The Bikeriders Is Pure, Unapologetic Americana

Director Jeff Nichols’s new film, The Bikeriders, is more than just another entry in the “bros hanging out” subgenre, which traces its roots to classics such as Rio Bravo. With a powerhouse ensemble cast, meticulous attention to detail, and stunning cinematography, the film captures and revitalizes the iconography of a bygone era without belittling the men who defined it.

Based on photojournalist Danny Lyon’s 1968 book of the same name, The Bikeriders chronicles the Vandals, a Midwest motorcycle club led by Johnny (Tom Hardy, reminding us why he’s one of the finest actors of his generation) and Benny (Austin Butler, exuding the charisma of movie gods).

This story about men is told through the eyes of Benny’s wife, Kathy (Jodie Comer, delivering some of the finest accent work in recent memory), through a series of interviews with Lyon (Mike Faist). The intriguing narrative choice enriches The Bikeriders through her refreshing honesty. Kathy loves her husband, but she can also see through his and his friends’ bravado.

Other contemporary films might seize on such an opportunity to scrutinize its personalities through a harsh modern lens, but Nichols prefers nuanced character studies. Hardy’s casting is a masterstroke. We expect the actor who portrayed Bane in The Dark Knight Rises to appear battle-hardened, but it’s his portrayal of the character’s vulnerabilities that elevate his performance.

A telling moment occurs when we learn that Johnny was inspired to start the Vandals after watching The Wild One in his suburban home where he lives with his wife and children. Yet The Bikeriders doesn’t portray him as a fraud; Johnny frequently exhibits real physical and moral fortitude. The film is simply forthright that no one is perpetually as tough or effortlessly cool as Marlon Brando’s Johnny Strabler. This candor is a testament to Nichols’s screenplay.

Hardy’s muscular presence is juxtaposed with Butler’s more enigmatic Benny, whose wholesome appearance belies his toughness. Perhaps the club’s most formidable member, Benny doesn’t convey his grit through dialogue—Butler, like Steve McQueen in his prime, has few lines in the film—but through actions.

Some critics argue that The Bikeriders has a thin plot and little to say. While it’s true that the film prioritizes style and avoids tedious lectures on masculinity, declining social capital (for an in-depth analysis read Putnam’s Bowling Alone), and mid-century America, it is hardly superficial.

Yes, the scene in which Benny leads police cars on a motorcycle chase is exhilarating, but we learn he is the real McCoy when, despite being alone and having nothing to prove, he refuses to remove his biker jacket after a couple of guys confront him at a local bar. His quiet defiance speaks volumes, underscoring a key theme. Like the stylish films of Jean-Pierre Melville, The Bikeriders is interested in the honor codes among seemingly dishonorable men.

The movie explores how these unspoken rules evolve. As times change, Johnny wants Benny to succeed him, valuing his integrity — a young man with an old soul. The problem is, Benny doesn’t see himself as a leader. This tension sets up one of the film’s central conflicts, leaving us with more thought-provoking questions than easy answers.

Those seeking further depth may find that the film prompts a fascinating examination of cinema’s power to project, create, and reinforce culture through symbolism and feedback loops. As The Bikeriders makes clear, motorcycle culture is as much a Hollywood creation as it is organic. After World War II, biker clubs emerged in suburbs across the country, inspiring a wave of pictures that brought these groups to life on the big screen.

Club members, as well as the young men who were raised on these movies, started emulating what they saw, similar to how mobsters admired the Corleones. Later films, like Roger Corman’s The Wild Angels, began reflecting this imitation, while the broader culture changed. Audiences would then internalize these new portrayals, creating a perpetuating cycle of cultural reinforcement. Of course, there’s a difference between guys like Benny, who joined these clubs for the camaraderie, and those who were attracted to Tinsel Town’s depiction of the underworld in black leather jackets.

The Bikeriders encapsulates this phenomenon. Not only does it create its own feedback loop by featuring Kathy’s interviews, which resulted in the book that inspired the film, but the movie is also bookended by both The Wild One and Easy Rider, with Butler’s pompadour channeling Elvis, whom he portrayed in 2022 — a full-circle cultural homage decades in the making. Yet the film is not merely a passive observer; it clearly implies that when paired with an absence of virtue, such media cycles can erode cultural values — much like photocopies of photocopies distort the originals. The movie illustrates this through contrasts, rather than pedantry, such as the original and newer Vandals’ differing treatment of women.

Beyond subtext, The Bikeriders excels at delivering pure entertainment. Inspired by Goodfellas and the photojournalism it’s based on, its aesthetic roars to life as a character in its own right, powered by the kind of sweeping cinematography that transforms young actors into screen legends. The powerful imagery is complemented by what is easily this year’s best soundtrack, featuring a standout collection of jukebox hits and a delectable Muddy Waters needle-drop. The result is a timeless film that, like the open roads it captures so beautifully, grants audiences the freedom to ponder deeper themes if they choose, or simply relish two hours immersed in a cinematic time capsule.

Perhaps most important, rather than tearing down your grandfather and his peers, the film extends them grace, sparing us the shallowest of modern self-esteem boosts: feeling superior to the generations upon whose shoulders we stand. The Bikeriders is pure, unapologetic Americana. Rev your engine and enjoy the ride.