We've featured a lot of different types of movies here at the Screengrab during our excting Summerfest '08 feature, in which we endeavour to review a movie a week with the word "summer" in the title that you can watch while you're putting off trying on your new bikini. We've featured Summer School, a movie that has made people inappropriately nostalgic for the 1980s; we've featured Summer of Sam, a movie in which it is revealed that Satan speaks through us in the voice of dogs, and sounds an amazing amount like John Tuturro; and we've featured Suddenly Last Summer, a movie in which a homosexual predator and his pimp sister wreak havoc on a small European town before he is eaten by the townsfolk. No, really. We've featured not one, but two movies starring Freddie Prinze, Jr., which, believe me, was just as painful for me as it was for you. But while many of these films have inspired us to do a wide variety of things -- become nostalgic for the sight of Kirstie Alley in a bathing suit; go back in time and put Tennessee Williams on anti-depressants; avoid watching any future films starring Freddie Prinze, Jr. -- none of them have actually inspired us to get up off our duffs, get out of the house, and do something other than watch movies all summer. But that changes today as we take a look at the greatest surfing documentary ever made. 
So grab your board, hop in your woodie, and join us on a search for the perfect wave as we enjoy The Endless Summer!
THE ACTION: Mike Hynson and Robert August are surfers. That's what they do: surf. Bruce Brown, who wrote and directed the movie, is a filmmaker, but he's a surfer too. Surfers are an uncomplicated lot, and they really want nothing more than to bum around all day waiting for the best wave they can possibly get, and then they want to get out there and shoot that son of a bitch for all it's worth. That's essentially all that happens in this movie: Hynson and August trek from one end of Africa to another, then to Australia, the South Pacific, and anywhere else they can possibly get to, just looking for a really good curl. Brown follows them, training his 16mm camera at them for some blurry nature shots and some absolutely gorgeous filmwork out on the water. The two engage in wacky hijinks, doing very little to dispel the notion that surfers are overgrown, doofy man-children, and Brown provides amiable frat-boy narration, often meandering and nonsensical, to cover the silence of the action scenes (most of the shots had no soundman and hence, no sound). Then they trudge off in search of another wave, and when they find one, they ride it until they just can't ride it no more. That's it, in its entirety: 90 minute of three goofy guys bumming around the globe looking for waves to ride. It's exactly that bad -- and that great.
THE PLAYERS: Hynson and August -- both real surfers who play themselves in this engaging mash-up of sports documentary and home movie travelogue -- are nearly indistiguishable: loopy fellas interested in their sport, soaking up some local color, and not much else. There's probably two of them for no better reason than that it takes some of the pressure off of Brown's narration. Brown himself -- a protege of Bud Browne (no relation), the legendary founder of the surf film genre, who died earlier this summer -- comes across as a strong advocate of the kind of pseudo-mystical dudesmanship that would spring up around surfing following the success of this 1966 film and the simultaneous monster success of the Beach Boys. The novelty of the interaction between the three men comes from a sort of primitive jus'-folks exoticism: the coasts of Africa and beaches of Australia where they spend most of their time in the film were, at the time, largely unknown and unvisited by Americans, and held a hint of the mysterious. By today's standards, Brown would offend by saying he wasn't sure if African tribesmen wanted to surf with them or eat them, but the observation is delivered in such a guileless way you can't hold it against him. The movie also features a cameo appearance by a ex-pro wrestler/surfer named Lord "Tally-Ho" Blears, and you know there ain't nothin' wrong with that.
SUMMER FUN: Are you kidding? In case you missed it earlier, this movie is a documentary about three goofball surfers who wander around creation, riding the waves, scoping out the native honeys, and sipping rum-based cocktails with former professional wrestlers. No matter what you're doing this summer, you wish you were doing this instead. There's rarely been a summer movie -- let alone a documentary -- that makes you want to sell your car, quit your job and change your lifestyle as much as The Endless Summer does. Hell, I don't even like surfing, and I was on the internet pricing boards by the time it ended.
HAWAIIAN SHIRTS: Generally speaking, there is more Hawaiian shirtlessness in The Endless Summer than there is Hawaiian shirtiness, but don't despair: there's plenty of luau loungewear in evidence, including a good bit of it on display during an actual stopover in Hawaii. If you've ever wondered exactly what mood the typical fat party guy is trying to conjure when he dons his favorite Hawaiian shirt, this movie is it.
BIKINI PARTY TIME: While there's some bikini action in The Endless Summer, there's not nearly as much as you might expect. Frankly, as loath as I am to admit it, this represents a certain integrity on the part of the filmmakers; Hynson, August and Brown are dedicated to the art and craft of surfing, and the incidental opportunity it offers to take a gander at beach bunnies is strictly an element of chance. You have to respect that sort of demented focus. So, despite a saddening lack of bikini party time in a film set almost entirely on the beach, I highly recommend The Endless Summer as a palliative to however you've been wasting your life since Memorial Day.
Related Posts:
Summerfest '08: I Know What You Did Last Summer
Summerfest '08: Summer School
