“I want you to listen for a moment. Nobody is ever supposed to win Motorama. Okay? Not really. It’s just something that’s been, well, sort of set up, you know? It’s just something to kinda give people something to do, something to talk about.”
For years, I’ve tried to put my finger on the best way to describe Barry Shil’s 1991 road movie, Motorama.
It’s a road movie where that kid who played Rusty, the bratty practical joker from Full House, curses like a sailor and gets tattooed by Meat Loaf. It’s Lynchian, if David Lynch had a budget of only $1.8 million. It’s Interstate 60, if Interstate 60 was written by the man who wrote Martin Scorsese’s After Hours, and filmed in the style of a Nickelodeon show from the ’90s. It’s Home Alone if Kevin McCallister had decided to use his newfound independence to steal a car and get filthy rich, only to get the shit kicked out of him by the bad guys.
Motorama is all of these things. But the best way I’ve come up with to describe Motorama is that it’s a cult film severely lacking in a cult.