Across the 1960s, men began to gather to commiserate about their lives, bonding over games of pool, rounds of beer, and rides on their motorcycles.  One such crew in Chicago forms around Johnny (Tom Hardy), The Vandals.  News about this new club spreads to the surrounding states and the camaraderie shared becomes the envy of the men across the nation.  As the club forms chapters, Johnny turns to Benny (Austin Butler), to take over as the leader, but his wife, Kathy (Jodie Comer) is uncomfortable with the transfer of power especially as the new members are returning from Vietnam and introducing pot and other hard drugs into club life.  The rise and fall of The Vandals is all being captured by photojournalist Danny Lyon (Mike Faist) who published his book chronicling the club in 1967. 

Jeff Nichols writes and directs The Bikeriders, a fabricated story adapted from the photographs in Danny Lyon’s photobook capturing this specific facet of America.  Returning to the director’s seat after an over five-year hiatus, the fate of The Bikeriders was in jeopardy after Twentieth Century Studios undated the film in a strike-prompted slate shakeup.  Focus Features swept in to save Telluride-debuted film from limbo, giving the film a proper theatrical release.  Running a contextually brief 116 minutes, Nichols’ largest-to-date and just-shy-of-Shakespearean tragedy is told through Comer’s Kathy as she interviews with Danny for his book. 

Not quite a trinity, not quite a love triangle, The Bikeriders charts the push/pull of Benny who idolizes Johnny and everything he stands for while also loving Kathy in his own way but unable to live up to what she desires.  Because we spend so much time with Kathy, we get a much more intimate look at this “man’s world” than we do in other similarly gruff-set films.  We are introduced to her as Adam Stone’s camera first playfully passes over the chrome-lettered “Speed Queen” backed by a baby blue metal frame… of a dryer at a laundromat.  Her accent then is all we hear, and it is a bold choice, but one the actress fully commits to so in time we fall into it and accept what she is doing. On the page, Nichols handles Kathy with almost Sirkian tendencies, and Comer keeps her equally steely, building on the independence established by those heroines, refusing to lie down and accept anything less than what she deserves; a quality that grows in her the longer she spends with The Vandals and Benny.  Though the narrative follows Benny and Johnny, it is structured around Kathy’s account which, while offering us a unique view into what otherwise could have been a testosterone-fueled and oil-stained two hours, does not allow us the interiority of these two men – or at the very least, Benny – which the narrative almost demands.  Because of this, we track the dynamics of the gang, but we do not have the full understanding of it like we would enjoy.  It is not enough to say the film feels slight, but it does feel like we are missing about twenty minutes and a dual narrator. 

To double down on the earlier hyperbole that The Bikeriders is operating in the shadow of Shakespeare, it is also thematically resonant with Michael Corleone’s arc across The Godfather (1972) and, more specifically, its sequel.  Too early to say how it will stand the test of time as Francis Ford Coppola’s hallowed work has, Nichols still presents a story about the transfer of power between two men, in a changing world, all in pursuit of their idea of the American Dream.  Benny is an undeniably attractive character for any actor in Butler’s class, but digging into the script he offers a formidable challenge to anyone hoping onto the seat of his chopper.  He is a character that grows incrementally, but he is stuck.  Johnny says it best when he tries to offer the club to Benny for the first time; he has no job, no kids, and no true obligations, Kathy notwithstanding. With that said, he does still have a sense of responsibility but does not always know how to act on it.  He is a bit of a playboy, but is fiercely loyal, too.  Benny is a symbol, something that all the members of the club look up to and idolize aspects of his life that are missing in theirs, but because he is something to everybody, he has little time for Kathy, and even less for himself. Butler manages to grow into the part as Benny grows into a person, but it takes a tragic moment – the conclusion of the bar fight which cold opens the film – before the actor’s natural babyface begins to harden. 

Because of its focus on character, The Bikeriders, opens itself up to a wider audience than what it initially appears. Julie Monroe assembles the film while very much following the rhythms established by Thelma Schoonmaker and the story overall is reminiscent of the stories popularized by Martin Scorsese; a peeled-back look into a rough and tumble counter-culture seeking to humanize them. In fact, when David Wingo’s score kicks in with those opening vocalized notes, it is almost jarring when it does not lead into The Rolling Stones’ “Gimmie Shelter” or Eric Clapton with “Layla.” Where the film stumbles though is in its runtime. Simply put it is too short with all it is trying to do. We understand enough about the members of the gang that it tracks, but we are left wanting to go deeper. One of the ones hurt most by this is Brucie (Damon Herriman), who is often seen whispering into Johnny’s ear like a consigliere. Nichols is wise enough to let frequent collaborator Michael Shannon thrive in the role of Zipco as he tells about how he wanted nothing more than to serve his country in the war but was deemed unfit and now has nowhere to go. In a way, all of these characters are a little lost and let down, and it is through those personal tragedies they forge their friendship. We are welcomed into the fold, but we always feel like the new guy, never quite able to catch up but never getting left behind, either. 

The Bikeriders is a hang movie more than it is plot-focused, but it is hardly aimless. Focusing on that specific brand of Americana iconography to which Nichols has often been drawn, the film builds off the angst highlighted in the work of Nicholas Ray and leads into the dusty, disillusioned country that would later be dissected by Robert Altman, Hal Ashby, and Bob Rafelso. It is a film that romanticizes the culture while still showing the trials of it, but notably not passing judgment on these characters. They are all handled with deep compassion and love by Nichols, and by extension, we in the auditorium also treat them with grace. They are both the founders and the last of their kind; kings shunned from their own kingdoms and forced to ride.