Hot Rods To Hell

 

“These kids have nowhere to go and they want to get there at 150 miles an hour”: a familiar plaint, hardly reworked, but given some cult appeal by occasionally-interesting director Brahm and ditto veteran Andrews, as a father laid up by a Christmas-time car smash. Thus, he spends much of the film pathetically clutching his back, stiff-lipped in self-loathing at the loss of manhood, as he relocates his family from Boston to the desert to take over running a remote motel.

Wouldn’t you know, on the way they’re buzzed by punk-kid hot-rodders out for kicks, and the motel coffee shop turns out to be a hopping roadhouse for underage booze and boobs. The kids ain’t gonna let no old square spoil their fun and besides, their leader sure likes the look of Andrews’ ripe and wide-eyed daughter, this much to the annoyance of his own trampy girlfriend (Farmer), all twitching mouth and crazy eyes, apparently on the perpetual verge of climax.

A lot of the movie falls short: once poised and lovely, Jeanne Crain defaults to overwrought at every opportunity as the wife; there’s a dour traffic cop who spouts road safety homilies; and neither Andrews’ accent nor eyeliner can really be explained. There’s also from a sad lack hot rod fetish shots, but otherwise all the predictable notes are struck. The film-making is perfunctory, and it’s at least a half hour too long. This is a movie made by the squares, but they're old pros at least, and intentional or not, there’s enough kitsch, hysteria, and ridiculous lines to ensure a highly enjoyable time.

d John Brahm p Sam Katzman sc Robert E. Kent ph Lloyd Ahern Sr. ed Ben Lewis ad George W. Davis, Merrill Pye m Fred Karger cast Dana Andrews, Jeanne Crain, Mimsy Farmer, Laurie Mock, Paul Bertoya, Gene Kirkwood, Mickey Rooney Jr.
(USA 1967, 92m)