Category - 1970s

Were you to sequence my DNA, odds are good you’ll find traces of Grease woven into the very fabric of my existence. Grease was that important to me. To my development, my burgeoning philosophical views and social leanings, it’s all right there. Grease soaked itself into my preadolescent genes and wreaked havoc. Grease is part of my history, a measurable part of who I am.

Movies have a bad habit of doing that to folks.

In the mid-to-late seventies, my family packed up their bags and moved from my birthplace in sunny southern California to the snowy wilds of Anchorage, Alaska. I was six or seven years old at the time and this upheaval was a major cause of my discontent. During those first few weeks in the Last Frontier, we stayed in a motel until such a time that more permanent arrangements could be made.

I don’t remember much about the lodgings, only that it offered a world-class view of one of the Sundowner Drive-In’s three outdoor screens.
Every evening before bed, I would venture into the room’s tiny bathroom, turn over the little plastic trashcan to use as a stepstool and balance myself on my tiptoes until I could just barely see out the window. From there I would treat myself to a complimentary – though audio-free – showing of Grease.

Every.

Single.

Night.

Now, I’ll admit to having been an impressionable young lad in my youth. I had the same fantastical hopes and dreams as the other kids; envisioning myself as an astronaut, or a dinosaur trainer, etc. But the one thing I wanted to be most of all was a delinquent. A real J.D. That was the be-all, end-all of my larval insect brain.

In retrospect, it all sounds a bit childish. Then again, I was a child.
But talk about being in the right place at the right time. The seventies were a particularly glorious time for juvenile delinquency. Not since the Judas Priest-clad glory days of the 1950s has there been such a bumper crop of films celebrating the joys and wonders of a youth gone wild.

Grease is the founding pillar of my delinquency trilogy. The gateway drug to an inglorious life of mischief and mayhem. That first high that can never be replicated, but you’ll sure as hell spend the rest of your life chasing.
Yes! It is so gosh-darn sugary sweet that the celluloid will rot through your teeth by the time the end credits roll.

I get that.

And while we’re on the subject, it’s predicable too. It doesn’t matter if you’re sitting down for your first, or five-hundredth viewing, there is never any doubt that Danny and Sandy are going to get back together in the end.
But therein lies the rub. Grease isn’t about Danny and Sandy.

Not to me it isn’t.

Danny and Sandy are merely the eye candy to sweeten the dish and make it more palatable for the masses. The real stars of Grease are Keneckie and Rizzo.

Allow me to explain.

First of all, Danny and Sandy do not exist in real life. They are as alien to this earth as E.T. You will never run into one of them at your local grocery store, corner pub or coffee shop. Characters like that only exist pop songs, the stage and screen, or in-between the pages of your favorite book. The closest this world has ever gotten to a real-life Danny Zucko is Andrew Dice Clay and boy, did that experiment ever go horribly, horribly wrong. (To be fair, the Diceman will always have a special place in my heart for his role as the bouncer in Pretty in Pink. He wasn’t half-bad in A Star is Born either.)
And Sandy? Even Olivia Newton-John herself can’t compete with Sandy Olsson. No one can, and those that try are likely to wind up serial killers.

(See also: Serial Mom)

On the flipside, I’ve come across plenty of Keneckies and Rizzos in my life and times, and the world is far a more interesting place for them.
Full disclosure: I am a card-carrying member of the Cult of Betty Rizzo. Catch me in the right mood, and I might even show you the secret handshake.

Despite Stockard Channing’s many feminine charms, Rizzo is genderless. She is everywoman. She is everyman. In contrast to Sandy Olsson’s seeming charmed life, Rizzo’s skin isn’t perfect and her attitude is even worse. Betty Rizzo is damaged goods and you can’t help but fall in love with her for it.
And Keneckie? The poor sap spends half the movie building his dream car out of scraps, only to have Zucko drive to victory in the end. I don’t know about you, but I’ve found myself in Keneckie’s zip code far more often than I’ve stepped foot in Danny’s.

Sandy slaps away Danny’s clumsy attempts at heavy petting while Keneckie and Rizzo fall flat on their faces with a pregnancy scare. Danny and Sandy tell the classic tale of opposites attracting. Keneckie and Rizzo are, at their core, one in the same. Danny and Sandy have a bright and cheery future ahead of them, complete with white picket fences and flying cars. Kenecki and Rizzo are staring down a future of double-shifts at the local factory. By the end of the movie there is no doubt that Danny and Sandy are going to make it and the viewer is left crossing their fingers, hoping that Keneckie and Rizzo manage do the same.

Danny and Sandy are the whitest of white bread holding this sandwich together. Keneckie and Rizzo are the protein.

And, in case you were wondering, Frankie Avalon is the mustard.