With both my wife and daughter out of the apartment, last evening, my 15-year-old son Oliver and I were left to our own devices, so to speak, so we ordered in some Chinese food and decided to watch a movie. Usually, this has meant umpteenth viewings of any number of Marvel Universe films or installments in the “Star Wars” series. While I am entirely cool with both of those options, when opportunities have arisen, I’ve tried to broaden my son’s cinematic horizons with further-flung fare. Last year, I introduced him to both the subterranean thrills of 1974’s “The Taking of Pelham 123” (the original, not the Travolta ripoff) and the Kafka-esque, comedic nightmare of Scorsese’s “After Hours” (my favorite film of all time), both of which he was engaged by and warmed to. Seeking to further expand his viewing, last night I dangled the prospects of three crucial films before him, namely “Blade Runner,” “Apocalypse Now” and Walter Hill’s 1979 classic, “The Warriors.” Oliver opted for the latter, so we dug into our beef with broccoli and settled in.
Now. I’ve written about my love of “The Warriors” here numerous times (see links below), so it’s almost impossible for me to be objective about the film at this very late stage in the proceedings, but it was interesting to watch Oliver soak it in. In all fairness, even to die-hard fanboys like myself, what seemed like a palpably edgy and unvarnished portrayal of a violent and lawless urban dystopia in 1979 has not really retained its aura of nervy realism. As I mentioned before, there is inarguably an unwittingly campy element to the film, as well as a relative wholesomeness (despite the odd homophobic rejoinder and crude sexual innuendo, there is not even the slightest whiff of drug use or racial tension, even on the allegedly big bad streets of late-`70s New York City). Admittedly, there is that uncomfortable scene in Riverside Park wherein foul-mouthed Ajax basically attempts to roughly have his way with undercover cop Mercedes Reuhl, but he gets a nightstick in the groin for that, so there are at least consequences for his indefensible actions.
But for all the film's tension, imminently quotable dialogue and stylized depictions of nocturnal combat, Oliver’s observations were cuttingly insightful, calling into question several plot points that, in my practically life-long avowal of the movie, even I had managed to overlook.
Oliver was primarily incredulous that the tough-guy protagonists in Coney Island’s Warriors were all presumably native New Yorkers, yet all seemed largely incapable of navigating the intricacies of their own city’s mass transit system. Now, it could be indeed argued that, at the time, New York was so atomized and localized to the point wherein residents of certain boroughs simply never left their own turf, but the hapless Warriors are completely flummoxed even in locating the Dyre Avenue subway station they only recently disembarked from. Never mind running the gauntlet home from the Bronx, how did these guys manage to find their way around on normal days?
Personally speaking, I don’t believe I started riding the subways until I was a freshman in high school, but in relatively short order, I was perfectly able to distinguish uptown from downtown and fully capable of getting myself from East 96th Street to Union Square — continually misrepresented by certain Warriors in the film as “Union Station” — without being confused or hassled. Now, granted, I wasn’t being pursued by baseball-bat-wielding brigands, but the stress of being hunted by roaming gangs doesn’t preclude one from remembering topographical basics.
This nagging complaint with the narrative almost derailed Oliver’s enjoyment of the film, prompting him to suggest other subway lines and/or alternative routes they might have taken to the relative safety of their Brooklyn destination. Beyond that, he was also curious as two why director Walter Hill chose to film the Warriors' first encounter with the Baseball Furies at the intersection of West 72nd and Broadway, when the shot prior found them getting off the subway at 96th street.
While these were absolutely valid points, I basically told Oliver to relax and enjoy the movie, which he eventually did. But, privately, I felt a sense of accomplishment. When my kids were relatively little, I frequently made it a point to take them to as many remote corners of the city as was feasible. My intention was not only to showcase all the great things the city has on offer to them, but to instill within them an inherent understanding of where things are, how to get to (and away) from them, and always how best to find their ways home, ideally without having to “bop” anybody or “waste any heads” along the way.
More About "The Warriors” on Flaming Pablum.
Let's Get Down To It, Boppers: Exhuming "The Warriors"
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