Captain America and Billy Dewitt

THINGS ARE A LOT CALMER NOW. A couple decades back, when this country stood in the throes of a counter-Cultural revolution, Dewitt did not wear his natty tie and sports jacket, was not chained to his 9 to 5, climate-controlled desk job. No sirree, Jack, Dewitt was a free spirit, a rebel, a long-haired, peace-loving, dope-smoking, antiestablishment, bonafide freak.

How fondly Dewitt remembers that one summer when he threw his gear on the back of his Harley chopper and took off across the country in search of "it." What "it" was Dewitt did not know, but it seemed to be cropping up everywhere. Some people were "with it." Others were hopelessly "out of it." Young people everywhere were "doing it," while those adroit with their hands were apparently "making it." For a full year, Dewitt drove, searching for this priceless commodity, pausing only to read a passage from Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance (no help for a busted crankcase) and maybe pop a lid or two.

But, despite one hell of a try, Dewitt never found "it" and the journey has been a failure that has haunted Dewitt for the rest of his days. Recently, prompted by a re-run of Woodstock on PBS, Dewitt decided try again, twenty years after the fact. Unfortunately, his Harley was long gone to the junk yard and his motorcycle operator's permit had been revoked after an unfortunate accident with an errant toddler, so Dewitt had to settle for a Schwinn ten-speed for transportation. Undaunted, Dewitt forged ahead: if some of the old ambience was missing, at least he was working off his paunch.

After about three minutes on the open road, Dewitt arrived in Harvard Square and vomited from exhaustion. Deciding that he needed to pace himself, Dewitt took a load off in front of Easy Rider (Brattle Theater). Given Dewitt's current endeavor, it was the perfect choice, a classic film about the groovy days of the late 60s and early 70s. Easy Rider tells the story of two long-haired hippie weirdos, Captain America and Billy (Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper), who raise money from a cocaine deal and travel across the country to see Mardi Gras. On their way, they encounter loads of interesting people: a bunch of city kids living communally on an Indian reservation, outraged and fearful hicks, a drunken lawyer who believes in UFOs and two maternal whores who can't handle their peyote.

Easy Rider is directed in consummately trippy fashion by Hopper, who once had an intensely hip handlebar mustache before he went on to portray drunks and psychopaths in 80s films. He and Fonda virtually define late 60s cool here, at once aloof (or stoned) and utterly self-righteous. Yet despite the absurdity of their ideas and appearance, the freaks in this film do seem to be free, if only in a very misguided way, and seem infinitely preferable to the straight-laced types they combat. It's hard to describe a film in which every other word is "man" as profound, but the wonderful mess that is Easy Rider may just deserve that adjective.

In any case, Dewitt felt well-rested after the film and resumed his quest. After pedalling furiously for a few minutes, however, nature began to make its oldest demand on Dewitt, and he pulled over to search for a sanitary rest room. He found one in a theater, and old instincts remaining powerful, he sat down to watch Raising Arizona (Nickelodeon, Harvard Square). Dewitt had intended to visit that fine state on his search, but this film gave him cause to reconsider. Raising Arizona is the story of an incredibly stupid hoodlum (Nicholas Cage), who steals an infant from a local business tycoon in order to placate his infertile wife.

Made by the same people who made Blood Simple, Raising Arizona is a loving and arty tribute to human idiocy. There is not one even vaguely intelligent person in the film, and yet whether they be escaped convicts or convenience-store clerks, the characters are all charming and endearing. They are exactly the type of folks you see in any small town anywhere in America, folks who say "somebitch" instead of "sonofabitch" and who enjoy their Kellogg's corn flakes straight from the box. Although you wish for some realistic nastiness a la Robert Altman to balance the film's artiness, Raising Arizona is consistently funny comedy.

So, with the sounds of Steppenwolf blaring through his Walkman, Dewitt remounted his self-powered "hawg" in search of the city limits. Unfortunately, Dewitt's depth perception was not as good as it had been and he ended up running into a treacherous fire hydrant and crashing through a plate glass window. The window belonged to a movie theater and, in order to avoid paying reparations, Dewitt quickly mingled among a crowd of film seekers, attentively viewing The Color Of Money (Beacon Hill). Dewitt had seen this movie before and at second look decided he didn't like it. The Color Of Money updates the story of pool-hustler Fast Eddie Felsen (Paul Newman). After years of retirement, Felsen decides to re-enter the billiard biz by tutoring a young hustler named Vince (Tom Cruise), teaching him to love currency more than the game itself.

The problem with this film is that underneath the many cool epigrams about the nature of pool and manhood, and despite the cute directorial tricks of Martin Scorsese, nothing really happens. Felsen's last-minute change of heart is unconvincing, as is Vince's all-too-quick corruption. We never get to see Newman and Cruise square off in a genuine contest and so the conflict between love and money falls entirely by the wayside. It seems as if Scorsese was so afraid of a sappy moral ending that he never bothered to finish the film.

His mode of transportation wrecked, Dewitt unhappily bought a subway token and headed home. Was money really the only thing in life, he pondered. What had ever happened to hippie idealism, to the search for truth and beauty through illicit chemicals? Yet in trying to reconcile these opposites, Dewitt had hit upon the solution. It's all in my head, Dewitt thought. The whole banana, from the Peace Decade to the Me Decade, is contained within my own existence. I am the Walt Whitman of my times, of all times. After years of fruitless searching, Dewitt had ended his quest and a warm feeling spread from the center of his body to his enhausted limbs. Yes, Dewitt was it.