Oh The Van. You beautiful, bell-bottomed piece of shag-carpet sleaze. You’re not a film—you’re a denim-scented fever dream. You’re what happens when a horny teenager’s notebook doodles become a screenplay.
Bobby (Stuart Getz, poor soul) just wants to get laid. That’s the plot. That’s it. And his ticket to pound town? A custom-painted van called “The Straight Arrow,” complete with waterbed, mood lighting, and what I swear is a built-in bar. This ain’t Detroit steel. This is Crown International fantasy fuel.
But The Van is more than just a rolling sex motel—it’s a time capsule. Every scene drips with SoCal sunshine and late-‘70s youth culture: cruising, drag racing, carhops, and bad mustaches. And then there’s Danny DeVito (!) in a tiny early role, because even exploitation cinema gets to stumble into greatness sometimes.
You don’t care about morals. You barely care about narrative structure. You care about vibes. You’re a soft-focus love letter to teenage hedonism. A shaggy anthem for everyone who ever thought, “If I had the right ride, I could change my life.”
And in your own weird, lovable way—you were right.
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