The Bikeriders

I watched The Bikeriders in a theater where the AC was cranked so high I actually considered trying to siphon heat off the screen’s literal engine fires. I was also wearing a denim jacket that, within twenty minutes of meeting Benny, felt laughably inadequate. There is a specific kind of "cool" that this movie radiates—a thick, humid, mid-century musk of grease and Pabst Blue Ribbon—that makes you feel like you’ve never actually been a "real man," even if you’ve spent your whole life trying.

A Symphony of Grease and Gravel

Directed by Jeff Nichols, a filmmaker who specializes in a very specific brand of American masculinity (see: Mud or Take Shelter), The Bikeriders isn't exactly a high-octane thriller. If you’re expecting Fast & Furious on two wheels, you’re in the wrong garage. This is a tragedy masquerading as a hangout movie. It’s based on Danny Lyon’s 1968 photo-book of the same name, and Nichols treats every frame like a photograph coming to life.

The story is told through the eyes of Kathy, played by a phenomenal Jodie Comer. She’s our narrator, being interviewed by a young photographer (Mike Faist, playing Lyon) over several years. Through her, we see the rise and eventual rot of the Vandals, a Chicago motorcycle club. Comer uses a thick, nasal Midwestern accent that sounds like she’s chewing on a piece of saltwater taffy while shouting over a lawnmower, and it is absolutely mesmerizing. She’s the anchor in a world of driftless men.

Then there’s Benny, played by Austin Butler. If Butler’s performance in Elvis was about the sweat and the stage, his Benny is about the silence. He barely speaks. He just leans against things, smokes, and looks like he was born in a leather jacket. Austin Butler is essentially playing a very handsome Golden Retriever who knows how to ride a Harley and has a death wish. He’s the "wild soul" the club is built around, but he’s also a vacuum. He doesn't want to lead; he just wants to ride.

The Brando of the Midwest

The real heart of the film, surprisingly, is Tom Hardy as Johnny, the club’s founder. Johnny isn't a career criminal; he’s a truck driver and family man who saw The Wild One on TV and decided he wanted that life. Hardy does one of his "voices" here—it sounds like a Chicagoan trying to swallow a bag of marbles while imitating a polite mob boss—but it works. He brings a crushing vulnerability to a man who accidentally built a monster he can no longer control.

The chemistry between Hardy and Butler is fascinating. It’s not quite a father-son dynamic and not quite a brotherhood; it’s a weird, desperate longing. Johnny wants Benny to take over the club because Benny is the "real deal," whereas Johnny knows he’s just a guy playing dress-up. Watching them stare at each other while Michael Shannon (playing the delightfully unhinged Zipco) rants in the background is some of the best acting I’ve seen this year. Shannon's monologue about why the "straight" world rejected him is a masterclass in making a supporting character feel like they have an entire unwritten prequel.

The Mid-Budget Martyr

In our current era of "franchise or bust," The Bikeriders feels like a bit of a miracle, even if its box office numbers suggest it’s a disappearing breed. It cost $40 million, which is "medium" in Hollywood terms, and it struggled to find its footing. Disney originally had it via their 20th Century/Searchlight acquisition, but they got cold feet and dropped it during the 2023 strikes. Focus Features eventually picked it up, and I’m glad they did.

This film represents the struggle of contemporary cinema: it’s an adult drama that relies on "vibes" and performance rather than a CGI Third Act. It captures the transition from the 1960s—where the club was just a place for "outsiders" to drink beer—into the 1970s, where the Vietnam War and hard drugs turned these social clubs into violent gangs. It’s a loss-of-innocence story where the innocence was already pretty filthy to begin with.

The cinematography by Adam Stone is grainy and golden, making the Chicago outskirts look like a dream you’re slowly waking up from. It’s beautiful, but it’s also honest about the dirt. The film understands that motorcycle clubs are basically just book clubs for men who are allergic to talking about their feelings. They want the uniform and the family, but they don’t know how to handle the responsibility that comes with it.

The Bikeriders doesn't reinvent the wheel, but it polishes the chrome until it shines. It’s a moody, beautifully acted piece of Americana that reminds me why I love going to the movies. It’s not about the plot; it’s about the way the light hits the leather and the sound of a kickstart in the middle of a quiet night. If this is the kind of mid-budget film that’s "dying," I’ll be first in line to pay my respects at the funeral.

The ending lingers long after the credits roll, leaving you with a sense of quiet melancholy. It’s a film about choosing between the people who love you and the things that make you feel alive, and how sometimes, you can't have both. See it on the biggest screen you can find, if only to hear the roar of those vintage engines one last time.