Review: “The Wraith” Gives Mechaphilia A Supercharged 1980s Pop-Rock Makeover

Watching The Wraith confirms that mechaphilia in the 1980s was being done on a near-industrial scale. The car industry would surely have folded without such petrolhead erotica being thrust into the hearts and minds of its most malleable customer base.

To describe writer-director Mike Marvin’s film as a road-revenge thriller would do it a disservice. Not only is it far more than the sum of its generic tropes, it’s also a sensationally eccentric piece of 1980s camp with such monumental plot holes it’s only by sheer luck it isn’t consumed by its own glue-sniffing hubris.

It’s also hugely entertaining. As if spat out of MTV, the appeal of music videos is applied to low budget car chases as the likes of Ozzy Osbourne, Motley Crue, Bonnie Tyler and Billy Idol tickle the eardrums with recognisable chorus. They form the accompaniment to the grunting of internal combustion engines and, from time to time, the crunch of metal as another disposable vehicle – and its equally disposable character – is dispatched in a burst of flames.

On the outside a film about a vengeful male spirit returning to the town of his death to pick-off those culpable for his demise, The Wraith is equally concerned with town bully Packard Walsh’s overwhelming fatalism. He’s a man whose fears have elapsed, whose testosterone-fuelled narcissism has made him focus exclusively on masturbatory celebration of two things: himself and automobiles.

The startling thing is how actor Nick Cassavetes keeps a straight face through it all. Yet, he’s definitely got the unwavering eye of a man who demands subservience as the film’s chief villain. In spite of such nonsensical plotting and cookie-cutter characterisation, Cassavetes manages to unsettle.

Similarly, Randy Quaid as the town’s hapless Sheriff, who can’t help himself but speak with colourful metaphor about death, dead bodies and mental retardation, works hard to stifle a grin (and maybe a grimace) while spouting some truly awful dialogue.

Yet it somehow manages to excite the senses. Never wavering from its own stylised sense of its self, The Wraith conspires to titillate with steel and glass, ignoring the fact it never makes sense and hoping the sight of Charlie Sheen on two wheels instead of four is enough of a plot twist to keep its audience interested.

An exploitation flick that swaps a knife-wielding, face-concealed psychotic with a benevolent race-car driver mutilating his deserving prey with a custom-built Dodge M4S Turbo Interceptor demands to be seen. That it’s the shining light in Mike Marvin’s career isn’t as revealing as it sounds – his career as a writer-director largely began and ended in 1986 with this slasher on four wheels. But it does indeed stand out. In the canon of road-rage horror-thrillers, it is the first to metaphorically champion taking your car to bed instead of driving it.