It took three screenwriters (Michael Butler, Dennis Shryack and Lane Slate) to postulate the malevolent sentience of a motor vehicle? Anyway, The Car is a subglacial, moronic jalopy that doesn't benefit from turgid family squabbles. Stephen King's Christine knew that the sinister car itself wasn't especially scary. It was the insidious seduction of Keith Gordon that was frightening. The POV of the car is basically a series of tawny color filters. The bridge massacre of two bicyclists is achieved to minimal suspense and overt stupidity. James Brolin, father of the burly Josh, is the chief deputy who obnoxiously tussles with Lauren (Kathleen Lloyd) after an evening of unwedded revelry. Speaking of which, the gregarious domestic scenes with Brolin, Lloyd and his two daughters are unbearably schmaltzy. It might be lax to omit character drama but an abused wife, a recovering alcoholic and a single parent, are all clay pigeons for further bloodshed. The kitchen-sink approach is utilized by Elliot Silverstein to capture the inexorable dread of the Lincoln Continental Mark III's spree (ex. The camera is mounted low near the tire when it screeches to a halt). Regardless, when the sheriff is impaled by the titular car, it looks like he was paralyzed with fear and collapsed instead of collided with. Those who desire hermetic explanations will be chagrined that the car's possessed powers can be chalked up to Satanic manifestation. Of course, that is a vague assumption since no concrete reason is proposed other than an opening quote by Anton LeVay and the fact that is can't trespass on consecrated ground. Lloyd's taunts at the Lincoln are wildly unfunny ("Why don't you get out of that upside-down bathtub?"). The one consolation is the Hal Needham-like stuntwork such as when the car leaps through a residential house's window.