessly lost, ambles through some woods until he meets a nitwit hayseed fisherman. The fisherman, after helpfully dispensing with some directions, mistakes Joe for Frankenstein so Joe thanks him by chasing him through the river – in his car while the fisherman is on foot, mind you – and making fish food out of him. The trout are going to eat good tonight! On another random, nondescript road, Matilda kills Jane’s navigator, who was outside of the car doing . . . something. Jane, with REVENGE on her mind, gives chase . . . while Classical music plays in the background. Sadly, it isn’t Wagner, which would be appropriate considering who the antagonist is. Matilda, utilizing the power of her Love Boat copilot, loses Jane in some mud. Meanwhile, some Bolsheviks set up a fake tunnel and detour farther down the road. Matilda, fresh from eluding Jane’s ire, impetuously takes the detour . . . and drives over a cliff! Death by Wile E. Coyote! The government, as before, covers up the death; you don’t want popular opinion turning against the race when things aren’t going their way, do you? That’s almost as crazy as changing horses in midstream.
Farther down the road, Annie has a chance to make a kill, but she chickens out at the last minute and swerves to miss a kid in overalls and an orange satin shirt. Oh, come on, Annie; you could have rescued this kid from his fashion nightmare! Frankenstein, since he’s more philosophical than you would expect a homicidal racer to be, says it ain’t easy bein’ a killer. Kermit the Frog would be . . . frightened. Frankenstein, later, has Annie stop the car so that she can switch sides with him once again; instead of taking the driver’s seat quickly and efficiently, Frank has Annie stand in front of the car so that he can question her about her true origins. It’s here that she confesses that she’s an insider . . . and Thomasina Paine’s granddaughter! Dum-dum-DUM! She then reveals the Bolshevik’s master plan – kidnapping Frankenstein and holding him for ransom until their demands are met by the President – and Frank, object of their plot, just laughs it off. He’s one cool dude . . . even though he’s wearing black rubber and leather in the desert. That takes some skill. Just ask Michael Knight.
That evening, the racers party down in Albuquerque, and then they make small talk over dinner. Joe, since he’s the rebellious sort, wants the government to provide escorts for the rest of the race to help ensure the drivers’ safety; the government agent on hand refuses, so all the racers respond by becoming vociferously defiant. Joe, specifically, flies into a rage, wherein he throws food at the government agent and then smashes a lowly musician’s violin. Meanwhile, in the hallway outside the ballroom, some other government agents question Frankenstein about his altercation with the rebels earlier; he doesn’t tell them anything about Annie, showing that he might just be a softy at heart. If he still has a heart after all those surgeries, mind you. Later, the President takes to the airwaves to address the recent issues with the Death Race; he says that, since America rules, other countries are jealous . . . and he specifically blames Europe and, in particular, France. Hmm . . . making France a scapegoat . . . where have I heard that before? Death Race 2000: disturbingly prescient.
That night, Joe finds Annie in the garage doing something or other with Frank’s car. Instead of asking her what she’s doing, Joe elects to exact some payback for Annie’s ruse back in St. Louis, so he tries to strangle her for her treachery. Frank, protective of his incognito navigator, finds Joe trying to choke the life out of her and they fight! Frankenstein, with the power of modern medicine and – probably – cybernetics behind him, pummels Joe; either that, or it’s the Kung Fu. We can’t forget that it’s Grasshopper in that gimp outfit. After the scuffle subsides, Frank and Annie walk off, leaving Joe behind to swear REVENGE! Upstairs, Frank questions Annie about what’s really going on around there; instead of answering his queries, Annie just gets naked. Ah . . . a wily gambit . . . and successful as Frank gets all philosophical about his lot in life and reveals that he’s just a generic guy in a mask and Frankenstein is just a character portrayed by several different men throughout the years. Ah, just like Tiger Mask. After bearing his soul to a quite nude Annie, Frankenstein and she get it on again.
At the start of the third phase of the race, Jane is diplomatic toward her fellow drivers, but Joe spurns her cordial well-wishes and then runs over his own pit crew. Joe, seeking the advantage, follows Frankenstein’s car; it’s really not an issue, though, as Frankenstein may have the lead, but Joe has the points. Meanwhile, the laggard Jane runs afoul of some motorcycle greasers; they lead her off the road and then, after she dispatches them, she joins them by rolling over a land mine. Oh well. Back in Frankenstein’s car, he tells her to get something; he uses that ruse to slip something into her drink. It’s just in time too, as the Bolsheviks track Frankenstein and their militant wing is confident that they will capture him . . . this time. The old lady, perhaps skeptical, perhaps joining for moral support, decides to tag along on the mission. On the road, Annie passes out . . . geez, Frankenstein! She’s given herself to you willingly on more than one occasion; you don’t need to break out the Rohypnol now! Before Frank can pull over and do Annie dirty, the rebels’ plane shows up on the scene and chases Frank through the desert. While Joe watches contentedly from a nearby cliff, the Bolsheviks attempt to bomb Frankenstein’s car; they also set their sights on Joe as well, showing that their equal-opportunity militants. Meanwhile, a Greenpeace car chases Frankenstein, but it blows up just as quickly as it arrived. See . . . I knew the French were involved! The pursuit of Frankenstein goes on a bit too long but, just as I say that, the plane runs into a mountain and the President, just as before, blames it on the French. Damned Frogs.
After the tumult, Annie wakes up, unaffected by her drugging. She’s regretful for her comrades’ failure, so she tries to drive the car off a cliff. Frank, not wanting to die – at least that way – talks some sense into her, since he wants her help. You see, Frankenstein’s and Annie’s motives aren’t very different. She wishes to bring America back to its roots; Frankenstein, meanwhile, just wants to kill the President with his “hand” grenade. Seriously . . . Frankenstein has a grenade embedded in a prosthetic hand! How novel! Meanwhile, farther up the road, Joe can sense the finish line close up ahead . . . but Frank is right behind him! The two drivers jostle their way through the California desert on the way to Los Angeles – ahem, “New” Los Angeles – and Joe gains the upper hand (no pun intended considering what’s coming up soon) by laying down an oil slick on the road. Hmm . . . what does he think this is? Spy Hunter? I do miss that game, though. Frank spins, but recovers, and Annie responds by throwing the “hand” grenade into Joe’s car. The next thing you know, it’s goodbye Joe and clear sailing – well, driving – to Los Angeles.
Once in L.A., Annie reveals that she’s got a plan. I wonder what it could be. Anyway, on the grandstand, the President – in the flesh – addresses the crowd . . . and still blames the French. Geez, dude, let it go. Then go get yourself some “freedom” fries. Frankenstein ambles onto the stage to join the President in victory . . . and then the old lady shoots Frankenstein! OK . . . wait a minute. I thought she was a pacifist. And I’m also surprised that her arthritis allowed her to pull the trigger. Wonders never cease, I suppose. Anyway, while the government agents take the old lady into custody, Frankenstein’s mask is pulled away to reveal . . . ANNIE! Dum-dum-DUM! Frankenstein, hiding in the car all along, rams the President’s stage at full speed and, somehow, impales the President along the way. And the bloodthirsty crowd goes wild! Sometime later, Frankenstein and Annie marry – her name is actually mentioned as “Annie Frankenstein” – and he’s also the new President. His platform: he brings back democracy, hires the old lady as a cabinet member, and abolishes the Death Race. The swingin’ reporter, now looking to be out of a job, protests President Frankenstein’s decision, so Frankenstein runs him down. We then end with a helpful anthropology lesson . . . just because.
Alright, I have to be honest; it’s about this point where I’m starting to realize the endearing qualities of the cult film. Like its predecessor last week, Death Race 2000 is far from a good film, yet it’s just so damned entertaining. Thoroughly campy and never taking itself too seriously, Death Race 2000 overcomes its (many) faults as a picture and is actually a decent flick . . . in its own, cult-film way. Is it great? Of course not. But, like The Warriors, it is a Misunderstood Masterpiece . . . and I’ve used the same closing two weeks in a row. Help me.
Join us next week to see if modern filmmakers can recapture the magic of the ‘70s dystopian cult film in a recent remake! No matter what, it promises to be EXTREME! See you then!
