The Bikeriders
Posers
Over the course of nearly a decade, from 1965 to 1973, a Midwestern motorcycle club evolves from a gathering of local outsiders into a sinister gang, threatening the original group's way of life.
Inspired by the 1968 documentary photography book of the same name by Daniel Lyon, Jody Comer plays Kathy, wife of club member Benny. Kathy acts as narrator, doing the majority of the narrative heavy lifting here as she recounts the history of the Vandals, a Chicago-based Motorcycle Club, to a young Daniel Lyon.
The Bikeriders opens with a scene that ends with a freeze frame that apes the opening of Goodfellas in a way that feels more like a rip-off than a homage. This turns out to be a good indication of what to expect from the rest of the film, as the Bikeriders is really nothing more than a string of loosely connected, very carefully dramatized anecdotes. Clearly unsure as to whether it’s more enamored with the nostalgia and romance of bygone days, or if it’s more of a cautionary tale about the dangers of not respecting the past, or maybe how power corrupts, or if it’s just a live by the gun, die by the gun kind of tale, the Bikeriders tries its best to be all of these things, but only in the most shallow of ways, so it’s also none of them. And in the end, it’s clear that the simple truth is… this film is about nothing. It’s all style and no substance.
In a nutshell, the Bikeriders might as well be a really long Levi's commercial.
Mostly what you get from the Bikeriders is a bunch of silly ”method” actors, a bunch of guys who are for realsies super serious about acting as hard as they can, all of them unabashedly committed to a wild spectrum of “Midwest” accents, and all while clad in their perfectly pegged jeans and their perfectly distressed leather jackets as they squint through the cigarette smoke, slouching around like they’re Brando in The Wild One…
And not a whole lot else.
The Bikeriders feels like one of those Suburban Dad Motorcycle Clubs, just a bunch of middle managers LARPing as a motorcycle gang on a weekend free from the wife and kids. Or maybe like a version of West Side Story where the actors take their dance-fighting way too seriously. Or like one of Max Fischer’s plays from the movie Rushmore, a production born from a sincere and full-throated love of the entire oil-stained-denim aesthetic, with its many cliches all cribbed from better films, and then presented with the smugly assured confidence of someone who, while they may not have any real experience with the subject matter, they have read a few books about it… and all done with zero idea of how obvious this is.
In short… the film feels like a poser.
Not that I know shit about MCs myself—except for the three seasons of Sons of Anarchy that I watched, of course—but I don’t think you need to when it comes to spotting the guy who walks into the bar doing a James Dean impression in a brand new leather biker jacket that he just got from Nordstroms. I mean, the story hinges on Benny, who’s never ever cried ever, because he’s just that tough, finally crying after Johnny is killed.
Even saying that sentence out loud seems so cliched and corny, and worst of all, the film really thinks that moment is some real heavy shit too, man. “Benny and Johnny? They loved each other, y’know? They was like brothers… like brothers… Benny woulda killed for Johnny. He woulda killed for him…” That line is not actually from the movie, but it might as well have been.
The Bikeriders is a shallow crapfest snoozer, but at least everyone seemed to be really enjoy themselves while making it. That’s something, I guess. And obviously, because of the cast, the film has some good performances too. But that’s the least we can expect, right, since this film is really nothing more than a wanna-be art film performance piece.
They say that when you’re out riding, you should never pass a patched rider, because you don’t want that trouble, but when it comes to The Bikeriders, in this case, it’s best to forget all about that shit, because you definitely want to pass on this one.