Main cast: Michael Paré (Tom Cody), Clare Kramer (Caitlin), Courtney Peldon (Ashley), Deborah Van Valkenburgh (Reva Cody), Roxy Gunn (Ellen Dream), and Joei Fulco (The Archangel)
Director: Albert Pyun
I am a Streets of Fire devotee. It is a rock-operatic fever dream, the kind of film that cranks the volume to eleven and dares you not to hum along to Jim Steinman’s celestial bangers. A flaming passion for Ellen Aim, neon lights, and leather-jacketed antiheroes—that’s what the 1984 classic gave us.
And then there was Michael Paré as Tom Cody, the stoic, square-jawed lead whose charm is directly proportional to how few lines he delivers. The man is beautiful, no question, but he emotes with all the vigor of a decorative mannequin. Next to Willem Dafoe’s rubber-faced villainy and Diane Lane’s sultry charisma, he was simply… there. Lovely to look at, sure, but like a highway billboard: appealing from a distance and best appreciated in silence.
Yet, smitten as I was, I dedicated myself to tracking down his post-Streets of Fire career. This was pre-Internet, mind you—back when one had to actually work to uncover cinematic treasures (or trash). Mr Paré’s career trajectory, it turns out, was the ultimate cautionary road trip: a brief pitstop in Respectable Cult Classic Town (Eddie and the Cruisers, Streets of Fire) before veering into the desert wasteland of bargain-bin action flicks and softcore fever dreams. But hey, I wasn’t complaining. If nothing else, my journey ignited a lifelong fondness for B-grade schlock.
So, imagine my surprise when I discovered Road to Hell, an unofficial sequel to Streets of Fire. Mr Paré back as Tom Cody? Sign me up! But alas, dear reader, some detours are better left unexplored. Directed by Albert Pyun, low-budget auteur and king of cinematic potholes, this movie is less a sequel and more a caution sign reading: “Turn Back Now.”
For the uninitiated, Albert Pyun is a unique figure in cinema. His creativity is matched only by his budgetary constraints, resulting in a body of work that’s one part innovation, five parts train wreck. Unlike Uwe Boll, Mr Pyun seemed to genuinely love filmmaking—crafting half-finished movies, Frankenstein-ing them together, and hawking them to fund his next wild idea. Admirable? Absolutely. But does that make Road to Hell any less of a flaming wreck? Sadly, no.
Let’s start with the premise: Mr Pyun’s wife, Cynthia Curnan, penned the screenplay, inspired by the idea that Tom Cody is “doomed” by the end of Streets of Fire. Doomed indeed. The movie jumps 29 years forward, where Cody is now a… serial killer? Apparently, Ellen Aim has been fridged off-screen, and Cody’s once-brooding silence has devolved into existential despair and homicidal tendencies. He’s marooned on a desolate roadside, meeting two women who proceed to engage him in stilted philosophical musings that are equal parts pretentious and baffling. It’s a road trip of navel-gazing nonsense with nowhere to go.
Visually, Road to Hell is drenched in garish reds and oranges, as if the entire film is bathed in the glow of a never-ending sunset—or perhaps the fires of hell itself. The green screen is omnipresent, and not in a charming, retro way; it’s like watching an early-2000s screensaver with actors awkwardly superimposed. Michael Paré, bless him, looks as handsome as ever but delivers a performance so wooden I half-expected him to sprout leaves. Clare Kramer does her best, but it’s hard to shine when your co-stars are bad CGI and clunky dialogue.
Clocking in just under 90 minutes, Road to Hell somehow feels as endless as Route 66. It’s a never-ending pit stop in cinematic purgatory, where every minute stretches into eternity.
So why was this movie made? Perhaps as a labor of love for the Pyuns, a paycheck for the cast, or a cruel joke on Streets of Fire fans. Whatever the reason, it’s a dead-end road.
Fans of Streets of Fire, take heed: this is one highway you don’t want to travel. Stick to the original, crank up Tonight Is What It Means to Be Young, and let Tom Cody remain the mythic, brooding figure he once was.
