Observe the shining, digitally foreshortened head of fifth-billed star Danny DeVito, who has seven minutes in this 1977 movie. The film's fame waned as DeVito's rose. No matter how tasty imitation cheese is in Superbad, doing its best to recapture the horn-dogginess of movies about wacky guys driving around aimlessly trying to score a chick, it's never quite as rank as the real thing. Sometimes, you have to get in time machine and set the controls for the heart of those more innocent times (more innocent to those who weren't alive during them, let me add).

I've been saving The Van for a long long time. The weather's good and I'm particularly craving some drive-in cinema, but in my neighborhood sitting in around in a car means either you're planning a drive-by shooting, or you're about to be drive-by shot. So I slapped this in, trying to pretend the sofa was the fake-fur covered padded seat of a van, front wheels raised on an asphalt berm, tilted at a 15 degree angle. As we can see from the Big Sky in the Wisconsin Dells, Shankweiler's (America's oldest!) in Pennsylvania or the noble old Skyview in Santa Cruz, Ca. the drive-in refuses to die. Likewise, this chunk of fragrant vintage idiocy somehow never ended up in the landfill. And it preserves so much DNA of the Stinky Seventies: chest-hair, porn 'staches, bell-bottoms, French-Cut t-shirts, man-perms, dirt beer, CB radios: it's all right here waiting for you.