1% MC biker gangs of the 1950s, 60s and 70s were not integrated and were segregated to white males only. Goody Two Shoes (Michael Beach), would not have been a black man. Most 1% MC biker gangs follow these same rules to this day. See more »
Now give me a hand with this. Cause I got things to go and places to do.
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A glitzy, slick, 80 minute music video cash-in on Grindhouse that captures none of the grindhouse spirit
Because that's what Hell Ride pretty much is. Larry Bishop and Tarantino partying on the Weinstein's money with the promise to deliver a movie sometime down the line. But did we really need the movie? There's nothing worse than the reheated second-hand leftovers of an old trend. And I'm not even talking about 70's grindhouse cinema because Hell Ride has none of the raw and unpolished feel of the era it purports to pay homage to. No, this is slick and glossy MTV Hollywood through and through. The old trend I'm talking about is the self-consciously pseudo-hip quirky cinematic world where Tarantino meets Guy Ritchie and Robert Rodriguez. All three guys were at least talented and found success for a reason. Hell Ride is just a second-hand copy, fickle and uninspired, polished to the max when it should be raw, the "supercool" aspect coming off forced and silly.
There's no reason for example why such a simple and utterly inane story has to be told in convoluted, back-and-forth in time fashion. It's just a post-Tarantino quirk. There's also no reason why the dialogues have to be so mind-numbingly pointless, people flapping their gums while saying NOTHING: at least when Travolta was talking about cheeseburgers in Pulp Fiction it felt fresh. Dialogues here amount to little more than pseudo-macho posturing. There's also no reason why a grating rock'n'roll guitar has to twangle aimlessly over the entire movie. Perhaps the lowest Hell Ride hits is when it tries to be quasi-existential. There's a hilarious dream/illusion scene in the desert where Bishop eats peyote and sees colours. I was half- expecting an old Indian to come out and offer nuggets of wisdom.
The only saving grace of this abysmal turd is the boobs and Vinnie Jones' monologue about his wings tattooes (and maybe some of the desert exterior shots). Now that's something I can get behind but a movie they don't make. Everything else is just an empty shell, an imitation of other infinitely more talented imitators.
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