In 1963, teenage Richie Gennaro (Ken Wahl) may not be much of a high school student but he’s the coolest kid on his block. He’s the leader of the Wanderers, an Italian-American street gang. Among his friends are the neurotic Joey (John Friedrich), Turkey (Alan Rosenberg), and Perry (Tony Ganios — yes, Meat from Porky’s), who has just moved to the Bronx but whose height and ability to fight makes him a key member of the Wanderers. Richie dating Despie (Toni Kalem), the daughter of the local mob boss (Dolph Sweet). However, when Richie meets Nina (Karen Allen), he wonders if there’s something more out there than just spending the rest of his days in the Bronx.
Based on a novel by Richard Price, The Wanderers has always been overshadowed by 1979’s other big gang movie, The Warriors. That’s too bad because they’re both great films. Walter Hill has always said that he envisioned The Warriors as being set in the near-future. The Wanderers, on the other hand, is very much a film about the past. An episodic movie that is more about capturing a time and a place as opposed to telling a traditional story, The Wanderers portrays 1963 with a mix of nostalgia and realism. The soundtrack is heavy with early rock and roll. There’s a scene where Richie sees a group of adults crying as they watch the coverage of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Nina listens to Bob Dylan at a coffeehouse and the local mob boss is a fan of The Hustler. But for Richie and his friends, adulthood is something to be put off for as long as possible. Life is about wearing their jackets, giving each other a hard time, trying to get lucky, trying not get slapped upside their heads by their parents, and preparing for the big football game against a rival gang. When a Marine recruiter tricks the members of one gang into enlisting, it’s a big deal to Richie because he no longer has to worry about being harassed by them. Those of us watching, however, know that Vietnam is in thee future. Scenes of Richie and Joey joking around are combined with moments of sudden violence. For the most part, the Wanderers and their neighborhood rivals are amiable rivals but, take a wrong turn, and you might find yourself being chased by the viscous Ducky Boys. For Richie, his life revolves around being a Wanderer but nothing can last forever and the film ends with a celebration that feels like a last hurrah for a changing world. Some will escape The Bronx and find a new world with new possibilities and new freedoms. There’s a particularly interesting subtext to the friendship of Perry and Joey, with the film ending on a subtle note that suggests that there’s more to their relationship than just being members of the same gang.
The end result is one of the best coming-of-age stories out there. Ken Wahl, John Friedrich, Alan Rosenberg, and Tony Ganios all give excellent performances as the main Wanderers. Karen Allen and Toni Kalem are perfectly cast as the two women who represent Richie’s possible future. (The strip poker scene is a highlight.) Kalem’s Despie represents the Bronx while Allen’s Nina represents the world outside and the film treats both of them with respect. At first, Despite might seem like a stereotype but she soon proves herself to be more aware of what’s actually going on around her than anyone realized. Richie may like Nina but it’s hard to imagine him ever being truly happy away from his home.
The Wanderers deserves more attention than it has received over the years. It’s funny, touching, and sometimes scary. (The Ducky Boys, despite their name, will haunt you.) Wander over and watch it.
Porky’s is one of those movies that plays very differently depending on when you first see it. On the surface, it is a loud, lewd early‑’80s teen sex comedy about a bunch of high‑school boys in 1950s Florida trying to get laid and get even, but underneath the pranks and bare flesh there are streaks of surprisingly serious material about prejudice, masculinity, and power. That mix of dopey laughs and darker undercurrents is exactly what makes the film interesting to talk about, and also what makes it so divisive today.
Set in the 1950s and released in 1981, Porky’s follows a tight‑knit group of teenage boys whose main goals in life are sex, sports, and practical jokes. Their adventures eventually take them to Porky’s, a sleazy backwater strip club run by the hulking, corrupt Porky, who humiliates them and sets up the revenge plot that drives the back half of the film. Around that spine, the story wanders through locker‑room banter, elaborate pranks, and various attempts to sneak into the girls’ showers or otherwise spy on naked bodies. It is very much a “horny boys on the prowl” narrative, and the film never pretends to be anything else.
What keeps it from being just another disposable sex comedy is the way some of those side stories hit harder than expected. One of the kids is brutally abused by his father, and the film doesn’t treat it like a throwaway detail; those scenes have a rawness and anger that clash with the goofy tone elsewhere. There is also a thread about anti‑Semitism and racism in their community, with one character confronting his own bigoted upbringing as he befriends a Jewish classmate and pushes back against the prejudice around him. That material is handled in a pretty straightforward, earnest way, which is jarring given how crude the surrounding humor can be, but it does show that writer‑director Bob Clark had more on his mind than dirty jokes.
The humor, for better or worse, is what most people remember. Porky’s leans heavily on slapstick and sex‑obsessed gag setups: peeping through holes in shower walls, mistaken identities during sex, ridiculous anatomical bragging, prank phone calls, and elaborate schemes that escalate into full‑on chaos. Some of the set pieces are staged with real comic timing, and if you’re on its wavelength, these sequences can still land as big, cathartic laughs. Others feel juvenile in the worst way, stretching one joke way past its breaking point, or punching down at easy targets rather than punching up at the hypocritical adults the boys are constantly butting up against.
Viewed from today’s lens, a big chunk of that humor is undeniably uncomfortable. The movie is saturated with sexist, homophobic, and racist language, and a few of the “pranks” involving the girls are essentially sexual harassment played for laughs. At the time, it was sold as a gleefully politically incorrect romp; now, those same scenes read as mean‑spirited or creepy in a way that undercuts the supposed lighthearted tone. The film occasionally tries to complicate this by giving some of the female characters sharper edges or letting them turn the tables, but it never fully escapes the fact that the camera is mostly aligned with the boys and their fantasies.
That said, Porky’s is not entirely dismissive of its women. There are moments where adult women, in particular, are allowed to call out the boys’ behavior or assert their own sexuality in ways that undercut the usual “conquest” narrative. The movie also makes a point of ridiculing hypocritical authority figures—teachers, coaches, cops, and parents—whose prudish public morals don’t match their private behavior. When Porky’s is skewering bigotry, religious hypocrisy, and small‑town moral panics, it feels sharper and more progressive than its reputation as a dumb “tits‑and‑ass” comedy suggests. Those flashes of insight are part of why some viewers argue that, beneath the sleaze, the film is quietly critical of the very attitudes it seems to indulge.
Performance‑wise, the cast is made up largely of unknowns who sell the illusion that this is a real, scrappy group of friends rather than polished Hollywood teens. The camaraderie feels genuine; their constant ribbing, in‑jokes, and shifting alliances are believable enough that you can see why the movie became a touchstone for a certain generation of viewers. Bob Clark’s direction is surprisingly controlled for such an anarchic script. He keeps the story moving, balances multiple subplots, and stages the bigger comic payoffs in a way that feels almost like a live‑action cartoon. The downside is that this slickness can make the nastier gags pop more, for better and worse.
On a technical level, Porky’s is very much a product of its time, but not a cheap one. The period detail—cars, music, clothing, diners, and dingy roadside bars—helps sell the 1950s setting, giving the film a nostalgic sheen that softens some of its rougher edges. The soundtrack leans on era‑appropriate rock and roll, which adds energy to the locker‑room and party scenes. The film also doesn’t shy away from male nudity, which was less common in comedies of the time and adds to its reputation as equal‑opportunity when it comes to what it exposes, even if the gaze is still clearly tilted toward ogling women.
Where Porky’s can stumble is in tone. The shifts between broad farce and serious drama can be abrupt. One minute you are watching a drawn‑out gag about a teacher trying to identify a student by his anatomy; the next, you are plunged into a grim confrontation with an abusive parent. That whiplash can pull you out of the movie, because the emotional weight of the dramatic scenes doesn’t always get enough breathing room before the script lurches back to naughty antics. As a result, some viewers feel the darker elements trivialize real issues, while others think those same scenes give the film more substance than its imitators.
Even if someone has never seen Porky’s, they have probably felt its influence. The film was a massive box‑office hit relative to its budget and paved the way for a wave of raunchy teen comedies through the ’80s and ’90s, eventually echoing into movies like American Pie and beyond. Its success made it clear that there was a huge audience for R‑rated, adolescent sex comedies that mixed crude jokes with a veneer of coming‑of‑age sentiment. You can see its blueprint in later films: packs of horny friends, elaborate revenge schemes, school authority figures as comic foils, and a big, raucous set piece as the payoff.
Whether Porky’s “holds up” is going to depend a lot on your tolerance for outdated attitudes and offensive language. If you go in expecting a cozy nostalgia trip, you may be surprised by how sour some jokes taste now, and how casually the film treats behavior that would be framed very differently in a modern story. If you approach it as both a time capsule and the prototype of a genre, it becomes easier to see its strengths—the lively ensemble, the willingness to poke at racism and hypocrisy, the low‑budget ingenuity in its set pieces—alongside its very real flaws.
Porky’s is neither the hidden gem some defenders make it out to be nor the irredeemable trash its harshest critics describe. It is a messy, uneven, often funny, often cringeworthy movie that captures a particular moment in pop culture, both in what it laughs at and what it takes for granted. If you are curious about the roots of modern raunchy teen comedies and prepared for the rough, politically incorrect ride, it is still worth a look as a piece of film history and as an example of how comedy ages—for better and for worse.
After a toxic chemical spill, Beverly Hills is evacuated. While its citizens wait in a hotel, their mansions and valuables are guarded by the police and agents of the EPA. Or so they think. It turns out that the chemical spill was faked and that both the police and the government agents are in on it. While the town’s deserted, they’re going to rob everyone blind. The scheme’s mastermind is Bat Masterson (Robert Davi), the owner of L.A. Rams. What Masterson doesn’t realize is that one citizen of Beverly Hills stayed behind, his own quarterback, Boomer Hayes (Ken Wahl). Teaming up with Ed Kelvin (Matt Frewer), the last honest cop in town, Boomer sets out to protect Beverly Hills.
It’s just a dumb as it sounds. In fact, of the many Die Hard ripoffs that came out in the late 80s and the early 90s, The Taking of Beverly Hills is probably the dumbest, which also makes it one of the most entertaining. Boomer, who has an impressive mullet, can only speak in football analogies, constantly assuring Ed that it’s only the first down and that they can turn things around after halftime. When Boomer gets serious, he says, “It’s time to play offense.” One of the stranger things about The Taking of Beverly Hills is that, unlike working class hero John McClane, Boomer is not an outsider. He’s in Beverly Hills because he’s rich. The Taking of Beverly Hills is basically about one rich guy trying to keep another rich guy from robbing a bunch of other rich people. It’s Die Hard if Hart Bochner had been the hero instead of Bruce Willis.
Keep an eye out for Lee Ving, lead singer of Fear, playing one of the corrupt cops and an uncredited Pamela Anderson cast as a cheerleader. And keep your ears open for songs like Epic by Faith No More because their presence on the soundtrack (and the associated rights issue) is the reason was this stupidly entertaining movie will probably never get a DVD/Blu-ray release in the United States.
It has been released in Germany, where it was retitled Boomer after the lead character.
In 1963, teenage Richie Gennaro (Ken Wahl) may not be much of a high school student but he’s the coolest kid on his block. He’s the leader of the Wanderers, an Italian-American street gang. Among his friends are the neurotic Joey (John Friedrich), Turkey (Alan Rosenberg), and Perry (Tony Ganios — yes, Meat from Porky’s), who has just moved to the Bronx but whose height and ability to fight makes him a key member of the Wanderers. Richie dating Despie (Toni Kalem), the daughter of the local mob boss (Dolph Sweet). However, when Richie meets Nina (Karen Allen), he wonders if there’s something more out there than just spending the rest of his days in the Bronx.
Through the Shattered Lens 