Director - Elliot Silverstein

Starring the ridiculously 70’s masculine James Brolin (Westworld) as a county sheriff in a little town somewhere in New Mexico. Not really, though because I checked, and they made it up, but whatever.

There’s a little town in the desert, and a couple of groping age kids go on a little bicycle ride to do just that no doubt, but they are mercilessly run off the road and plunge to their deaths. An irritating French-horn-playing hippie trying to thumb a ride near a local dust farm gets himself plowed under by a huge car. The owner of the farm, a meaty-faced, balding, wife-beating neanderthal is the only witness. None of this makes any kind of sense to Brolin and his deputies. There’s no apparent pattern, and they have no recourse but to get tanked at the local cantina. While they’re crossing the street, from nowhere, The Car flies down the street, splattering Deputy Everett all over the pavement. Conveniently the surly witness is there again, and identifies it as the same Car. I wouldn’t have guessed it, but that is one damn threatening vehicle, and this film is shot exactly the way that thrillers should be.

During the band rehearsal at the local public school, The Car appears to decimate the children, but a vigilant deputy gets out a warning, and Brolin’s girlfriend Lauren, one of the teachers, is able to get the kids to safety within a cemetery which The Car is strangely unable to enter. Lauren taunts The Car mercilessly, eliciting a furious and terrifying response. Wow! The coppers arrive in time to trap The Car, or so they think, but The Car laughs at them, it effin’ laughs! Jeezus! The Car cuts loose on the overconfident cops, escaping and greasing them all piecemeal with the exception of Brolin, who very nearly gets his man hands on the door latch. Knocked unconscious, Brolin ends up in the hospital and sends Lauren to take care of his two children at home. Her escort, Deputy Chaz (Henry O’Brien) drops her off so he can go check up on his own seed, but oh, OH, OH MY GOD! What the…! This is effin’ wild! No holds barred, it’s instantaneous and merciless.

It’s hard to describe how classic this film is, it’s a wonder it’s not better known. It’s certainly better done than other similar poop feasts. A remarkably even-keeled portrayal of Native Americans may have some bearing on that. But the women, my word, Margie Johnson (Elizabeth Thompson) is about to set some kind of record the way she’s straining her duds running around. If the girls in New Mexico were as hot as Margie, or The Car, I swear I’d eat all 1,500 miles of dirt road to move my depraved ass back down there.

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