(Alan Gibson, 1977)
For a movie that is of no interest whatsoever, this has quite a lot going for it, especially in the acting department: Larry Hagman, Susan Sarandon, Joe Don Baker et al are relaxed and agreeable. But no one manages to channel the glib repartee into anything resembling a character, in part because their contributions are mere slivers of celluloid crammed between pictures of cars driving around. Which does make a depressing kind of sense, since it's a racing movie; what makes no sense at all, especially given some promising set-ups, is the total absence of kinetics or pyrotechnics. It's a total arbitrary mess, looks like it wasn't even storyboarded. The filmmakers revert to slow motion every single time anyone does anything other than drive in a straight line, but that doesn't fool anyone. The one punctuation mark of the whole movie comes at the climactic Baker-Alan Vint coin toss, and I laughed as hard as anyone, but a REAL movie has one moment like that per scene. Allow me to lodge a special protest on behalf of poor Daina House, who is required to regress from classic tough-chick to wilting sex object the moment some creep gives her a flower.