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Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Action!
By Kevin John
A friend recently suggested that the action film has taken over the mantle of
the Western, "but it hasn't assumed the enormous responsibilities that go with
succeeding to the throne of the most cinematic of all genres." If indeed that's
the case, then we have to ask ourselves what those responsibilities are. We could
easily enumerate the myths and anxieties the Western fueled (or fuels, I would
say, but that's another subject).
But what drives the action flick? In many cases,
cars. Clearly, the action flick is fueling some sort of fantasy of motion. But
what is particularly static or sticky in contemporary American society that the
action flick is responding to?
Let's look at "Speed" for some preliminary answers. "Speed" unquestionably moved
me... down. The top of the theatre seat was well above my head throughout most
of the film and I'm 6'2". But I don't think the intensity I felt was due solely
to the randomness of a city bus held hostage, the fact that you or I could have
been on it. Rather, it was exhilarating to see a city bus move that fast, to
watch Bullock ignore all the stops and stop lights in order to maintain a speed
of 55 mph (for a brilliant essay on public transportation, see Sikivu Hutchinson's
great chapter "Waiting for the Bus" in Imagining Transit: Race, Gender, and
Transportation Politics in Los Angeles). But the herky-jerky nature of public
transportation seems to have infected all forms of transportation. In most major
cities, the car has succumbed to Marshall McLuhan's notion of reversal in relation
to technology. Increasingly, cars don't do what they're supposed to do (i.e.,
go), even in the 'burbs. So it might be instructive to focus on places in action
flicks too — where exactly can one be gone in 60 seconds?
Then again, I recently had the chance to revisit "Speed" and it didn't hit me
as hard. That might have something to do with the fact I've made the drive between
Milwaukee and Montréal (30 hours round trip) several times over the past two
years. Those drives are action flick enough for me, what with the fear of waking
up in a ditch or dealing with Nazi immigration officials and border troopers
or seeing terrifying twister-like patterns in the worst rain imaginable or veering
away from debris falling off the truck a few miles ahead or praying those deer
on the side of the road stay right where they are or stopping every so often
to scrape the snow that's become caked onto the headlights or wondering why there
are such mind-fuckingly bad drivers on that dreary stretch between Toronto and
Montréal. Add to this the fact that the car was frequently stuffed to the back
of our necks with personal items and two cats and suddenly the "need" for haunted
houses, roller coasters and action flicks dissipates. It reminds me of that
old joke about amusement parks. Q: "What was the scariest ride?" A: "The ride
there." The world simply becomes a scarier place for some people as they grow
older, rendering action flicks (and perhaps we should throw in slasher flicks)
either boring or unbearable.
But can we conceptualize action flicks only in relation to an (at least theoretically) temporary
condition of youth? Do slasher flicks only palm off of an adolescent disgust with the body? And does
anyone want to put in a good word for heavy metal? Maybe next time.
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