BY LEON CHASE

Comedies, tragedies, rated triple-X or G, if it’s got a custom van in it, I’ll sit and watch the damn thing so you won’t have to. Suggestions and recommendations are very welcome, and feel free to bitch if you think you know something I don’t. And for all you freaky burnouts with fried attention spans, each review is followed by a handy, quick-reference summary of all the vital statistics, so you’ll know at a glance if a flick’s worth getting off the couch for.

C.B. Hustlers | Corvette Summer | Creep Van
Rock ’n’ Roll High School | Supervan | The Van

C.B. Hustlers
1978

When it comes to cheap ’70s sex comedies, there are really just two types: story-driven movies with the occasional tits-and-ass scene, and tits-and-ass movies with the occasional attempt at a story. C.B. Hustlers is very much the latter. Whether or not that’s a good thing will depend largely on your willingness to sit through a steaming pile of bad acting and corny humor for a glimpse at some cool vans and a handful of grade-A vintage nudie scenes.

Even by B-movie standards, the plot of C.B. Hustlers is pretty horrendous. The concept, in theory, is the stuff that vanner dreams are made of: A gang of hot young CB-savvy prostitutes troll the truck stops of America in a pair of custom Dodge vans, code-named Hotbox One and Hotbox Two. In between tricks, they decide to stop off at a local van rally, and R-rated shenanigans ensue. From there, though, the “story” rolls downhill fast. The Hustlers’ mustachioed ringleader, Dancer—one half of the hippie couple that runs the operation—is in the midst of some kind of mid-pimp-life crisis. Apparently, the whole “making a ton of money while living in a van with a bunch of hot chicks” thing is really starting to wear him down; when he’s not ranting about wanting to settle down and live on a farm, he’s moping around the lesser scrublands of California in his patchwork bell bottoms, contemplating the sunset to the strains of some z-grade Grateful Dead ripoff. Meanwhile, a pair of bumbling “comic relief” reporters, who—in a series of painfully unfunny scenes—monitor the local C.B. airwaves in search of their next big scoop, are trying desperately to crack the story of these mysterious “C.B. Annies.” And oh yeah, there’s the creepy uptight cop, Sheriff Elrod P. Ramsey, who is obsessed with busting the vanners at their rally. Suffice it to say that neither one of these subplots really goes anywhere, and in the end they all... oh fuck it. Let’s just get straight to the sex and the vans, shall we?

First, the vans: The two main Dodges, while not over-the-top, are fine representatives of the era. It would seem that Hotbox One got the more ornate paint job, but Hotbox Two has, shall we say, a more welcoming interior. As for the “rally”—which consists of seven vans parked in a circle in a field, and a whole lotta Frisbee and beer—the vans are really sweet, but you don’t actually get to see too much of them, at least not close up.

The same, however, cannot be said about the C.B. Hustlers’ nude breasts, all of which get plenty of screen time. It’s obvious where the majority of this film’s budget went...and it wasn’t toward brassieres, I assure you. Of particular note is legendary busty softcore star Uschi Digard (billed here under the creative pseudonym Elke Vann), better known as the star of Russ Meyer’s Supervixens and Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens, among others. Let’s just say that, with all due respect, Uschi was not hired for her acting chops. What she was hired for, however, was to rip her clothes off and show off her considerable curves—a job that she does exceedingly well, framed gorgeously by the brown shag carpet and paneled doors of Hotbox Two. Uschi also gets a sex scene, culminating in what can only be described as an extended “boobs eye view” closeup. The other two Hustlers have equally fleshy moments of in-van bonin’—all shot in that lazy, stoned ’70s softcore way in which people endlessly tongue kiss, take forever to unbutton each other’s jeans, and, in at least one case, don’t even bother to take off their sunglasses.

I’m not going to complain about a bunch of nudie scenes, particularly when a performer of Uschi Digard’s magnitude is involved. But I’m surprised that, for a movie so obviously meant to capitalize on the then-huge van craze, they didn’t spend a little more time filming the vans. It’s rare that I say this, but in the case of this stinker, I really recommend that you fast-forward past all the stale story bullshit and go straight for the van and nudie shots. Still, despite all its shortcomings, it’s hard not to love a movie about custom van hookers with C.B. radios. Or, for that matter, any movie that thanks “The 18 Wheelers of Interstate 5” in its opening credits.

CUSTOM VAN COUNT: Nine. Mostly from a distance. NUDIE SHOTS: Five—all in the form of extended softcore scenes—plus a bunch of repeated “flashbacks” at the end. Also, two of the scenes feature Uschi Digard who, let’s be honest, really should count as like three mortal women. WHAT I LEARNED: If you’re going to run a traveling truckstop hooker business, make sure they all have matching t-shirts.x TIMELESS QUOTE: “Would you like to see the inside of a real groovy van with a great receiver?”

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Corvette Summer
1978

There’s a scene, about a third of the way into this movie, when a near-naked Annie Potts kicks back on the furry waterbed in the back of her very custom van and offers herself up to a virginal, terrified Mark Hamill. “Forget kissing,” she squeaks. “let’s screw.” Watching that moment, at the tender age of nine, my impressionable little mind made a monumental connection between the intriguing, off-limits realm of sexual experience and the equally mysterious, wild world of customized vans. I have never been the same.

Mark Hamill (obviously a little confused about his career after Star Wars) plays Kenny, an idealistic teenage gearhead obsessed with what has to be the most kickass auto shop project ever created — a chopped ‘n’ supercharged 1973 Corvette Stingray. The car promptly gets ripped off and Kenny, with no real family and only an older teacher to guide him, sets off by himself to hunt it down. His search brings him to Las Vegas, where he meets up with a sassy, van-driving wannabe hooker named Vanessa (get it?), played to endearingly badassed perfection by Annie Potts. Hamill is surprisingly likeable, but the real stars here are Potts and her souped-up whorehouse on wheels. Along with the aforementioned waterbed, the van features a cool “Vanessa” lettering job, the obligatory wheel flares and chrome, and some truly freaky red carpet emblazoned with the word “love” in big white letters. (This, sadly, is only visible once, so don’t blink or you’ll miss it.) My only criticism is of the bare white walls which, given the otherwise overhelming decadence of the van, seem begging of a nice fun fur job — in gray perhaps, to match the waterbed.

I should mention that, besides showcasing the obvious sex appeal of a hot van, Corvette Summer does a decent job of portraying hot rod culture in general, from the delicious muscle-laden cruising scenes (watch for the black van with the mural) to a surprisingly relevant exchange in the desert, where a slow-rolling Latino lowrider explains the philosophy of style over speed and chides Kenny for his “Anglo” taste in cars. The Corvette itself should appeal to anyone with a love of true over-the-top flashiness. Its flake ‘n’ flame paint job, shortened body, dual-feed header pipes, and absurdly overdone hood scoop definitely make it something worth obsessing over, and are a real wake-up call to most of the store-bought shit that passes for custom on the street today.

Without giving away too much of the plot (yeah, it actually has one), I’ll just say that Kenny and Vanessa go through some standard (but well-done) love/hate routines, have their obligatory “older and wiser” life experiences, and get mixed up in some refreshingly un-macho actions sequences, culminating in a pretty funny car chase through the desert. Let me also mention that, by the end, they have each other but have given up both the Corvette and the van. What’s up with that? I understand the whole maturity-equals-giving-up-childlike-obsessions line, but why is it always the vehicle that loses out? Who the hell came up with this asinine concept that true love always means giving up your sweet ride? I concede that the Corvette wasn’t technically Kenny’s to keep (it belonged to the class) and those 70s gas prices would have caught up with him eventually. But what’s so bad about the van? Holding onto that van would have enhanced the young couple’s budding love life, as well as given them both a practical and stylish place to stay. Can’t someone out there make a movie in which two people reconcile their dual fascination with sex and horsepower, and are stronger for it? If you ask me, that’s a real coming-of-age story.

CUSTOM VAN COUNT: Only two, but one is the setting for almost all the action. NUDIE SHOTS: Not much, since itís PG. You do get to see a silhouette of naked Annie Potts, for whatever thatís worth. WHAT I LEARNED: Never loan your car to Danny Bonaduce. TIMELESS QUOTE: “I drive my first car at 9. I overhaul my first transmission at 10. At 13 I turn the quarter mile in under 12 seconds. And I wait ’til now to get laid?”

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Creep Van
2012

At some point, over the past ten years ago, vans became the butt of a lot of jokes.

Not in a “Hey, weren’t the ’70s wacky!” kind of way. And not even in that tired old Chris Farley “van... down by the river” way. I’m talking about a much darker kind of joke. As in a “vans are where rapes, molestations, and murders happen” kind of way.

I’m torn. The old punk rocker in me says, “The more offensive the better. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.” But when I think about the friends I’ve made in the vanning community—and then listen to some snotnose (they’re always younger, it seems) casually associating them with some seriously heinous activities—it’s hard not to get my back up.

Regardless, it’s an unwritten law that, if an urban legend exists, eventually somebody’s going to make a direct-to-video horror movie about it. I can’t blame Creep Van for latching onto the stereotype and running with it. “Only bad people own vans,” says a mother to her child in the first scene of the movie. And the characterization doesn’t get any better from there.

The protagonist of the story, a likeable-enough young loser named Campbell, suffers from that classic middle-American dilemma: He needs a car to get to work. Enter the real “star” of the movie, the Creep Van—a filthy, rusted-out white 1975 Econoline. (That’s what IMDB says, anyway. All brand emblems are missing—probably for legal reasons.) Campbell sees the van for sale on the street and, in a series of highly unlikely fantasy sequences, envisions the van as the solution to all of life’s problems: Not only will it get him to work, but it’s somehow going to score him points with his attractive coworker Amy, and give them a place to raise a family one day. Also, more realistically: “I figured if I get fired, I can live in it.”

Unbeknownst to Campbell, the van—or rather the combination of the van and its sinister, faceless owner—has been mauling people all over town. Rigged up with a gruesome assortment of evil remote-controlled gadgets, the van, at various points in the movie, shoots spikes through a passenger’s chest, slams a persons head in its door, chops a kid’s head off with its power windows, cuts people in half with its grille, sends a parking valet crashing to his death, smashes a woman with a seatbelt/hammer combo, crashes into a house, pulverizes the obligatory sex-happy couple, and just plain runs people over. After Campbell calls the number on the van’s For Sale sign, its owner becomes obsessed with him and begins stalking him. Thanks to some zany complications involving a misplaced bag of weed, Campbell ends up enlisting the help of a sleazy yoga yuppie called Swami Ted in his fight against the increasingly persistent Creep Van. Without spoiling the ending, let’s just say that life doesn’t work out quite so great for Campbell, and that the final plot twist hinges on a title transfer.

My wife walked in on me while I was watching this movie and—based solely on the “quality” of the video and dialogue—accused me of watching gay porn. Creep Van bills itself as a horror-comedy, and it’s not wrong. This is the kind of movie that knows you’re going to laugh at it, most likely while inebriated with a group of snarky friends. The attempts at plot and comedy are pretty painful to sit through. Fans of straight-up gore, however, will not be disappointed—the violence is graphic and bloody, more cartoonish than scary. As a horror fan, I was a little disappointed in the villain—I would have actually preferred that they eliminated him completely, and made the van itself somehow possessed or self-automating, a la Christine (or even Maximum Overdrive).

It’s no coincidence that Lloyd Kauffman of Troma fame makes a cameo in this movie. (Hint: he’s the only one without a Michigan accent.) This movie has that same shiny-shitty feel to it, and, like most of the lesser Troma fare, it’s a little too self-consciously schlocky to ever be truly weird. If you’re the kind of person who can’t get enough of Toxic Avenger sequels, this movie is probably for you.

As for the subject matter, this movie is fun enough for what it is. But honestly, people: Would it kill somebody to make a positive van movie these days?

CUSTOM VAN COUNT: Technically, if you ignore its horrible appearance—and consider features like strangulation seatbelts and spike-shooting cushions as “custom”—then there’s one. NUDIE SHOTS: Four. Two featuring Cambell’s roommate’s exhibitionist girlfriend (including a montage of their ridiculously kinky sex acts), and two more in which random topless women swim around at Swami Ted’s house. There’s also an uncomfortably long shot of a grown man’s crotch in little-boy underwear, if that’s your thing. WHAT I LEARNED: It’s apparently really easy to slice a person in half. TIMELESS QUOTE: “He doesn’t want to get your lame-ass van, alright? He’s already getting a Pinto.”

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Rock ’n’ Roll High School
1979

The last time I saw this movie, a lot of things were different—not least among them the fact that the film’s stars, the Ramones, were all still alive.

The Ramones were—like Mr. Rogers or the Kool-Aid Man—one of those timeless entities I assumed would just always be around, hovering happily in the weird shadowy back alleys of mainstream consciousness. Alas, the past two years have seen the fall of the band’s mightiest members—Joey, then Dee Dee—arguably two of the wildest, ugliest white boys to stain the pages of three-chord rock history. I won’t attempt to explain the band’s rich (if sadly underpaid) legacy, except to say that, a few years back, when my then-teenaged sister was worshipping at the altar of Green Day and their lesser ilk, I bought her a copy of the Ramones Mania CD and (craggy old punk rocker that I am) threw it at her with the command to “do her homework.”

None of which does much to explain the existence of Rock ’n’ Roll High School, a corny, plodding piece of teenage weirdness that would be mostly forgettable were it not for the presence of punk rock’s mush-mouthed, glue-addled pioneers. Legend has it that this movie, produced by B-movie god Roger Corman, was originally intended for Cheap Trick—a band who, in 1979, actually was well-known and whose appearance might understandably bring a suburban high school to riot. Instead, Corman got the Ramones. The result is an amazing suspension of reality in which we are led to believe that a town full of teenagers (or rather, 30-year-olds posing as them) would go apeshit over a band who were relatively unknown to the general public and who prided themselves on their complete lack of star posturing or charisma. Add to this the fact that the band’s only non-musical onscreen appearances consist of them eating pizza, slouching awkwardly, and attempting to recite about five lines of dialogue between them, and you’ve got a movie much funnier—and ultimately more noteworthy—than its makers ever could have intended.

Unfortunately, Rock ’n’ Roll High School’s main plot has very little to do with the band, and everything to do with Riff Randell, an obnoxious, stripe-legged rocker whose favorite pastimes are worshipping the Ramones and pissing off the new Nazi-esque principal, Miss Togar (played, incidentally, by Mary Woronov, better known as Warhol superstar Penny Arcade). There’s some crap about Riff’s friend Kate, the shy nerdy girl who of course is really hot without her glasses, and a lot of horrible 3rd-grade-level gags about horny hall monitors and rock-listening mice. (This movie deserves some kind of weird credit, too, for managing to assemble the most unappealing cast of girls in ’70s Southern California.) Slightly more interesting is the plight of Tom, the blond hunk who, in his desperation to get laid, hires the help of the school’s well-connected sleazeball, Eaglebauer (played with trademark creepiness by Corman staple and career nepotist Clint Howard). Eaglebauer, in turn, enlists the aid of “Warlock,” one gorgeously customized van. (You thought I’d forgotten about that part, didn’t you?)

Warlock only appears in one scene, but damn, does it shine! The paint job incorporates about a dozen shades of red, as well as “Warlock” in bold gold lettering and an airbrushed mural depicting the van’s namesake. The interior sports several colors of velvet tuck’n’roll and deep shag, as well as beaded curtains, a color TV, a telephone, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and a waterbed with mirrored ceiling. As Tom says, “I didn’t imagine getting laid could be so expensive.”

Sadly, the van never sees any action. Nor does the rest of the movie, really, until the Ramones show up and work their retarded magic. Of particular note is Riff’s stoned fantasy sequence, in which Joey croons “I Want You Around” from the corner of her bedroom while Dee Dee plucks menacingly in the shower and Johnny and Marky just look bored. The climactic riot sequences are fun too, with the hard-rockin’ Ramones (complete with rolling drum kit) leading a mob of kids through the high school halls. The greatest non-van moments, though, come in the footage of the Ramones’ live show, where the band shines at its gangliest, most garbled, pure rock’n’roll best.

Is this a great van movie? No. Is it the best way to remember two of the greatest lost idiot savants of the 70s? Probably not. But for ass-kicking music sequences and bizarre appearances by truly legendary punk rock anti-heroes, Rock’n’Roll High School gets an “A” every time.

CUSTOM VAN COUNT: Just one, but it’s a good one. NUDIE SHOTS: None. There is a slightly gratuitous shot of a tight spandex top in the beginning, a weird gymnastics number involving lots of unflattering shorts, and and all-too-clear view of Riff in her underwear and bra. WHAT I LEARNED: The words to “Lobotomy”, thanks to some random subtitles. TIMELESS QUOTE: “We’re gonna be in town another day and if we like ’em [unintelligible]…” –Joey Ramone

Supervan
1976

I wanted so bad for this movie to be good. And at first glance, it shows signs of greatness. The flick opens with a really nice shot of a twelve-van convoy, complete with CB dialogue and an evil, addictive title song. The story is simple, and promising enough. Clint (aka Morgan the Pirate), a young, freewheelin’ owner of a tricked out sixties Ford, is on his way to the Non-Invitational Freakout, a huge van happening with a $5,000 prize. He is sidetracked when he has to rescue a young woman, Karen, from the clutches of a local biker gang. She gets saved but the van gets smashed, leaving Clint with a boring romantic subplot and no wagon to show at the freakout. Not to worry, though – his local mad-scientist van genius buddy (doesn’t everybody know at least one?) turns him on to Vandora, the Supervan – a futuristic, solar-powered van that doesn’t need gas. Of course the technology has been around for years but Mid American Motors, a major auto company (whose greedy CEO just happens to be Karen’s dad) doesn’t want the word to get out, and will stop at nothing to have the prototype destroyed. It becomes Clint’s task, then, to make it to the rally, win the prize money, expose the auto company, and begrudgingly fall in love. All the ingredients are here — loads of badass vans, sexual tension, and a healthy dose of Carter-era populism.

The problem? First of all, the acting sucks, and not even in any funny overblown B-movie kind of way. I like to think that the chosen pilot of the world’s freakiest van would have a bit more life to him, but he’s really just a grumpy dick, and his girlfriend’s not much better. Secondly — and here’s the really unforgivable part — the so-called Supervan is — how do I say this — an ugly piece of shit. The legendary George Barris (of Munstermobile and original Batmobile fame) was hired on to create this thing, but they must not have paid him much. All the details that make a custom van great – a unique paint job, a plush interior, the gaudy, flashy accessories – are sorely missing from this monstrosity. Instead we get some flimsy black plastic with way too much window, a foam egg-crate interior, and a weird electric hum whose only function seems to be to annoy the hell out of us through the entire second half of the movie. Imagine if Radio Shack built a van, and you start to get the idea. Sure, it’s fast, but if it doesn’t look good and you can’t get it on in the back, who cares?

I have this theory brewing that certain late-70s movies can be seen as inadvertent chronicles of America’s shift from the soulful idealism of the post-hippie days to the bleak conformity of the Reagan years. Supervan definitely reflects this, with its touting of a bland, efficient, supposedly “advanced” machine over other “outdated” but much cooler vehicles. (Can you say “mini van”?)

As an artifact, Supervan is mildly interesting, but I can’t say I recommend it. As is so often the case, the little background details and stupid comic-relief minor characters end up being a lot more entertaining than the main story. To it’s credit, there are a lot of cool vans (and their creepy owners) featured in the rally scenes, with loving shots of lots of wacked-out paint jobs and interiors. And the random, pointless 5 mph chase scenes are good for a laugh. If you must see this dud, watch the opening credit sequence, then fast-forward past all the boring story crap to the vanning scenes, where you’ll see some real, partying people enjoying some truly super vans.

CUSTOM VAN COUNT: I counted a whopping 86 before I went delerious and lost track. NUDIE SHOTS: Nothing overt, but 4 wet t-shirts and tons of gratuitous, barely-clad T&A. WHAT I LEARNED: Never drive onto a moving car crusher. TIMELESS QUOTE: “Keep the tires off the grass and the bears off your ass.”

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The Van
(The ’70s one, not the Irish one.)

Once upon a time, when sex was casual, production values were low, and drive-in theaters covered the earth, there was a thing called the Teen Sex Comedy. These movies — low on budget, big on female nudity, and hilariously over-acted — offered up countless variations on the same basic coming-of-age morality tale. It goes something like this: some awkward young loser, setting out selfishly to get laid, finds himself falling madly, maturely in love with that special “good” girl — but not before we get to see a whole lot of the “bad” ones. (I’ll spare you the whole Hollywood-fueled history of virgin/whore complexes behind this, but trust me, they’re there.) Take this age-old formula, add some dumb running jokes, inject it with a healthy dose of good old American vehicle worship, and you have The Van.

What bad things can I say about a movie that lasts all of 35 seconds before giving us the first of many gratuitous nudie shots? From there, the story — or what there is of it — takes off. The hero, Bobby, is fresh out of high school and has only two things on his mind: sex, and his dream van. The van comes easily enough, thanks to his graduation money. And what a van it is! Slick arrow graphics, a huge custom window, tuck ‘n’ roll interior, a waterbed, mag wheels, a toaster, 8-track player, CB radio, television, and white fur throughout. The movie wisely lingers on these features in beautiful, step-by-step detail. This sequence alone is worth seeing.

Logic dictates that, with the van, the good lovin’ will follow, but for Bobby it ain’t so easy. There are lots of tasteless, slapstick moments in which he tries pathetically to lure women into his van and is treated like the sleazy dork that he is. As if that’s not bad enough, he’s constantly picked on by his buddies at work, his parents are bugging him about his future, and he keeps having run-ins with Dugan, the local van-driving tough guy. Through all of this he finds himself obsessing over Tina, the nice, well-behaved smart girl who of course wants nothing to do with him or his childish vanning ways. His only halfway lucky moment is with an eager, hefty cashier, whose enormous ass breaks his waterbed. (I actually thought this was the hottest part, but I’m weird that way.) The sexual suggestiveness is pretty over-the-top, even for this kind of movie. At various points, Bobby sucks on a cigar during a stoplight drag race, fantasizes about his own mother, and, after bedding Sally, Dugan’s dirty girlfriend, is told “You’re much bigger.” Subtle, indeed.

There’s a lot of typical ho-hum stuff about falling in love with Tina, and realizing that his desperate come-ons and his van obsession are both part of his immature, adolescent past. After a heated race with Dugan, he actually gives up his vanning ways for the approval of Tina and the alleged happiness of true love. Which, if you ask me, is a crock of shit, and the only real downfall of the movie. I mean, come on, how long will these two dumb, boring eighteen year-olds last, really? Anybody can go and fall themselves in love, but a beautiful, one-of-a-kind custom van — now that’s something to devote your life to.

Ending disappointments aside, this is a damn enjoyable flick. Die-hard vanatics will drool over the scenes of van-packed parking lots, and novices will find this an invaluable introduction to the fun-lovin’ R-rated world that was vanning in the 70s.

CUSTOM VAN COUNT: 38, all of them worth hitting pause for. NUDIE SHOTS: 8, plus 1 wet t-shirt. WHAT I LEARNED: Lucky Lager gets you laid; always keep an 8-track of sex noises handy. TIMELESS QUOTE: “You’re gonna drive around in this like some beach boy hippie instead of going to college?”

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