Hillbilly High Jinks are Back, for Better or Worse

DaimlerChrysler AG is bringing back the Dodge Charger.Perhaps you’ve seen the commercial already – a smartly attired black gentleman glides his Charger through misty streets, the sinuous lines of the car hinting at the barely restrained muscle of the hemi under the hood. An equally stylish black woman standing nearby spies the scene and gets chills; she’s impressed and turned on. If John Shaft were a car, he’d be the sexy new Dodge Charger.

That’s quite an image change for the Charger. The last one I recall was bright orange, with the Confederate “Stars and Bars” battle flag on the roof and a big “01” on the side. Not exactly the status car of middle-class black America, right?

Call it irony or call it synergy, but that old Charger with the orange paint on the outside and the Southern rebels on the inside is back, too. And somehow I don’t see the folks in Detroit minding too much. They have plausible deniability. “It’s not our movie!” they’ll shout, waggling their fingers at the Southern-fried antics of “The Dukes of Hazzard.” But with every spinout, burnout and pile of hay bales jumped by the General Lee, they’ll be quietly giggling, “But it IS our car!”

Has it hit you yet – the realization that I’m pushing “The Dukes of Hazzard” as entertainment? Yet another case of a big-screen treatment we didn’t need of a TV show that wasn’t particularly intelligent in the first place? “Russ,” you ask in good conscience and concern, “how in your right mind can you recommend such drivel? Did someone hit you with a shovel?”

Hey, I’m just a good ol’ boy, never meanin’ no harm. So bear
up, y’all.

As with most – scratch that – every episode of the TV series, which managed a remarkable seven seasons on CBS (it was the lead-in to “Dallas,” so Friday nights you got trashy poor shenanigans, followed by trashy rich shenanigans), there’s not much plot to “The Dukes of Hazzard” in cinematic form. Cousins Bo (Seann William Scott), Luke (Johnny Knoxville) and Daisy (Jessica Simpson) Duke all live on their Uncle Jesse’s farm. Why all these cousins have converged there is never explained, but we do know that Jesse (Willie Nelson) is a bootlegging moonshine-maker, carrying on a century-long
family tradition.

At odds with the Dukes is the power-grubbing Hazzard County Commissioner, J.D. “Boss” Hogg (Burt Reynolds) who, with the help of the equally corrupt (and inept) Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane (M.C. Gainey), is trying to grab up all the land in the county. And, of course, the Duke farm is right in Boss Hogg’s sights. Cars go fast, cracks are made wise and hayseed hilarity ensues. That’s about all you need to know. I mean, come on – Rip Taylor has a cameo as himself; there’s nothing worth taking seriously about any of it.

But I’m willing to temper my take on the hillbilly high jinks because, dadgumit, there’s some potential here.

Consider the cast of the TV series. Sure, Catherine Bach (Daisy) never got too far past her salad days as the leading poster girl on adolescent boys’ bedroom walls circa 1980, but the rest of them had fine resumes. Sorrell Booke (Boss Hogg) spoke five languages, served as a counter-intelligence officer in Korea and won an Emmy for an episode of “Dr. Kildare.” James Best (Rosco P. Coltrane) founded acting schools in Los Angeles and Florida – Quentin Tarantino himself said that Best’s work “taught me how to act.” Tom Wopat (Luke) was a classically trained vocalist who went on to a big Broadway career and was nominated for a Tony Award. John Schneider (Bo) had a successful country music career and is the moral center of young Clark Kent’s life on “Smallville” every week. And finally, the guy who played greasy garage owner Cooter went on to become Rep. Ben Jones, D-Ga.

Quite the pedigree, no? So let’s hope that some of that intelligence, dedication and work ethic will filter down to the likes of Scott, Knoxville and Simpson, as authentic a bunch of gen-u-ine Hazzard County dipsticks as ever graced the screen.

Now there’s nothing upscale about “The Dukes of Hazzard.” Among glitzier, smarter flicks, it’s the lowbrow among the purebred. Fortunately there’s a restaurant in town that fits that description to a T. Tucked in among the three-fork settin’, cork-sniffin’, valet-parkin’ establishments of Clayton is a plucky purveyor of pulled pork known as Lampert’s Plush Pig Barbeque. This ain’t cloth napkins, son; you get a roll of paper towels. Grab a beer from the cooler when you place your order – or maybe you’d prefer a bottle of Boone’s Farm. But don’t let the no-frills front fool you; this place is good, y’all. I think it’s the best pulled-pork sandwich I’ve had in St. Louis, and if that’s not worth a YEEEEEEE-HAW, then grits ain’t groceries, and eggs ain’t poultry. So step in, step up and eat hearty.