Savage Streets (1984)

Director: Danny Steinmann
18 | 1hr 33min | Action, Exploitation, Thriller

By the early 1980s, Linda Blair’s onscreen career had kind of hit the skids. A former child model who shot to international fame as the peewee star of William Friedkin’s supernatural horror The Exorcist, her sweet-faced innocence had long since faded, replaced by wanton drug abuse, high-profile arrests and a brief fling with womanising funkster Rick James, a man up to his neck in narcotics-fuelled skulduggery. Ms. Blair would even pose for a raunchy spread in pornographic magazine Oui to the delight and disgust of a generation. Adorable she may have been, but Linda’s days of wooing the mainstream with her cherub charms were well and truly over.

With Ronald Reagan’s wholly superficial and gobsmackingly hypocritical war on drugs on the horizon, Blair’s uncouth blossoming was deemed something of a tragedy, but it must be hard shedding that child star stigma, especially when audiences remember you as the little sweetheart who overcame the most shocking instance of demonic possession ever committed to celluloid. Released just prior to the ‘Son of Sam’ murders and the resultant moral hysteria that was the ‘Satanic Panic’, The Exorcist wasn’t your typical horror movie. Asides from the controversy surrounding it, it was one of the most groundbreaking, high-profile movies the genre had ever known, and a twelve-year-old Blair was the unfortunate face of it.

Scenes of crucifix-aided, preteen masturbation were unheard of, tarnishing the saleability of Blair’s cutesy image going forward. Child stars weren’t typically cast for their acting abilities in the early 70s. They were chosen on a purely aesthetic basis, which, coupled with her monumental rise to fame and inevitable downfall, is presumably why she spent the rest of the decade confined to roles in TV movies. The critical failure that was 1977’s Exorcist II: The Heretic didn’t help her cause, nor did the fact that, at the age of 15, Blair was exposed to an industry awash with glamour drug cocaine as the infamous crack epidemic prepared to sweep America.

On December 20th, 1977, six months after the release of Exorcist II, Blair was one of 32 people charged with conspiracy to commit a felony in the alleged sale and purchase of cocaine. One and a half pounds of pure, uncut cocaine was discovered in the luggage of two men cited as the operation’s ring leaders, with a further two pounds seized by Houston authorities, the estimated street value of the confiscated drugs adding up to approximately $3,500,000. Blair was released on bail after a plea of not guilty, but you have to wonder if the authorities would have been so lenient were it not for her stature and the first class legal aid that it invariably brings. Regardless, Blair was on a slippery slope made even more treacherous by a growing public spotlight.

Rather than embark on an image-cleansing crusade, Blair would embrace the red hot sleaze of slasherdom with 1981’s Hell Night, before slipping into the ignominious realms of exploitation; first with German/American ‘women-in-prison’ movie Chained Heat and then with Danny Steinmann’s notorious vigilante thriller Savage Streets. Whatever your opinion of a movie that is up to its neck in dishonour, Blair is scintillating as the sex symbol crusader forced into a murderous killing spree following the rape of her deaf sister and the subsequent murder of her pregnant, soon-to-be-married best friend. As you probably know or can tell by such a crude, full-throttle synopsis, Savage Streets isn’t a movie renown for its subtleties, a fact that the actress coolly personifies.

In an era brimming with urban vigilante clones in the Dirty Harry mode — most notably Charles Bronson’s relentless purveyor of death Paul Kersey, who, backed by the less-than-respectable Cannon Films and Michael Winner’s take-no-prisoners approach to controversy, sunk the already dubious morals of the Death Wish series to glorious new lows — it seemed like the next logical step for a star who had become unashamedly embroiled in real-life misconduct. It was a monumental fall from grace for anyone unattuned to the grimy delights of trash cinema, but for those at home in the sticky isles of grindhouse theatres, it was a transformation of sheer badassery.

Savage Streets will likely repel the more conventional moviegoer, but those who harbour an unhealthy fascination with cinematic sleaze are in for a treat. Blair oozes charisma as the vengeance-seeking Brenda, the movie playing out like a balls-out assault on male chauvinism, even if the sexually motivated and deeply misogynistic setup radiates like a used tampon tossed unceremoniously into the wastebasket. When pushed, Brenda is a remorseless kill factory, as terrifying as the devil-made Regan and perhaps just a little meaner. Kicking ass in the Pam Grier mode, she is a furious middle finger to prudish censorship, laying waste to a rabble of unconscionable macho dipshits with a hard-assed insouciance that is positively spellbinding against a muted neon palette of grainy, B-movie aesthetics.

Savage Streets is one of the great exploitation flicks, the kind you can imagine Quentin Tarantino watching for hours on end behind the counter of Video Archives in Manhattan Beach, California, a once iconic haunt where many of his ideas were formed. This is crude dialogue, senseless murder, protracted gang rape and then some. In terms of graphic violence, it may appear tame by today’s standards, but its smutty aura and dishonourable intent more than make up for it. Blair is inspired casting: a newly fallen personality who, rather than hiding behind the pratfalls of the industry and pleading forgiveness, roars into the sordid spotlight like an uneasy rider whacked out on biker grade meth.

Of course, you have to embrace Savage Streets for what it is. You’re not going to find any traditional merit in director Danny Steinmann’s transparent punt at video nasty infamy. The film was even enough to land Blair the notorious Razzie Award for Worst Actress, going up against the likes of Bridgette Nielsen (Red Sonja) and A View to a Kill‘s Tanya Roberts as she accumulated three nominations in a single night. Despite Blair’s newfound cult status, it must have hurt a little during her most introspective moments. When you’ve worked with an innovative pro like Friedkin, starring in one of the horror genre’s most critically acclaimed films, the likes of Steinmann must have been a real wake-up call, or would have been had they not shared certain habits.

Steinmann’s next movie was franchise anomaly Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning, a film that not only validated series critics by reneging on Paramount’s disingenuous Friday the 13th Part IV: The Final Chapter proclamation, but also pissed off Jason fans by replacing him with an impostor killer in a lame, yet retrospectively enjoyable attempt to keep the lolly rolling in. Stars Melanie Kinnaman, Dick Wieand and Tom Morga would all claim that Steinmann spent much of A New Beginning‘s production riding the wave of a cocaine binge, so out of his mind that cinematographer Stephen Posey was forced to fill in and direct certain scenes, so you can probably imagine the unbridled chaos that is Savage Streets.

Savage Streets also stars exploitation sweetheart Linnea Quigley as Brenda’s ill-fated mute sibling, who goes above and beyond in one of the most intentionally sick and mean-spirited scenes of any era. Here, Quigley drops the scream queen façade for a much grimmer role that required at least a modicum of genuine acting ability, or at the very least a personal tragedy or two to fall back on. Of course, her performance was of little importance. Casting the sleazy pin-up as a handicapped teenager who is subjected to a painstaking scene of unabashed misogyny and crude emotional manipulation is about as low as it gets. It is also a savvy slice of marketing that taps into our most repressed desires, the kind that would see the censoring bodies emerge, flaming from the darkness as festive slasher Silent Night, Deadly Night, released the following month, was unceremoniously pulled from theatres after protests from parents groups pertaining to primetime ads that presented Santa in all of his bloodthirsty, axe-wielding glory.

If the 80s was the decade of soulless decadence, then this is a murky window into the proclivities of a morally corrupt society of unbridled excess, a Bret Easton Ellis era of deadening narcotics indulgence, ruthless personal gratification and rampant sexual despondency. This is further embellished by a suitably soulless soundtrack written and performed by Aussie pop sensation John Farnham, whose hollow sentiments galvanise the movie’s big-haired, neon saturation. Picture the cast of Grease stripped to their briefs and high on crack cocaine, naked fights in the high school showers and a slimy headteacher doing his utmost to get into his students’ knickers. That’s Savage Streets in a nutshell.

In Brenda’s world, high school kids lead double lives as drug pushing street punks with a penchant for murder and public molestation. Even Brenda, a relative goody two shoes to begin with, is the leader of a gang of bad girls who guzzle quarts of brandy and cream over copies of Playgirl while out trawling the city streets. When psychopathic male gang the Scars accidentally run over Brenda’s sister Heather, the girls decide to steal their cherished convertible and go for a joy ride, an act of vandalism that proves to be their first mistake. Their second mistake occurs at a local dance hall when future bride Francine defends herself against Scar leader Jake (Robert Dryer), a fact that sees him graduate from unscrupulous bully to stone cold killer, resulting in one of the most astoundingly blunt and unexpected murders ever committed to celluloid.

Just when you think Jake’s incredulous act of violence is impossible to top, Brenda, her sister still recovering in hospital while the cops sit around scratching their asses, decides to turn up the heat, undergoing a quite incredible physical and mental transformation for the film’s all-important final act. Think Olivia Newton John’s Sandy Olsson with the volume cranked to ear-bleeding levels. Her vengeance-driven charge from buxom badass to remorseless killing machine make her real-life escapades seem like child’s play. The catsuit-sporting vigilante even seems to call on her experience as the possessed Reagan for a merciless, stalk-and-slash finale that smartly taps into the still hugely popular slasher in one of the few non-horror films that both she and Quigley have starred in, cackling like an evil sorceress as she goes to work with an arsenal of bear traps, crossbows and switchblades, the movie predictably glamourizing the very violence it is supposed to be condemning.

Charlie Bronson eat your heart out!

Wanna Ride, Lady?

There are murders, and then there are murders.

After shopping for her wedding dress in the kind of blatant, sympathy-squeezing scene you would expect from a maudlin daytime soap opera, the soon-to-be-married Francine flees the pursuing Scars, only to become trapped on a highway bridge which is completely empty and obviously closed for filming.

Moments later, after pleading with the gang for her life, Francine is gorilla pressed pro wrestling style onto the highway fifty feet below and unceremoniously turned into roadkill.

“Here comes the bride. She’s all drenched in red.”

That’ll teach her!

Sympathy for the Devil

There’s always one bad guy that isn’t really bad at all, and they always get their undeserved comeuppance.

Admittedly, undeserved may be pushing it in the case of peer-pressured weasel and Scar whipping boy Vince, who only took part in the gang rape of Quigley’s deeply unfortunate soul Heather because the big kids made him (high school in the world of Danny Steinmann is much different than I remember).

Forced to reveal the Scars’ hideout by a knife-wielding Brenda, Vince is later hunted down by gang leader Jake, who stalks his victim by car along an alleyway in the dead of night. Senselessly turning on his headlights, Jake immediately alerts Vince to his presence before careening towards him from a distance. Luckily, Vince chooses to scream ‘Noooooooo!’  for an inordinate amount of time instead of simply stepping out of the way, a decision that results in his bloody demise.

Good, Old-Fashioned Romance

Naturally, the Scars are quite fond of a bit of the old ‘in-out, in-out,’ though foreplay isn’t really their strong suit.

Becoming duplicitously acquainted with Brenda’s deaf sister by sympathising with her over the death of her father, wild-eyed scars loon Red suddenly turns nasty when the frigid Heather recoils under his advances.

Red: (in reference to Heather’s sexual experience) Kissing your old man? That don’t count! He’s dead, and I’m alive and twitching.

Smooth!

With explicit violence, gratuitous rape and lines like ‘You like hide the salami, don’t you, Brenda. All you cunts like hide the salami,’ is not for the faint of heart, but those who delight in the unfiltered sleaze of exploitation will have a field day with the crossbow-wielding Blair. My advice to the devil is to stay well clear.

Edison Smith