Devil's Express (aka Gang Wars) - 1976

Devil's Express stars Warhawk Tanzania.

Warhawk. Tanzania.

Swallow that name like sweet honey. Have you heard anything more perfect? Would an alternate instrument of warfare/African republic sound so lovely?  Panzer Malawi? Steyr-Mannlicher M1895 Djibouti? Voulge Chad? Warhawk Tanzania is destruction incarnate. He is the Kwisatz Haderach. He simultaneously observes you and lives as you. Bask in his splendor and offer alms no mere mortal could possess, for our eternal salvation is subject to the ebb and flow of his fragile disposition.

Luckily Mr. Tanzania, who is everything, stars in a film that too is everything. Devil's Express is an ancient ghost story, kung fu beat 'em up, zombie horror, gang war action film, blaxploitation, police procedural, and through a modern lens an unintentional love letter to a long-faded New York City. The soft-focus faux Shaw Brothers prologue takes us to the China of 200 BC, which suspiciously resembles upstate New York, where a demon is buried with an amulet screaming "plot point" followed by the funeral procession choosing a ritualistic death by their iron-age weaponry for reasons unknown, though I presume "evil thing" and "China" are explanation enough. Through the magic of editing we teleport to 1976 where Warhawk, substituting the character name "Luke" so as not to intimidate the audience into sacrificing their first and second born to appease his bloodlust, trains pupils at a martial arts studio by slowly kicking and lazily falling. His perpetually aggravated partner/main student is Rodan, played by Wilfredo Roldan who, while apparently not a Kaiju, is a grand master of Nisei Goju Karate and still imparts wisdom to this day in NYC. He also seems to be the basis for Ice-T's entire persona and we as a society should acknowledge that and subscribe to his newsletter. They travel to Hong Kong which looks like Central Park with a flag to make it "Chinese", Rodan steals the prologue amulet, brings it back to New York, and you know the horror drill.

Best Friends

What amazes me about Devil's Express is its schizophrenic relationship to genre. Most exploitation fare sticks close to a single accepted genre or style, but here it's as if director Barry Rosen would have a daily change of heart. The same way Lindsay Anderson while directing "If..." would arbitrarily declare "today we shoot in black and white", Rosen seems to have decided "well, today is a zombie picture, and tomorrow a cop drama!" ad infinitum. This makes for a fascinating experience that keeps the viewer on their toes since the cliches of all genres are hooked to your veins, not just one. The film seems a bit "off" from the start, but it brandishes its batshit soul during a 5 minute sequence of a zombie-thing in a questionably formal suit and tie stumbling off a ship to lumber through the dimly lit streets of nighttime New York. The bulging ping-pong ball bug-eyes of this ancient monstrosity are clearly blinding the actor who teeters nervously with every step, grasping desperately for a wall or railing whenever possible. It's so bizarre and so drawn out that I immediately proposed to the dvd.

"Tom Hooper has an Oscar!?"

That moment establishes the chimeric onslaught wrought upon us. We see a "hangin' out" blaxploitation montage set to warbling 70's guitar funk wherein Warhawk proves to be a consummate gentleman and lover with a woman of no consequence. A throat-stomping martial arts street war of endless spin-kicks erupts between the black + Rodan gang and the Asian Red Dragons, who all wear matching dragon t-shirts and blue jeans because uniforms look tough? Full scenes are standard shot-reverse shot conversations with the only audio being the jive-ass score. Is this an artistic flourish? Were the nagra dialogue tapes lost in a time portal? All the while the zombie-spirit-demon hunts victims in the New York Subway in a precursor to 80's slashers, murders languidly investigated by local police. Warhawk disappears for almost 30 minutes of screentime then meets the worst old man makeup in cinema history until J. Edgar. This is amazing.

Rick Baker was on vacation.

There is a long, almost totally unnecessary sequence of a homeless raving derelict harassing passengers in a subway car that involves a slow dolly movement through the train. The payoff is her discovering a fresh decapitated body courtesy of our ancient curse-demon. I bring this up because technically the dolly work is fairly sophisticated compared to what we have seen previously. In fact, there are a few creepy, methodical dolly shots skillful enough in regard to everything else that it actually took me out of the film. This has never happened before. I am a bemused viewer.  I am but a torn muscle ready to be re-built however Warhawk desires.


In the brilliant finale following Rodan's murder by our mysterious antagonist and an impromptu ramble by Merv Griffin staple Brother Theodore, Warhawk dons shimmering yellow spandex overalls, the community theater version of Bruce Lee's legendary Game of Death tracksuit. He descends to the pit of hell (aka Jigoku aka the New York subway) and confronts the demon with his fists of fury, which proves difficult since this shape-shifting adversary can be one woman, two men, a giant slop beast, phantom train cars, or nothing at all. At times Warhawk pretends to be struck by his invisible foe like a child playing make-believe in his backyard and it's better than it sounds. The cops attempt to intervene but the demon or the film editor freeze them in place. Literally, we hear a warped stutter sound and watch the frames slow to a halt, the obvious influence for the infamous "rewind" in Michael Haneke's Funny Games. Here we see Devil's Express break the fourth wall, commenting on that fact that it is itself a film, and film is tangible, fragile, and finite just like our very lives. I'm sure that was the intent. After much devastation Warhawk hulks-up and pounds his foe into oblivion, reviving the freeze-frame cops into their Keystone selves. Warhawk wakes up in a hospital surrounded by his new police-besties, and with one final stroke of avant-garde genius, we cut to the credits practically mid-sentence. Wow.

WHAT!?

Warhawk Tanzania's manifest destiny was not to last as he beamed back to home planet after this film, only his second credited role. His strangely earnest yet lethargic line deliveries make him the most Lynchian of blaxploitation protagonists, though he seems a better fit for ensemble action like Three The Hard Way (a personal favorite) and perhaps the other 50% of his filmography Black Force could prove my theory. I would have loved to see further team-ups between Warhawk and Wilfredo Roldan (who also appears in Black Force), since Roldan seems to be having much more fun with his role and the excessive broad daylight battles/drug deals in mythical 70's NYC. Alas, we must revel in the little Warhawk and Roldan that the heavens have seen fit to bestow upon us. Let us treasure it like it's The Ark of the Covenant, because it is.