DEATH RACE 2000 (1975)

Growing up an edgy teenager, the heyday of scintillating VHS covers to stir the imagination gave way to the early days of YouTube, where outrageous sights ranged from the chainsaw duel of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986) to the foot removal in Saw (2004). Years went by, and exercises in distaste like The Human Centipede (2009) wore out their welcome. But my tastes broadened rather than refined; there was one foundational act of audacity that always stuck with me: Euthanasia Day, wheeling elderly folk into the road to paint the asphalt red for a televised ‘death race’. Before South Park, before Terrifier (2016), this was the pinnacle of controversial hilarity, and it was 50 years ago.

Death Race 2000 isn’t a horror film. Violence is the punchline to a dystopian farce produced by B-movie king Roger Corman. High-speed action, erotic romance, and the label of science fiction despite the low-tech 1970s aesthetic, quaint even for audiences at the time. The three-day Transcontinental Death Race has become the national distraction from society’s ailments. Contestants win not by position but by the highest score from running over people! Loosely adapting the 1956 short story The Racer by Ib Melchior, this wears on the original protagonist, whose conscience steers him into a brick wall.

Director Paul Bartel, later known for his black comedy Eating Raoul (1982), found the first screenplay, by Robert Thom, unshootable. Corman agreed, referring to the morose approach as “kind of vile”. Frequent collaborator Charles B. Griffith (Little Shop of Horrors) rewrote much of it. Melchior had considered his short a serious meditation on spectator bloodlust. Corman took inspiration from Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of the 1958 thriller novel Red Alert into the political satire Dr. Strangelove (1964).

Death Race 2000 became a comedy. Evident from the opening statement of the national anthem played over cheering American spectators, complete with flag-waving Nazis. Charmingly ridiculous at the time, depressingly acerbic today. These enthusiastic fans are supporting their “adorable swastika sweetheart”; the rest of the gas-guzzling gladiators may be less contentious, but all equally flamboyant. Bartel directs with the verisimilitude of a televised sports event, throwing us in with the rapturous crowd, eager for the spectacle to begin.

Contemporary audiences felt “the need for speed”, as the 1971 Cannonball Baker Sea-To-Shining-Sea Memorial Trophy Dash spurred a wave of racing films like The Gumball Rally (1976), Cannonball (1976), also directed by Bartel, and The Cannonball Run (1981). Smokey and the Bandit (1977) painted the law as ineffectual buffoons, and many of these emphasised illegal street racing as the hip new pastime. And true to his nature, Corman was likely trying to cash in on the similar dystopian sports violence of Rollerball (1975).

American-made motors pushed the limits under the picturesque Americana backdrops to satiate every red-blooded patriot in the audience. All the more cutting is that Death Race exploits this era by twisting in vehicular manslaughter as America’s next favourite pastime. We love our troops, and we love our motors. Efficiency in action as cars are fashioned as weapons, and spectatorship becomes an act of worship.

“I had been to the Indianapolis 500, and I sat in the box with the wives of the drivers. There was an accident, and one of the drivers was killed. Watching the horror on the wife’s face and the excitement of the fans—this, after all, was what they really came to see.”—Ib Melchior, author.

Alongside Aryan bombshell Matilda the Hun (Roberta Collins) is her rival Calamity Jane (Mary Woronov), the short-lived Nero the Hero (Martin Cove), and bitter enemies ‘Machine Gun’ Joe Viterbo (Sylvester Stallone) and three-time champion Frankenstein (David Carradine). This colourful bunch, looking like a live-action Wacky Races (1968), need literal screaming performances to be louder than their bespoke garish outfits. A literal Frankenstein waking from “suspended animation” for his recent limb transplants is a beloved icon and good friend of the President. Treated like James Bond, women literally throw themselves at him on the road, and yet he’s a leather-clad gimp resembling Darth Vader with his helmet and cape. Or Danger: Diabolik (1968), since that came first.

In one of many twists and turns, his scarred visage beneath his mask is but another one, revealing the handsome Carradine. He plays every line with an enigmatic smirk, whether it’s secret motivations or just recognising the absurdity around him. Stallone is the standout villain, never afraid to lean into the farce and look the foolish brute but revealing the menacing brutality whilst strangling someone that’ll be seen later as Rambo.

A curiosity in casting, as Carradine was wrapping up Kung Fu (1972–75) and wanted a change in persona, whilst Stallone was readying himself for his Academy Award-winning Rocky (1976). Corman wanted Peter Fonda to lead, but he said the script was too ridiculous to make, so Carradine was next up and paid 10% of the gross. Costume designer Jane Ruhm confesses that he tore up his costume upon first seeing it, telling the young woman to “go fuck yourself.” A day after Corman canned him, Carradine visited her house with guitar in hand and apologised via song. Stallone was cast after The Lords of Flatbush (1974) and, at Bartel’s suggestion, rewrote much of his dialogue, which exudes that explosive authenticity of Rocky and Rambo. Corman laughed years later that he couldn’t put Stallone above Carradine on the VHS cover, but he’s right there “just slightly below.”

We’ve taken longer to get to the hook of Death Race than the svelte 80-minute film does. Less than 10 minutes in, an unsuspecting construction worker allows Machine Gun Joe “to splatter the scoreboard first!” Yet the film doesn’t belabour the scoring system straight away, hoping to shock any unassuming audiences underestimating the Death in this Race. The marriage of violence and comedy is consummated with “a clean hit! A perfect hit! And no pain for the target!” who had a giant knife rammed at velocity between his legs. The aim of the game is teased out with, “too bad the guy was only 38, just two years older and he’d have been worth three times the points!” followed by the full range of high-scoring targets that favour women, toddlers, and the elderly…

Grisly, unpleasant, unthinkable to view. Death Race 2000 has no ambitions in showcasing such debased acts. This world-building only condemns the people in charge; when most of the actual on-screen kills are employees of the state and willing spectators, we get a cheeky indulgence in seeing their comeuppance. The few “chicken gangs” who egg on the racers earn their Darwin Awards. The wannabe matador teasing Calamity Jane and getting the horns, or the greasers who duck into a manhole and close it on their friend only to pop back up and get beheaded by the next car.

The others are asking for it in different ways, as satire often punches up. The iconic Euthanasia Day pays off when Frankenstein swerves through the hospital orderlies and scatters them into the air like bowling pins. Even organised religion goes under the wheel as Frankenstein mows down the Deacon of the Bipartisan Party, which Joe writes off as “you can’t score religious personalities.” Frankenstein did it purely for spite, and nevertheless, they end up giving him the points!

Spotting a family picnic, Nero’s navigator advises, “if they scatter, go for the baby and the mother,” and like a Looney Tunes cartoon, we’re shown the infant is a doll strapped with dynamite. This is the more political aspect as domestic freedom fighters seek to end the death race by blowing up the propaganda machines. One of their funniest acts of rebellion is ripped straight from Wile E. Coyote as Matilda the Hun takes a detour straight down after racing through a cardboard tunnel entrance placed at the edge of a cliff. Mid-announcement of her fiery demise, a piece of paper is hastily given on live TV that states, “Correction! Matilda has made an impressive score! Standby…”

That on-screen commentator is the first character on-screen, “Junior Bruce, your buddy buddy and mine!” played to irritating perfection by Don Steele in an archetype later borrowed wholesale by Stanley Tucci in The Hunger Games (2012). His female counterpart, who pre-empts every interviewee as “a dear friend of mine”, is slyly named Grace Pander (Joyce Jameson), who in a brilliant capitalist barb awards the still-grieving widow of that construction worker a two-room flat in Acapulco. Where the satire digs in is the government gaslighting the racers themselves that Matilda died from “poor driving.”

Unrelenting manipulation is likely why Frankenstein starts concocting his own machinations against the state and doesn’t turn in his navigator, Annie, after she admits to being a militia plant. It becomes a road movie where the two from opposite sides of society come to understand their drive for resistance. Ever guarded, Frankenstein never reveals his hand, so to speak. He tests Annie by having her drive where she deliberately misses a young boy, and yet he shows little remorse when needlessly flirting with Joe’s navigator, knowing his short fuse will lead to him promptly socking her across the face.

A character reveal best left unexplored is that he’s just some guy trained to replace the last Frankenstein, the latest in a line playing the government mascot. In this instance, he personifies the counterculture filmmakers attempting to represent any acts of independent defiance whilst existing within the regulated and censored system. Killing the racers isn’t enough; they need a statement that forever changes the culture. Everyone adores Frankenstein, and the government’s biggest mistake was putting the costume on Travis Bickle, but those types may be the only ones insane enough to put it on in the first place.

Between the pointed dialogue, Bartel liberally paints his canvas with enticing action both on the streets and in the sheets. Bountiful nudity as the racers get luxury massages at a high-end pit stop, and the openly gay director features plenty of male arse as well. They fought Stallone to get his out, but one can assume he was striving to move past his Italian Stallion work. Carradine seems happy to strip to his underwear in a surprising number of scenes. Most notable is a bizarre moment where he dances with a fully nude Annie whilst he wears nothing but his underwear and his leather gimp mask.

You wouldn’t know Bartel never had an eye for action as he gave carte blanche to his Second Unit Directors, Eric Saarinen, who’d go on to shoot The Hills Have Eyes (1977) cinematography, and Lewis Teague, who’d direct Cujo (1983). Complete with cinematographer Tak Fujimoto, who’d shoot The Silence of the Lambs (1991) and The Sixth Sense (1999), and editor Tina Hersh, who’d work on Gremlins (1984), Corman had a knack for assembling promising talent. Together, they conduct a symphony of speed as the exhilarating velocity of the camerawork finds every eclectic angle to strap us to the cars. Tyres burning rubber and kicking up dirt, head-on as the dividers shoot under, and from the rear for competitive tailgating. Corman has shared that the classic trick is undercranking the camera, so 60 mph looks like 90. Though he does laugh, by his own admission, they overdid it sometimes, any similarities with Benny Hill chases luckily match the light cartoonish tone.

With most Corman productions, the budget is estimated as low as $300,000, and the talent involved work beautifully around their limitations. The opening speedway brings a wonderful artifice as a matte painting complete with a cartoon train whizzing by in the distance. To further bring a sense of life, closer crowd shots were real racing events happening at the time. I assume the Nazis were added in later. The cinematography may capture some beautiful scenery, but pay no attention to how a transcontinental race entirely resembles Southern California. But Bartel always shifts the focus where it matters: the gorgeous fibreglass bodywork of each car distracts from the DIY craft-glue fuzzy helmets. Carradine and Stallone are featured prominently in these driving sequences, which aids in a richer scope of coverage. Though by necessity, as these cars were not street-legal and stuntmen refused to double for much of it on public roads.

Surreptitious conditions like these come with independent cinema, yet it was creative clashes that almost tore apart Corman and Bartel. The director trusted his crew with covering the action set pieces; he would later find Corman substituted more of Bartel’s “guilty pleasures” comedy with excessive gore of crushed heads and impaled chests.

“There were times when Roger preferred not to communicate with me directly on this film. It was cancelled several times. There was somewhat of a disagreement on the comedy-violence mixture. I wanted more comedy and less gore. He wanted more gore and less comedy. However, in the compromise the film was successful. The MPAA made us take out some of the gore, and Roger compromised and left in some of the gags.”—Paul Bartel, writer-director.

It’s surprising to hear that one of the kills Corman objected to was Junior Bruce’s at the end, concerned that it “would compromise the hero” after he had already murdered a deacon and the president. That finale needs unravelling, as it culminates all the comedy and death into a hilarious act of political violence that says far more in the pursuit of saying very little. Corman credits the script supervisor with suggesting the entire ending, which explains why Frankenstein was always so cryptic in withholding a plan that did not exist in the actual screenplay.

A breakneck pace to reach the credits cannot excuse the myriad of questions raised during the slapdash conclusion. Trading paint with Machine Gun Joe, Annie throws Frankenstein’s hand grenade, which, at this late stage of the film, is seemingly fair game, making Joe look like an idiot as he brandished a machine gun at the start and never uses it. Without his explosive, plan B relies on the president’s security not noticing that the Frankenstein approaching them has a womanly figure, and for none of the crowds to spot a naked David Carradine left in the car. A hasty plan C relies on the president’s security allowing him onto a rickety scaffold platform within ramming distance. The real question is: sure, the popularity politics works fine enough that the public would support their favourite celebrity murdering the president, but Frankenstein’s entire character was an elaborate disguise… nobody knows who this naked David Carradine is!

By the epilogue, he’s soon enough “Mr and Mrs President Frankenstein”, which was ludicrous until the actual congress of celebrity politicians who never took one foot out of the spotlight. Like all Presidents, this one has blood on his hands, and like many, he’d been venerated for it. No motivations are given for why Frankenstein wanted the president dead, nor does it suggest he even considered replacing him. There is certainly no inference that he will be a better one.

Death Race 2000 is the purest satire in simply laughing at what common sense dictates as ‘bad things’; what should not happen but might, as common sense is in short supply. The death race is just one symptom of this society, and abolishing it promises no improvements, even when Frankenstein idealistically pledges “to pension off the secret police, restore free elections, and move the seat of government back to New Los Angeles”. The naïve optimism of a child proudly stating that politics should serve the people first. Of course, those are hopeful dreams, but as Frankenstein puts his presidency into practice, he leaves his wedding by running over Junior Bruce for the crime of being annoying. A sign of empty commitments on the campaign trail, one likely to be littered by more bodies.

A successful campaign nonetheless, with a box-office draw of up to $8M and comfortably sitting on a Rotten Tomatoes average of 82% positive reviews after contemporary critics disregarded the initial release. The death races would survive their abolishment with a 1995 comic series, Death Race 2020, published by Corman’s imprint line; the gritty, prison-industrial-complex satirical reboot by Paul W.S Anderson, Death Race (2008), spurring three direct-to-DVD follow-ups; and a return to Corman, who produced a ‘direct’ sequel, Death Race 2050, coming only 42 years after the first, in 2017. Outside of the franchise, the movie has doubtless influence, with George Miller calling it direct inspiration for Mad Max (1979), The Toxic Avenger (1984) featuring a points-based hit-and-run sequence, and the wealth of sports violence thrillers such as Battle Royale (2000), The Hunger Games, and Squid Game (2021-25).

“Essays by third and fourth‑graders about what they liked at the movies. To a child they agreed that violence, mayhem and blood were their favorites. None of them mentioned cowboys, color cartoons or comedies, which were my favorites when I was growing up. […] The audience was at least half small children, and they loved it. They’d never seen anything so funny.”—Roger Ebert, film critic.

With a barbed zero-star rating, there’s a parallel in Ebert’s review with my introduction. Why are we drawn to violence at such an impressionable age? What does it say about us when even the film confesses to no clear message? In this day and age, real-life violence is unavoidable, with the pretence of blissful ignorance to pretend otherwise. No fear of reprisal when vocally supporting violence abroad, and only thoughts and prayers when it is domestic. When applying the conceit of competition, at the very least, we have some victory in mind when wars never seem to end in anyone’s favour. If satire could provide real-world applicable answers, it would no longer be funny; we laugh, otherwise we’d cry. As the very last lines of Death Race 2000 conclude, “Yes, murder was invented even before man began to think.”

USA | 1975 | 80 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Paul Bartel.
writers: Robert Thom & Charles B. Griffith (based on short story ‘The Racer’ by Ib Melchior).
starring: David Carradine, Sylvester Stallone, Simone Griffeth, Don Steele, Mary Woronov, Roberta Collins & Martin Kove.