How fast'll she run? That depends on who's around.

February was pretty productive given the run up to the Academy Awards. I took a little time off writing this week as I caught up on some TV shows I'd been neglecting and started watching Berlin Alexanderplatz. A mix of pleasure and self-flagellation. I've had this dude on the back-burner for a little while. A must-see:

Two-Lane Blacktop (1971, Dir. Monte Hellman) --94/100--

The Driver: James Taylor (yes, that James Taylor.)

The Mechanic: Dennis Wilson (yes, that Dennis Wilson.) 

The Trusty Steed: A souped-up steel-gray stallion of a ’55 Chevy. 

Damn. I think it’s safe to say, looking back, that the car is waaay more badass than either of its pilots. 

The boys roam from town to town hustling pickup races for their nigh unbeatable beast. The irascible Warren Oates steals the show as the shit-talking pilot of a shiny new, canary-yellow GTO, with an always-changing backstory and an ever-evolving destination. The boys prod GTO into a mano a mano cross-country race for pink slips, with frequent stops to navel-gaze the American condition. As usual, a free-spirited girl (Laurie Bird, aka "The Girl") gets involved, rattles their brotherhood, and basically louses up the works.

Given the basic sketch of the story, it's important to note that this is not a Cannonball Run deal where wild car chases and unrealistic stunts win the day, and by the end we're not really concerned who wins the race. The real drive, where the rubber meets the road, is in the constantly shifting dynamics between the four main characters. Through numerous booze and repair-induced pit stops, brushes with the cops, and run-ins with untrusting locals, the boys connect with GTO, then disconnect just as quickly, and we get a unique glimpse at their outsider perspective.

Often considered an also-ran to Easy Rider, in my opinion Two-Lane Blacktop runs right with it as a document of the wayward wandering of youth as symbolized by motorheads rambling out on the open road. Mostly uninterested in drug culture, by eschewing psychedelica in favor of growling engines offset with doses of quiet introspection it delivers a raw, honest rootlessness. It is an entirely essential piece of the Man Canon. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go check the points. Color me gone, baby!