Walter Hill
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How wonderful were the times when there was only one television in the house. Perhaps a red plastic Magnadyne exclusively in black and white and without a remote control. When you hoped the transistors were immortal and the broadcasts ended by reminding you to go to bed…

Then one cursed day the “grating snake” arrived, spreading antennas across the country and paving the way for a jungle of private networks with the obligation to buy a color television. Grundig, Mivar, or ITT for the workers. Also because the avant-garde Sony “Trinitron” cost as much as a Van Gogh painting.

When I was a young lad just back from school, after a quick plate of pasta kept warm by another turned upside-down on top of it, there were three private channels that engaged me in furious zapping: Rete Amica, Canale 88, and Tele Kappa. The first often offered terrifying martial arts films or improbable fourth-rate anachronistic films, like “Maciste against Genghis Khan.” On the second, I risked an overdose of cartoons or local news that at most highlighted in black the theft of a chicken. The third, however, broadcast at least something within the limits of decency, but all, and I underline all, had one factor in common: a tendency to re-air until fatigue. Not a big deal if you missed a good program: they’d re-air it 12 to 36 hours later for a week.

One fine day, behold! I saw the ending of a film that didn’t seem bad. The song that accompanied the multi-step sequence through sand, frostbitten carousels, and seagulls in the closing credits titillated my audio to temptation. I awaited the technical times in question and with Swiss precision managed to immerse myself in the semi-lit neon trams of New York's sprawling subway network.

In the pleasant setting of the Bronx, a gathering of all the city's high-sounding gangs was organized, disarmed for the occasion, to elect a leader capable of managing them and consequently controlling all the urban areas of the metropolis illegally. While the chosen one, a certain Cyrus, declares ambitious scenarios from the top of a crude pulpit, a dog without a master and collar takes advantage of the general uproarious enthusiasm by firing a revolver shot at the olive-skinned holy man. Obviously, what was a literal tragedy becomes a figurative one, with the arrival of the police and all the blame assigned to the “Warriors” from the Coney Island peninsula.

The group of burly fellows led by the blond Swan (Michael Beck), will have to cross the city, against dozens of gangs armed beyond their teeth, positioned barely a breath from their heels. Amidst scrambling in the rain and violent confrontations at the eerie clattering of desolate subway stations, they will manage to prove their innocence.

Drawing ideas from a story by Sol Yurick, the good Walter Hill crafts, with no small difficulty (hiring small-time criminals as extras and various shooting interruptions due to the encroachment of real gangs) and using semi-unknown actors, a delightful action film that has over time acquired the same qualitative value as fine distillates. Shot almost entirely at night among excellent scenic glimpses, the film flows, indeed it races, maintaining an enjoyable rhythmic pulse under the aspect of suspense. Even though it was shot back in 1979, I still find the physical fight scenes very strong, both for the purity very close to the reality of exhibited violence and for that thread of tension that sometimes borders on the implausible without however degenerating into the ridiculous and surreal “grand-guignolesque Americanism” that overflows into today's genre films.

Two the memorable sequences: the chase and confrontation in the park with the make-up bearing “Baseball Furies” and the sinister invitation with tinkling bottles in the shadow of the Ferris wheel. In the first, the added value is placed by an insistent musical commentary composed by Barry De Vorzon, while the latter is enhanced by the redundant, spirited, shrill, and sharp trailing war cry of Luther (David Patrick Kelly): “Warriors? Come out to play-ay?” Excellent is the soundtrack that offers, besides the hard-to-forget theme, relevant rock ‘n’ roll tracks that without the film would otherwise have been forgotten. The closing track is perhaps the most famous, “In the city” composed by the eagle Joe Walsh.

Ah, Rete Amica and Canale 88 have prematurely disappeared. Tele Kappa has changed name and management, challenging the dominant digital landscape and the films offered are no longer as interesting as they once were.