Do not waste two hours on ‘Cannonball Run II‘. This is not merely a bad car movie. It is a movie that has forgotten why these films existed.
The first coast-to-coast ‘mad dash’ movies grew from real American anger. Unleaded fuel, catalytic converters, five-mph bumpers and the national speed limit set to 55 had drained speed, beauty and joy from motoring. Then the 1973 oil embargo, imposed by Arab oil-exporting governments, showed Americans how quickly their land of highways, cruising and cheap gasoline could be brought to its knees, and American society so easily toppled?
Cannonball! and The Gumball Rally were pressure valves. Their drivers raced because authority told them not to. There was no trophy, no flowers, no flashbulbs, no wine. The just raced because.
By The Cannonball Run, the anger had faded. The public had accepted the new reality. At least there were still fast cars and curves to distract everyone from the surrender. Cannonball Run II completes the humiliation. Sheik Abdul ben Falafel, Hollywood’s cartoon oil billionaire, now owns the race and waves a $1-million cheque until the supposed rebels come running. The first racers defied the oil crisis. These racers work for the oil money.
The cast resembles a retirement-home variety show. The formerly famous like Burt Reynolds, Jamie Farr, Abe Vigoda, and Telly Savalas from 1970s TV wander into frame, receive recognition applause, then wait for the screenplay to supply a joke. It rarely does.
Even the cars have been demoted.
The Lamborghini-and-hot-women gag is reheated for the opening scene, now with Daisy Duke at the wheel. Then the Italian exotic breaks down and disappears. Apparently, even the Lamborghini wanted out of this movie.
The brand-new 1984 C4 Corvette is the freshest machine on screen, yet it is driven by two Rat Pack relics and somehow loses to Frank Sinatra’s front-wheel-drive Dodge Daytona. A 142-horsepower Chrysler dusting Chevrolet’s new V8 flagship is not movie magic. It is automotive perjury.
Jackie Chan’s Mitsubishi Starion is one genuine improvement: rear-wheel drive, turbocharged, blacked-out and fitted with glorious rear-window louvres. Add rocket power and it should have won the whole damned race. Instead, the director reduces it to another cheap sight gag.
Earlier films gave us Cobras, Panteras and Camaros. This one gives us luxo-barges. The sheik drives a Rolls-Royce, and an orangutan pilots a Cadillac Fleetwood. Even the heroes lumber around in a Chrysler Imperial limousine, which couldn’t have anything to do with Frank Sinatra being in this movie and also being an Imperial spokesman?
The Nova Sterling kit car, with its huge lifting canopy and backyard-supercar bodywork, is exactly the kind of strange machinery a proper car movie should celebrate. Instead, it sits in the background like a forgotten prop.
The Willow is even more insulting. Its tube-frame construction, mid-engine layout and Le Mans bodywork make it one of the most interesting vehicles in the field. It appears at the start in California, then vanishes completely.
That is because this is no longer a car film. The finish is not shown. No winner is declared. The race itself barely matters.
The revolution was not defeated.
It sold out.