BIG WEDNESDAY (1978) *** Does the narrator really call the Santa Annas "the Santanas" in the opening two minutes, or is he just stoned and slurring? Whatever, we've had few enough efforts to illuminate the truely fascinating surfing subculture that such minor (or major, I mean, dude! "the Santanas," ha ha) gaffes can be winked at, if not ignored. It's a film with a lot of strengths-no one is ever going to confuse Jan-Michael Vincent with a great actor, but he couldn't be better cast than as a brilliant surfer with a love of the grape. That is, of course, exactly what he is, and his innate elegance emerges more clearly here than in any other role, with the obvious exception of The World's Greatest Athlete, where he is permitted to recite his lines in monosylables. So, you have to have leads that can surf, and they do! Cool, then you have to have great shots of waves, which they do. Man, I mean, "the green cathedral wave?" Fuckin' bitchin'. The shots of Gerry Lopez add further credibility, not just on the lip, but look at the way the man carries himself, and his stick, from the car to the water. That's part of it, man, the real ones know what's coming and carry themselves in that way (hubris, for east coast inlanders) because they can't help it. High drama is at hand! Sam Melville delivers the only scenes likely to be shown in acting school as The Bear, but wouldn't someone so knowledgeable know that his giant board isn't exactly what you want to be on, executing serial cutbacks, in a 25 foot wave? More distractions, pettiness from my non-surf life emerging, because the surfing sequences are spectacular, if pocked with Basil Poledouris' score that would be more appropriate for a suburban children's production of "The Man From La Mancha." (yeah, I know I did it again, but how could they not play any Hendrix, Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, Wailers, Hendrix, Hendrix...in a film spanning 1962-1974?) As excellent as the surf shots are, the most powerful scenes in the film for me were (1) Jan-Michael and his buddies and hundreds of other young men being treated like cattle at the indoctrination center, I mean the draft induction center, and (2) Jan-Michael and his buddies drinking to the memory of their other bud in a graveyard filled with hundreds of graves, set forth in straight lines in accordance with the undeniable, but not particularly desireable, grandeur of a military burial. Way back before the waves became so crowded that aquatic turf wars are the rule rather than the exception...it looks like surf parties never changed: the one in 1962 built until the inevitable fight, and today they're just the same-though it's not unusual for the fight to be interrupted or preempted by cops in helicopters...I mean, you haven't thrown a decent surf party in Southern California unless pull at least two helicopters, man. Don't even a mention a party if it's only busted by one helicopter. Surfers Rule! Incontrovertibly, it's true. It's a statement of limited application, for sure, but all the accountants and guitarists and dumb clothing and fast cars and indoctrination and dance fads and virtual reality is never going to pry open the soul secrets of the tube. You gotta get in there and let 'em get you!
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