The time: a dystopian near future where right-wing reactionary conservatism reigns supreme. A creaky, just barely together, ready for the scrapyard rattletrap World War II B-52 bomber called Uncle Slam, which has been airborne since the Vietnam war, is still doing its nutty mind-melting "psy-ops" mission, jamming local boob tube airwaves with a jarringly disruptive and disrespectful pirate program named S&M TV ("You're watching S&M TV whether you like it or not!") that's specifically designed to shock stuffy Middle American folks out of their banal, impassive, unthinking conformist complacency. Commanded by an obsessive loony outlaw captain (exuberantly played by that perennial anti-establishment fruitcake Dennis Hopper, still crazy and long-haired after all these years) and crewed by a motley bunch of zany dippy hippie drop-out misfits -- screwy electronics whiz "Doc" Tesla (merry, puckish imp Michael J. Pollard at his goony best), cranky cook/mechanic Ben (Al Matthews), sickly, throaty-voiced cripple Ace (Eugene Lipinski), rabbity co-pilot Jerry (William Armstrong), smooth womanizing reporter Sam (Derek Homby) and libidinous French lecher Claude (James Aubrey) -- the seriously burnt-out, but loyal and dedicated boys can't land until they do their patriotic duty by successfully foiling the presidential campaign of the insipidly insidious Willa Westinghouse, an uptight lady upholder of oppressive religious right beliefs who'll start World War III if she gets voted into the Whitehouse.
Directed in loopy, ramshackle, to-heck-with-subtlety-and-sophistication sledgehammer style by Maurice Phillips, given an additional invigorating shot of sugar rush-like adrenaline and vitality by the jivey, profane slang-slinging dialogue ("Honk if you're heavy!"), manic pacing, John Metcalfe's sprinting, careening, madly darting hyperactive cinematography, a spectacular blaring rock score (Jimi Hendrix, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, Derek and the Dominoes, the Kinks, Gene Pitney, Alice Cooper), an infectiously giddy and rambunctious sense of joyfully irreverent humor, a very radical left-wing revolutionary down-with-the-crummy-normal-system mentality, and vibrant performances from an enthusiastic cast, this wildly idiosyncratic sci-fi farce coasts on such a deliriously wired and cooking wave of pure anarchic energy that its retro-60's satiric crudity and sloppy cinematic technique take on an irresistibly deranged and weirdly enrapturing luster. Scott Roberts' rude, loosely structured all-over-the-sardonic map script takes hilariously broad comedic volleys at such deserving targets as phony smiley greedy televangelists, venal gung-ho army warmongers, repressive right-wing conservative political killjoys, rigidly set in their ways toe-the-line straight-arrow stiffs, smug born-again Christian drips, basically anything square and conventional in general. Sure, this film is a clunky, disjointed, frequently silly and out of control mess of a movie, but there's a wonderfully brash, nose-thumbing, middle-digit-firmly-upraised raspberry to the Man attitude presented here in full freaky force which makes this beautifully berserk baby one pleasurably far-out funky'n'funny gas to watch.
Directed in loopy, ramshackle, to-heck-with-subtlety-and-sophistication sledgehammer style by Maurice Phillips, given an additional invigorating shot of sugar rush-like adrenaline and vitality by the jivey, profane slang-slinging dialogue ("Honk if you're heavy!"), manic pacing, John Metcalfe's sprinting, careening, madly darting hyperactive cinematography, a spectacular blaring rock score (Jimi Hendrix, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, Derek and the Dominoes, the Kinks, Gene Pitney, Alice Cooper), an infectiously giddy and rambunctious sense of joyfully irreverent humor, a very radical left-wing revolutionary down-with-the-crummy-normal-system mentality, and vibrant performances from an enthusiastic cast, this wildly idiosyncratic sci-fi farce coasts on such a deliriously wired and cooking wave of pure anarchic energy that its retro-60's satiric crudity and sloppy cinematic technique take on an irresistibly deranged and weirdly enrapturing luster. Scott Roberts' rude, loosely structured all-over-the-sardonic map script takes hilariously broad comedic volleys at such deserving targets as phony smiley greedy televangelists, venal gung-ho army warmongers, repressive right-wing conservative political killjoys, rigidly set in their ways toe-the-line straight-arrow stiffs, smug born-again Christian drips, basically anything square and conventional in general. Sure, this film is a clunky, disjointed, frequently silly and out of control mess of a movie, but there's a wonderfully brash, nose-thumbing, middle-digit-firmly-upraised raspberry to the Man attitude presented here in full freaky force which makes this beautifully berserk baby one pleasurably far-out funky'n'funny gas to watch.