The Bikeriders starts in the middle of its own story. A man in a “Chicago Vandals” jacket, head hanging over the bar counter.
“You can’t be wearing no colors in this neighborhood,” someone threatens, to which he replies: “You’d have to kill me to get this jacket off of me.”
The man, Benny, approaches most things in his life with this same kind of fervor. His wife, Kathy, describes Benny camping out in her front yard until her boyfriend at the time packed up his car and left.
It’s through Kathy’s eyes that we come to know the Vandals: The leader, Johnny; his right hand, Brucie; and a menagerie of other club members — Cockroach, Zipco, Cal, Funny Sonny, Corky and Wahoo, to name a few. Kathy, with varying levels of exasperation, takes us through the club’s rise and fall over her interviews with Danny, the photojournalist meant to represent the author of “The Bikeriders,” the book on which the film is based.
Johnny’s vision for the club starts simply enough — just guys talking about bikes. But, as The Vandals grow, he realizes what he’s created might have become impossible to control.
The first, most obvious thing to say about “The Bikeriders” is that it’s gorgeous.
The beauty and effectiveness of Danny Lyon’s photography translates perfectly to film. Although an article by the Smithsonian reports 70% of the film’s dialogue is taken from Lyon’s interviews, you could almost watch this movie with the sound off.
Color, light and framing are used so beautifully here it’s hard not to spend the whole review geeking out. Stoplights, bars and midwestern houses and parking lots become art pieces, dioramas of the tumultuous life of a “bikerider.”
Beyond the surface, though, I’m not sure how to feel about this movie.
When Kathy says Johnny got the idea for the club while watching TV, we cut to him staring, enraptured, as 1953’s “The Wild One” plays in his living room. “Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against?” The girl in the movie asks. Marlon Brando replies, “Whaddaya got?”
This listlessness, this sense that Johnny doesn’t have any purpose in mind, that the club doesn’t have much of a point, permeates the film. For me, it extended to the movie itself: At the beginning I thought life in a motorcycle gang would be exciting but dangerous, and by the end I thought the exact same thing.
Maybe it’s Kathy’s perspective leaking through the narration, but the deaths in this movie are, as a rule, abrupt and stupid. Once the shock wore off, I found myself wondering, “What was that all for?”
For all the glamor and power being a bikerider supposedly grants, they don’t die for great causes or in blazes of glory. The end is a car in reverse, an empty parking lot.
“The Bikeriders” is gorgeous and exciting, but doesn’t appear to say very much. Maybe that’s exactly what it’s saying.
Other stories by Caroline
Caroline Julstrom, intern, may be reached at 218-855-5851 or cjulstrom@brainerddispatch.com.
