Walker, directed by Alex Cox (1987)
written in the voice of Benny Kennedy, a fictional film critic:
Alex Cox’s Walker isn’t a movie. It’s a Molotov cocktail disguised as a period piece, hurled straight at the audience with a mischievous grin and a defiant laugh. If you came expecting a traditional biopic about William Walker, the 19th-century American mercenary who declared himself president of Nicaragua, you’re in the wrong theater, my friend. What Cox delivers here is history mashed up with modernity, biting political satire, and more than a few doses of surrealism. It’s punk rock in film form—loud, chaotic, and utterly uncompromising.
At its core, Walker traces the true-ish story of William Walker (played with maniacal intensity by Ed Harris), a man so consumed by his imperialist delusions that he marches into Nicaragua in 1855 with dreams of conquest and self-glorification. But Cox takes this historical narrative and scrambles it into something far more anarchic. He gives us a portrait of a madman—a deeply flawed, egotistical anti-hero, painted in shades of hubris and insanity. And Harris is magnetic here, no doubt. He plays Walker as both utterly self-righteous and quietly deranged, as if he's the last person to realize his own absurdity.
But the true star of the show is the film’s utter rejection of historical realism. Cox is less interested in giving you a detailed recounting of Walker’s life and more invested in connecting his imperialist insanity with contemporary American interventions in Central America. The film’s deliberate anachronisms (modern-day helicopters, Coca-Cola bottles, and news magazines make cameo appearances) hammer the point home: this isn’t just about the 1850s—it’s about Reagan’s America too. The contrast between the dusty 19th-century aesthetic and the jarring intrusions of 1980s iconography makes the film feel like a fever dream, a hallucination where past and present bleed together in the most unpredictable ways.
Cinematographer David Bridges (who worked on Repo Man as well) captures the Nicaraguan landscape with an eye for both beauty and chaos. The lushness of the setting is often juxtaposed with violence—smoke, explosions, bodies. There’s a rough, guerrilla feel to the filmmaking, as if Cox wanted the very act of filming in Nicaragua to mirror the insanity of Walker’s campaign. It’s gritty, handheld, and often feels as unhinged as its protagonist.
But the real kicker here is the editing. Cox doesn’t give you time to breathe. The film hurtles forward like a bullet, often dropping you into moments that seem absurd, only to pull back and reveal a kind of logic beneath the madness. One second, you’re watching a period-accurate horse charge, the next, a machine gun is mowing down soldiers to the sound of a swelling, triumphant score. It’s disorienting, sure, but that’s the point. Cox wants you to feel off-balance. He wants to jolt you out of complacency.
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And speaking of that score—wow. Joe Strummer of The Clash composed the music, and it’s exactly as bold and rebellious as you’d expect. Strummer’s score refuses to sit neatly within the confines of a "historical epic." Instead, it feels anarchic, jumping between hauntingly beautiful melodies and chaotic rhythms that seem to underscore the madness of the film itself. It’s one of those soundtracks that feels as much a part of the narrative as the dialogue, pushing the film’s punk ethos to the forefront.
Alex Cox has always been a filmmaker who colors outside the lines. From Repo Man to Sid and Nancy, he’s never been content to follow convention. And Walker is arguably his most daring and divisive work. It was a financial disaster upon release, with Universal disowning the film and critics scratching their heads. But that’s exactly why it’s brilliant. Cox doesn’t care if you "get it." He’s not interested in making things easy for the audience.
There’s an undeniable thread of political rage running through this film. Cox has always had a sharp eye for the absurdities of power, and here, he skewers American imperialism with the precision of a mad surgeon. In 1987, when the U.S. was neck-deep in meddling in Latin American politics, Walker felt like a bomb going off in the middle of Hollywood’s usual sanitized historical epics. It was—and still is—a cinematic middle finger to the establishment.
Looking back on Walker now, in 2024, it’s clear the film was ahead of its time. It’s no coincidence that Cox chose to make Walker at the height of U.S. involvement in Nicaragua, drawing not-so-subtle parallels between the hubris of 19th-century imperialism and Reagan’s foreign policy. In that sense, Walker is less about the man and more about the cycle of violence, arrogance, and interventionism that repeats throughout history.
Sure, some might call it a mess, but it’s the kind of glorious mess that comes from trying to do something different. Something that doesn’t fit neatly into the box of “Hollywood biopic” or “historical epic.” It’s not perfect—hell, it’s not even close—but it’s a film that dares. It dares to be chaotic. It dares to be political. And it dares to be misunderstood. That’s the kind of cinema we need more of, even if it leaves half the audience scratching their heads and the other half pumping their fists in rebellion.
Walker is a feverish, anarchic ride through history that doesn’t care about your expectations. Alex Cox throws you into the chaos and asks you to find your way out. It’s not for everyone, but for those willing to embrace its madness, it’s a brutal, darkly funny, and politically charged masterpiece. Not a film you watch—a film you survive.
Buckle up.
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4 个月Allisa Herrett-Kennedy