The Car is a masterpiece of genre filmmaking and it should be talked about in the same league as Duel or Christine , two other killer car movies that have moved into more mainstream conversations. And with all the negative reviews out there, it’s worth sticking up for the care that was taken on this movie.
First, the performances. James Brolin (Wade Parent) leads an ensemble of small-town characters who each shine in their own ways. Brolin is superb as a loving girl dad who exudes both warmth and responsibility. His character traits (and motivations) are enhanced by Kathleen Lloyd, playing his girlfriend, Lauren. Their chemistry is electric, and Lloyd practically steals the show with her brand of unconventional humor and progressive attitude. Furthermore, the script provides genuine moments for Lloyd to flex her chops: her taunting the car from the cemetery is a stand-out scene of ostensible comedy laced with menace.
Rounding out the cast are characters such as old-timer sheriff Everett (John Marley); Native police officers Chas (Henry O’Brien) and Donna (Geraldine Keams); drunk bastard Amos (R.G. Armstrong); and Luke (Ronny Cox), Wade’s righthand man battling alcoholic demons. The mark of a great ensemble is when each character rides the line between being memorable but never stealing focus. (See Maximum Overdrive for an example of a poor ensemble.)
Additional credit to the creative team for casting more than one Native actor; and, too, to the script for handling the elements of indigenous spiritualism as respectfully as you could hope for. Chas, the Native deputy, interviews an elderly Navajo woman who claims she saw no driver in the car. He doesn’t believe her (or doesn’t want to?). This tension is loaded with meaning: generational divide, skepticism vs. spiritualism, Chas’s disconnect with his heritage (the woman doesn’t even speak English while he’s become a cop – an enforcer of systemic oppression). Against the backdrop of the American Indian Movement in the 1970s, horror films often portrayed Native in “magical” roles; however, The Car is more interested in pushing back on this trope. For examples of two-dimensional Native representation see Prophecy (1979) or Orca (1977).
But perhaps the true stand-out performance is that of the car itself. The stunt work is impressive, but it’s the direction that imbues the vehicle with its threat: using the wind as a harbinger is spooky as hell, letting the camera linger on a darkened tunnel while the car lurks unseen is chilling, and each murder is a blend of style and cold-bloodedness. Like watching a realistic slasher movie, perhaps the horror lies in the possibility that a car could actually turn you into hamburger. The direction (by veteran Elliot Silverstein) also makes sure the car isn’t a one-trick pony; it kills in both loud and quiet ways. When it gently nudges the door closed on the deputy atop the mountain and when it annihilates a beloved character in her home are both equally harrowing moments; each exemplify the movie’s ability to elicit fear in different ways. Plus, the use of dust, smoke, and exhaust is another smart conceit to enhance our subconscious fears by blinding our judgements; the dust is not just an imagery hell, but a manifestation of perception blurring and reality going up in smoke.
Speaking of imagery, The Car is a religious allegory if there ever was one. The aforementioned skepticism vs. belief that Chas wrestles with is shared with his colleague Luke, a man of faith plagued by his insecurities exemplified by the bottle. One of the more emotionally devastating scenes is when Wade calls Luke into the room to presumably lambast him for not calling off the parade (which resulted in the deaths of at least two people!). However, when Luke breaks down and says “it’s just too much to handle” Wade sympathizes in a powerful moment of grace. The most overt religious symbol, however, is the film’s climax: after the car has exploded into hellfire a gleaming sunrise closes out the picture. All against the backdrop of the red-rock canyons – another evocative imagery of the bowels of hell. And I would be amiss if I did not mention the cinematography that captures that hellscape in vivid wide shots that ironically serve to pinpoint the specific location of the car on the horizon.
What more can I say? The Car works so well because the screenplay is tight: there’s not a wasted line. This allows the actors to play it to the hilt without fear of absurdity (see The Swarm for an example of a bad screenplay played with conviction). The Car also works because the director knows how to elicit horror and maintain fidelity to the life-and-death stakes.
The Car is a masterpiece of genre filmmaking and it should be talked about in the same league as Duel or Christine , two other killer car movies that have moved into more mainstream conversations.
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