Oh, the romantic stoicism of the Western frontier. It was the birthplace of a myth of manhood and intrepid destiny that defined a nation and a culture. It came to symbolize a coming of age, both national and personal which has permeated our self image for over 150 years. It is the idea of individual perseverance and the role of physical labor and tradition which has been seen as the bedrock of traditional American morality, and to which director Dayton has returned time and again in his narratives. In Rivals he drops that legendary trope directly into the swirling materialistic void of disco-age modern urban high-school.
When the patriarch of a Wyoming sheep ranching family dies, his family returns to the mother’s home city. The story from here on is concerned almost exclusively with Adam (co-producer Stewart Peterson) the eldest son and cipher of the idealized American West myth. His arrival in Los Angeles initiates a profound clash of cultural values, and the question of the nature and definition of historical progress as it plays out in the juvenile hijinks of 3rd period science class. Director Dayton knows that every piece of thought provoking cinema should build a tension between possibility and probability, between myth and reality. If it is to be called a “film” rather than just a “flick”, a movie has to develop a dichotomy between what we want, and what we can realistically have. It must mix the viewers own internal conflict with that of the protagonist; a conflict between his desire to be liked and his desire to do good works.
Rivals is precisely one such film. Adam is a cleansing angel, stepped from the pages of a storybook to remind us that we modern slobs lost our way. The faith and honesty of a simpler, more tactile way of life mythologized in the rural West and from which we have strayed, is our only possible salvation. Justifiably singled out by his morally inferior peers as the “new kid” and a hick to boot, Adam must prove himself superior to the vindictive and vain behavior of the local cool guy, Clyde “Clutch” Turner.
Yes, it sounds as if someone accidentally switched the names on these two characters, but it must be recalled that Adam is an emissary of the Eden that is a Wyoming sheep ranch and as such he represents a more “pure”, pre-corrupt state of humanity. He is mythologized ideal (and blonde!) subsumed in the seething cauldron of venality that is the Los Angeles public education system. The question however is, will Adam retain his rugged but gentle stoicism after being locked in an outhouse and bleated at derisively by Clutch and his boneheaded sidekicks Gimper and Sludge?
I have no personal experience with monster trucks. I have never been to a monster truck show and so, the only way I can make an assessment is through secondary sources. My impressions of monster truck culture are filtered through other people’s interpretations. They tell me what they think is interesting or important or fun about the event. Television advertisements for monster truck shows I assume, are intended to appeal to a slightly wider audience than the typical attendee. People who like something will consume it because they already know its merits. But you do have to present it in a format that will be comfortable to the established audience. 
As such, my understanding of monster trucks is based on the accounts of people I know who have gone, and a handful of advertisements. From the former I have learned that monster truck shows are very, very loud, almost deafeningly so. Additionally I have been led to believe that monster truck shows are mostly just a stadium full of drunk redneck fistfights with trucks in the background. Understandably most of us notice the most shocking aspects of any experience, those things farthest outside our personal “normalcy”, and are likely to overemphasize those things in retelling. Hence it may be an artifact of cultural experience that all of the eyewitnesses whom I have talked to emphasize the overwhelming presence of rednecks and/or hillbillies brawling in the stands at monster truck shows. 
that it was simply monster trucks and other cars driving over and through stuff and then wrecking, machines pushed to cartoonish extremes. The tape lays this bare. I expected copious accidents, broken shit and wrecks, and I got them. But if this tape is really the primary source I believe it is, then clearly the breaking and wrecks are as much par for the course as the wheelies and crushed station wagons. There really is no such thing as a “blooper” in a niche field defined by boisterous extremes.
protagonists in their cathedral of consumption, is to commit the same error Romero himself criticizes; the failure to question the nature of truth. Denial, especially within the post-modern meta-academic delusion is still not any kind of solution. To really experience Dawn of the Dead you need to look outside of the mall, through the keyholes at the outside world. To really experience Dawn of the Dead, you need Iron City Beer.
And this was just my goal when I invited some of my closest friends over for a night of flannel shirts, work boots and Pittsburgh’s finest lager, and most importantly a viewing of George Romero’s 1978 masterpiece Dawn of the Dead. The first time I saw Dawn was both prophetic and comedic for the same reason, and probably only to me. Nevertheless by that time I had tasted my first beer, and loved it, and by my third viewing had become intrigued by the scene in which the protagonists fled the city in Stephen’s stolen rotary-wing aircraft. As they pass over the pastoral farming landscape of southwestern Pennsylvania Stephen mutters, “Those rednecks are probably enjoying the whole thing.” (00:19:15)
Subsequent shots of the rednecks in question showed that his assessment was more than likely correct. But they weren’t just having fun, they were drinking Iron City Beer and having fun. Somehow in a bizarre twist of meta-perception, these guys really were enjoying the Dawn of the Dead. Unlike our protagonists who, by the time I had worked all this out mentally were already moping around in their mall. They were enjoying it the way I wanted to enjoy it; in participatory fashion.
was for all intents and purposes a relic of a bygone era. Nevertheless it stuck in a corner of my brain and stayed there. And a good thing too, since ten years later working-class ironic-cool managed to drag Iron City out to the west coast in the wake of its better known “award’ winning competitor. My plan upon seeing it on retail shelves in my neighborhood was to really experience Dawn of the Dead along with my closest friends. For this event we would need the obvious stockpile; a gaggle or three of Iron City mortar-round bottles. Thusly provisioned by the local grocery mart, we safely ensconced ourselves in the house and settled in for an evening of watery lager and overt cinematic metaphors.
As elected representative of those present, I can safely declare the event a success. As it turned out, Iron City Beer had absolutely nothing to contribute to the experience unless you count innumerable bathroom visits and a shitty, shitty hangover. Based on personal experience I’ll wager that by the time the next Day of the Dead rolled around those rednecks were in pain. Fortunately for Romero and Dawn, the film remains awesome and its subtle cultural criticisms as timely as ever. It’s one of those few from its time that can be watched again and again given enough lapse time, and still reveal a new experience. Clearly those rednecks had one thing right though, to experience Dawn of the Dead you need good company.
Thanks to Phill, Amanda, Anna and Regis for sitting through this one with me.
His first decision is to trust the two attractive women and the old guy in a robe who rescue him. These total strangers offer him limitless riches and sex if only he’ll “do the right thing” which he interprets to mean crushing and suffocating his co-workers to death and robbing and strangling his harpy of a wife.
I bought this movie based almost exclusively on the bad cover art which turned out to be deceptively accurate. It’s the title that doesn’t make much sense. It did make me think of a boob-sprinkled Aussie Cannibal Apocalypse plot, the trauma of tiger cages in ‘Nam and viral cannibalism replaced with hillbilly sodomy and shallow male fantasy. (guilty) The money is thrown in there just to round out the insanity. C’mon, hot Aussie nympho twins isn’t possibly enough to make a guy crazy right, but it will save a movie.
A Japanese clamshell VHS and an Italian DVD. I like the distributors logo on the VHS.
A UK VHS clamshell insert from It's Only A Movie(.co.uk).
were thinking when the crispy tinsel look was considered attractive. It is beyond my ability to understand. This entire setting is bizarre, a sort of vortex of affluent whitetrashy conservatism where the storefronts all look hokey frontier style and the female teachers alternately sport yee-ha mullets and victorian beehives (see below) amongst a hive of palatial mansions.
another young teacher and complains about it later that night. The next day the school principal also warns her, but this potentially interesting plot thread is quickly forgotten in favor of personal hygene. Taking a bath to ease the stress of accusatory scrutiny, Shari exposes a bit more than intended, but the bum at the window doesn’t mind. In
fact he considers it encouragement and walks right in to the unlocked house. He finds Shari in a special toweling off position that he also finds encouraging for some reason, god only knows, so he tries to rape her.
Worst Enemy (Park Overall) left, and Cathy (Shari Shattuck) discussing the finer points of grave robbery.
