A weird gang leader named Cyrus (Roger Hill) calls all the gangs of New York City to The Bronx for a proposal: continue a citywide truce and work together to take over the city from the cops. He repeatedly shouts “Can you dig it?!?” and the thousands of young men in attendance cheer and raise their fists to indicate that, yes, they can indeed dig that. But just when everyone’s digging on Cyrus and having a good time, a long-haired guy named Luther (David Patrick Kelly) shoots Cyrus, and blames it on The Warriors, and somehow everyone digs it. Nobody but the The Warriors saw Luther shoot Cyrus? Everyone simply accepts the ramblings of a bleary-eyed strung out junky with a bandana tied around his head?

The Warriors have to slip past loads of angry gangs on their way back home to Brooklyn. Each gang has its own hilarious gimmick. One dresses in facepaint and baseball uniforms, wielding wooden bats. Another hangs out in the subway, wearing striped shirts, overalls, and roller-skates (what sort of theme is that?!? “Don’t mess with us! We’re the Can’t Dress Ourselves Gang!”). The main gang searching for The Warriors are The Riffs, an all-black gang that dresses in all-black and whose leader looks a lot like MC Hammer. He’s frequently shown in close-up, receiving updates on the Warriors exploits. If you watch THE WARRIORS, I encourage you to shout “Please Hammer! Don’t hurt ‘em!” at him each time he appears and orders retribution.

Even the Warriors have silly uniforms: a brown leather vest, worn shirtless, with their name and insignia on the back. There is something very homoerotic about these guys - not that there’s anything wrong with that. The Warriors constantly call each other “fags” when one does something the others don’t like, but no one seems to acknowledge the inherent flamboyance of their outfits and behavior. Not surprisingly, when a girl is thrown in with The Warriors, only one of their rank seems even remotely interested in her. Most are upset that the boys club has been ruined.

Maybe in 1979 this movie seemed like a terrifying view of New York’s future. Granted, no one probably feared the coming of the Roller Derby gang, but THE WARRIORS, shot on location, looks completely different from the city I know. New York has its share of problems now, but they bear little resemblance to those of the late 1970s. Instead of anticipating the horror, THE WARRIORS now acts as a museum piece. Its dire warnings seem just as foolish as 1950s science fiction about the dire threat posed by giant nuclear ants. Heartfelt, dated premonitions of dystopia often develop into camp, and THE WARRIORS is an unlikely but perfect example.