At the core of Jeff Nichols’ latest film, The Bikeriders, lies a question: can a social group expand in perpetuity, or will it ultimately collapse under the weight of its own gravitational pull? The group in question is the fictional Vandals, a Chicago-based motorcycle club led by Johnny (Tom Hardy). And the answer is, well, no, at least not in the sense that the club can retain its precepts and the founding members and manage all of the outside-state affiliates who devise their own internal codes and hierarchies.
For Johnny, who formed the Vandals after watching László Benedek’s 1953 film The Wild One, starring a leather-clad Marlon Brando, the Vandals are a brotherhood built around mutual support in the form of endless days and nights spent at the club bar. They partake of relatively good-natured rabblerousing and, of course, traversing the open road — much to the chagrin of law enforcement. The image of Brando’s Johnny Strabler represents an ideal — never mind how the rest of Benedek’s film plays out — one that has trouble being reconciled with the real world and all of its complex, often dispiriting designs. Nothing lasts forever.
Nichols, piecing together a narrative from Lyon’s images and interviews, creates a collage-like homage to these outsiders and does his best not to impose too inorganic a story on this group of people who would likely not approve of narrative or any other constraints. Instead, the film often comes across as hagiography, eschewing details that might otherwise be deemed distasteful in favor of a languorously romantic experience.
At the core of Jeff Nichols‘ latest film, The Bikeriders, lies a question: can a social group expand in perpetuity, or will it ultimately collapse under the weight of its own gravitational pull? The group in question is the fictional Vandals, a Chicago-based motorcycle club led by Johnny (Tom Hardy). And the answer is, well, no, at least not in the sense that the club can retain its precepts and the founding members and manage all of the outside-state affiliates who devise their own internal codes and hierarchies.
For Johnny, who formed the Vandals after watching László Benedek’s 1953 film The Wild One, starring a leather-clad Marlon Brando, the Vandals are a brotherhood built around mutual support in the form of endless days and nights spent at the club bar. They partake of relatively good-natured rabblerousing and, of course, traversing the open road — much to the chagrin of law enforcement. The image of Brando’s Johnny Strabler represents an ideal — never mind how the rest of Benedek’s film plays out — one that has trouble being reconciled with the real world and all of its complex, often dispiriting designs. Nothing lasts forever.
Nichols, piecing together a narrative from Lyon’s images and interviews, creates a collage-like homage to these outsiders and does his best not to impose too inorganic a story on this group of people who would likely not approve of narrative or any other constraints. Instead, the film often comes across as hagiography, eschewing details that might otherwise be deemed distasteful in favor of a languorously romantic experience.
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