It’s night. An establishing shot of a Ferris Wheel: the words Wonder Wheel in neon, and flashing lilac lights spread out and up the spokes of the wheel. You can see the cradle-chairs on the wheel rocking gently against the jet-black backdrop. Eerie electronic fairground music sets a mood of tension. We may be looking at a fairground, but everything is not going to be alright.
Then, in red: A Lawrence Gordon Production
Then: a nearly totally black screen, but small lights appear, then what clearly becomes a subway train moving across from left to right. The fairground feel of the music has changed: a solid, persistent bass note rides behind the music, echoing the sound of the subway train.
Then, the graffiti legend: The Warriors, in blood red dripping spray paint typeface. The music becomes an electronic haze of menace. As the subway train continues it’s journey the cast credits are run across the screen. The train, having cut from left to right across the screen now moves into a dimly lit station as it turns down the screen and heads towards the viewer head-on. The train draws to a halt and the screen fades to blurred coloured lights. The music persists but fades back.
A young black man appears steps into view: he has on a leather waistcoat and a hat made from what looks to be animal print material and looks vaguely Arabic. He wears a beaded necklace.
“It’s still on. And we’re going. Cyrus sent an emissary this afternoon to make sure. Now Cyrus don’t want anybody packed and he don’t want anybody flexing any muscle. So I gave him my word that the Warriors would uphold the truce. Everybody says that Cyrus is the one and only. I think we better go and have a look for ourself.”
A belching repetitive bass note kicks in, and we see a group of young men, all wearing similar gang colours of waistcoats, various hats and with the legend ‘Warriors’ written across their backs in the style of Hell's Angels jackets. The group enter the carriage of the subway train. There are maybe ten of them. They seem calm, menacing but organised. They stand, swing on the straps. The carriage door closes. The graffiti-covered train pulls out of the station as the credit Music by Barry De Vorzon appears.
The gang roll through the carriage larking about. More credits and the train leaves the Ferris wheel behind. It feels like New York. Could it be Coney Island we are leaving?
We cut to a flashback to two of the gang speaking.
“We ain’t even ever been to the Bronx before.” the white guy says.
“No sweat,” the black guy says. “This conclave is going to be a real big item. Every gang in the city is going to be there.”
Cut to two trains passing, then shots of various gangs entering the subway system at various stations: a black gang wearing white pants, black shirts, spotted ties lilac waistcoats and short pimped out hats; a gang dressed as mimes in red shirts, black braces and top hats with their faces pantomime white; a gang wearing jeans, adidas trainers and black t-shirts.
Flashback to two different Warriors speaking:
“We’re going in there with nothing.”
“We’re going in there like everybody else: nine guys, no weapons."
Cut to more gangs at various points in the subway system: an oriental gang with calf length trousers, odd peaked hats, green army shirts and karate slippers; a gang wearing yellow satin disco jackets; a Latino gang in black vests. The trains move through the city. We see the Warriors trace the route on the subway map: they have come from Coney Island in Brooklyn and are heading right up north to The Bronx.
Two more Warriors speak.
“You got the stuff?” A young looking gang member holds up a spray-paint can.
“I want you to hit everything in sight. I want everybody to know the Warriors were there.”
More moving trains. More credits rush towards the audience. Cut back and forth between the subway map and the moving trains. The tempo picks up.
Cut to the Warriors larking about. Two more speak.
“You never know what you might run into out there. Wearing our colours we can’t hide.”
“Who wants to hide.”
More train shots. More gangs. An electric guitar drives the tempo up.
“Maybe we’ll get to waste a few heads along the way,” says a smiling Warrior.
“You just soldier and keep your mouth shut,” says his leader.
Cut back to the more Warriors.
"When we get there you stick close by.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t feel like getting wrecked.”
Then
“One thing we might get out of Cyrus’s little get-together? Meeting some strange wool. I wouldn’t mind nailing a little something down on the way back.”
“You got a one-track brain you know that?”
“What’s the matter, you going faggot.”
“What do you know about Cyrus?”
“Magic. A whole lot of magic.”
“He’s the one and only.”
“When you are President of the biggest gang in the city you don’t have to take any shit.”
“Ah, fuck him.”
Finally, the subway map reveals: Dyre Ave and 233rd Street. Pelham Park. The Bronx.
“I’ll tell you something. I bet nobody is even going to be there.”
A last shot of the train glows electric blue and the screen fades to black.
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