Anyone who has witnessed the Clint Eastwood led, redneck fever dream, Every Which Way But Loose, might be forgiven for thinking that this time capsule to a period where casual brawling, wall to wall Country & Western ballards and comedy neo-Nazis was nothing more than a hallucination brought on from huffing paint fumes or topping your pizza off with the wrong kind of mushrooms. However, in 1980, its existence was confirmed and cemented when the staggeringly profitable story of a bare-knuckle fighter and his ape got a similarly jaw-dropping sequel in the form of Any Which Way You Can – but where could the ballard of Philo Beddoe possibly go next? Well, to the nearest bar for a start…
However, as dated, politically incorrect and borderline offensive as a lot of this malarkey is these days, can Philo, Clyde and the gang manage to conjure up enough goofy, hard-bitten charm to power through? Repeat after me: right turn Clyde.
A couple of years after ace bare knuckle fighter Philo Beddoe threw his big fight with Tank Murdoch, the squinty bruiser realizes it’s time to think about retiring as he’s starting to enjoy the pain getting battered with unprotected fists is starting to bring. So with his faithful brother, Orville, and his even more faithful orangutan buddy, Clyde, he plans to get as big a payday as he’s ever had for a single fight and then focus solely on his mechanic business. However, after achieving that after flattening the face of his latest challenger, Philo still has a sizable, woman-shaped hole inside of that inpenetrable, crusty exterior and for some inexplicable reason, that woman proves to be the ballard warbling singer, Lynn Halsey-Taylor.
For those not in the know, Lynn caught the eye of old Philo during the meandering plot of the first film, but after our hero managed to track her down in order to admit to her that she makes him feel feelings, the twist was she’s been making a habit of wooing random guys on the road for her own needs. However, in a complete 180° of her previous mindset, Lynn has seen the error of her bed hopping ways and wants to get back with Philo, which he promptly agrees to do without much of a dramatic struggle.
With that over and done with, Philo has to worry about a few other factors in his life. For a start, the bumbling biker gang, the Black Widows, have decided to get revenge on our two-fisted hero for numerous past slights and on top of that, unscrupulous, hardcore undesirables are pushing him to fight Jack Wilson, a new breed of fighter who has come from the East Coast. Despite a hefty payday that comes with such a brawl, the fact that Wilson has killed one opponent and beaten another into a vegetative state give Beddoe’s loved ones cold feet. But instead of worrying about himself, Philo’s far more concerned about getting Clyde laid to care – it’s good to think of your friends, I guess…
In an episode during the Mike J. Nelson era of cult show, Mystery Science Theatre 3000, drunken henchmen Brain Guy and Professor Bobo put out a question for the ages that would no doubt stump even the greatest scholars of our times: which is the better ape movie – Every Which Way But Loose or Any Which Way You Can?
Obviously it’s a joke question (head baddie Pearl Forrester skillfully counters with Dunston Checks In), but while having to choose between the two is hardly an agonising decision worthy of Sophie’s Choice, a clear headed, unbiased watch clearly denotes the second movie as the superior entry. For a start, all the things you probably loved about the movies if you’re old enough to have caught them on TV when you were younger actually all come from Any Which Way, rather than Every Which Way. Clyde shitting in police cars, the Black Widows donning ridiculous wigs after being all stripped bald thanks to a soak in wet tar, the final brawl being stupidly epic – even the legendary “right turn Clyde” running joke – all of them come from Buddy Van Horn’s sequel that wisely dispenses with the original’s curiously snail-like pace and punches up the laughs with a whole bunch of set pieces featuring Eastwood’s hairiest co-star. Watching an orangutan get up to such shenanigans as punch traffic cops in the face with impunity, rip apart a car with his bare paws and (checks notes) attempts to seduce a female orangutan with a drugged banana, may not be the height of civilised hilarity, but it sure as shit made me laugh.
Likewise, the sequel benefits from having more going on in the plot department other than Sondra Locke being a duplicitous bitch by actually having a rather intriguing “frenemy” in the shape of William Smith’s Jack Wilson, a man who is oddly refined and honorable despite having the worlds most intimidating moustache. Also, even though the villainous subplot that sees suited crooks kidnap Lynn in order to guarantee that Philo comes out of retirement feels like it’s veering into Canonball Run territory, at least it’s doing a little more than just bombarding us with questionable Country & Western lyrics.
Oh, but don’t worry, there’s still plenty of that too, as we get yet another string of interminable ballads that glorify everything from drunk driving to banging as many chicks as you can after serving in ‘Nam. However, even these pale into insignificance at the sight of Locke crooning quite possibly one of the worse songs I’ve ever heard that include such creepy, borderline pornographic lyrics as “Is your love too loose or is mine too tight?’ which I’m assuming was the WAP of its day.
Still, it certainly fits the atmosphere of the piece as Any Which Way You Can stands tall as one of the most uncontrollably horny family movies in history where literally everyone is desperate to get their end away by any means possible. This point is thrust home during a bravura moment where Philo, Clyde and even Ruth Gordon’s volcanic Ma all get laid at the same motel at the same time, which also sees Anne Ramsey successfully getting it on with her husband – and if Mama Frattelli from The Goonies can “get bizzay”, then anyone can.
Modern viewers may be utterly stunned at some of the dated attitudes flying around this movie like so many fist, but among a fifty year-old Eastwood randomly trying to show off his masculinity in ways that would make Kitk Douglas feel self conscious, a happy ending for the Nazi biker gang and some blatent misogyny that could raise Betty Friedan from the dead, the movie is still kind of sweet in a dumb, shit-in-a-police-car kind of way. There’s laughs here, that’s true, but this movie isn’t afraid to get them (pause for effect) any which way it can.
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