Just how many different franchises of Death Race do we actually need?
For those weaned of the Paul Anderson Death Race movie (W.S., not P.T. – in case you were wondering) that prominently featured Jason Statham burning gas and kicking ass and went on to spawn three sequels mostly featuring Luke Goss; you might not know that the history of Death Race goes back a whole lot further than 2008.
Back in 1975, producer Roger Corman and director Paul Bartel gave us the bizarre satire, Death Race 2000, which gave us a very 70s look at a deranged, dystopian future that saw an overpopulated, collapsing America have their attention diverted by the bloodiest, most violent sport in history – Death Race. As such colourful lunatics such as David Carradine’s scarred Frankenstein and Sylvester Stallone’s ranting Joe “Machine Gun” Viterbo torn across the American landscape, ploughing through pedestrians for extra points, it took a sideways glance at society at its most messed up. Well guess what – the original satirical premise is back thanks to Roger Corman bankrolling an official sequel, Death Race 2050. Can it reach the same, unhinged speeds as the original?
Fifty years after we last looked in on Death Race, things have somehow gotten even worse for the battered, struggling contry known as the United Corporations Of America. Ruled by the greedy Chairman, suffering massive overpopulation and boasting a staggering 99.993% unemployment rate, most Americans remain in a vegetative state due to their reliance on virtual reality which allows them to live their meager dreams as they live in absolute squalor. One thing that always helps keep up morale and lower the population is Death Race, America’s most beloved sport that sees bloodthirsty racers burn from Old New York to New Los Angeles while being able to boost their points splattering any passers by as they go.
However, while the reigning champ, Frankenstein, is still as popular as ever despite being an apathetic misanthrope, the bionic racer has tough competition this year thanks to a clutch of crazed opponents. First there’s female cultist, Tammy the Terrorist, followed by hip hop artist Minerva Jefferson whose hit single (most prominent lyric – “Die die die!”) is conquering the charts. However, while self driving AI, ABE, could prove to be a problem, the real thorn in Frankenstein’s side will probably be the genetically engineered athlete, Jed Perfectus who is psychotically dedicated to winning and who utters such egotistical boasts as “When your DNA sleeps, it dreams of me!”.
However, as the Race gets under way and each driver gets to know their proxies (passengers who broadcast the race to the masses via VR), it seems that Frankenstein’s teammate, Annie Sullivan, has got a secondary objective that may have something to do with the resistance wanting to end Death Race forever.
While watching GJ Echternkamp’s Death Race 2050, I couldn’t help but compare it to that other sardonic dystopian sequel, John Carpenters Escape From LA. Bigger, louder and far less subtle than Escape From New York, the second coming of Snake Plissken seemed to throw caution to the wind and swap out all that understated cool for awful CGI and more campy jokes. Now, I’m not pretending that Paul Bartel’s original was an ode to restrained cool, because it really, really wasn’t – it featured Stallone driving a car mounted bowie knife into someone’s dick for God’s sake – but compared to it’s completely whacked out sequel, Death Race 2000 seems almost like a paragon of calm. Leaving virtually all subtlety dead in a ditch somewhere, Echternkamp’s follow up feels more of a straight remake that’s been juiced up with the kind of gonzo, vaudeville lunacy that usually powers your average Troma film. The effects are rudimentary, the background actors horribly untrained and the editor seems to be on some sort of violent stimulant I can’t quite place – but while 2050 feels way more Lloyd Kaufman than Roger Corman, it’s frenzied energy actually gives it the feel of one of those neo-grindhouse movies such as Hobo With A Shotgun, Father’s Day and Turbo Kid.
To those who like a more contemporary pace to their films, this orgy of insanity is about as subtle as an inhaler made out of a car exhaust, but for those tuned into it’s satirical spoofery, its full bodied – if quite exhausting – fun. Leading the pack as this iteration of Frankenstein is Sparticus’ Manu Bennett who growls and grumbles under a constant sheen of sweat, while Marci Miller gives fun, plucky, sidekick as his proxy. However, Malcolm McDowell once again proves that he’ll practically be in anything if he’s asked, as he rocks up with a big, Trumpian flap of white hair looking like he’s ready for a Idiocracy themed fancy dress party and milks the shit out of his evil overlord. Also proving that she has a rather outsized sense of humour beyond appearing in no less than three Lake Placid sequels is Yancy Butler as the leader of the resistance, who also attacks her role with maximum effort.
However, despite the fact that the humour here is unrepentantly blunt (the American flag has dollar signs on it instead of stars) and it’s satirical targets are overwhelmingly obvious, there’s quite a lot of antisocial fun to be had if you don’t take things seriously enough and a times, some of the jokes are surprisingly sharp too. A scene that sees Annie recieve a secret, hologram message while taking a shower sees her and Butler deliver their exposition with a musical tone to disguise it as singing in the shower; some of the changes to place names are pretty funny (Texas has been renamed New Texacco, Dubai is now Washington) and some of the self-obsessed rants that comes from Burt Grinstead’s Perfectus (“Why Can’t they see me as I see myself? A kind, gentle soul imprisoned by abs of steel.”) are good for a giggle.
Of course, the word of the day here is clearly “camp” as Death Race 2050 wears it’s tight production values on its sleeve with pride. The outlandish car designs have been retained, despite looking worryingly delicate and the film leans hard into recreating the wonky, retro future ascetic of the original by making its visuals look visibly shit. Of course, some will look at the endless, ropy greenscreen work, overblown performances and deliberately eccentric music choices and decidedly say “no thank you” – but trash lovers and those tired of the po-faced brutality of the remake franchise should find that this redux should put some gas in their tank.
While some of the filmmaking choices suggests that any nitrous involved went into into the crew’s lungs rather than the combustion engine, the freaky, low-budget shenanigans and whacky satire are a refreshing break from the constant greys and endless posturing of the reboot franchise that runs parallel. However, those not in the mood for obnoxious comedies featuring more than it’s fair share of bare breasts, scattered intestines and sledgehammer satire may wish to slam their viewing pleasure in reverse and grind that accelerator for all they’re worth.
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