There are biopics, and then there’s whatever the hell Evel Knievel (2004) is — a sanitized, Hallmark-filtered fever dream about America’s most famously unhinged man on two wheels, directed with all the passion of a DMV instructional video by John Badham. Once the king of kinetic storytelling (WarGames, Saturday Night Fever), Badham here seems to be directing with one hand on the remote and the other in a bowl of cold spaghetti.
This film aired on TNT, which feels right. Because if there’s one channel that screams “edgy American icon brought to life through clichés, soft rock, and uninspired narration,” it’s the one that usually follows reruns of Charmed with straight-to-cable WWII dramas. The only thing Evel Knievel should be jumping here is a shark — which he almost certainly would have, if this script had a pulse.
Let’s take a closer look at this cinematic wheelie popper.
The Premise: Born to Be Mild
Evel Knievel — real name Robert Craig Knievel — was a maniac in red, white, and blue leather, famous for attempting to launch himself across canyons, fountains, and whatever else was available when cocaine and marketing aligned. The movie decides this man, who once broke every bone in his body multiple times, deserves the full Lifetime treatment. You know what that means: childhood trauma, voiceover about “destiny,” an underwritten love interest, and the subtle emotional range of a motivational calendar.
The film charts Knievel’s journey from a small-time con man and motorcycle showman to national icon, with all the edge of a bedtime story. Yes, we get the Caesar’s Palace crash. Yes, we get the Snake River Canyon disaster. But do we get insight, truth, or any sense of the self-destructive thunderclap of a man he really was?
Nope. We get a two-hour therapy session delivered by a man in a jumpsuit who sounds like he’s apologizing to America for being a little too cool once.
George Eads: CSI Leather Jacket
George Eads — best known for playing Nick Stokes on CSI and looking perpetually like he just got back from a Bass Pro Shop — stars as Evel. And to be fair, he tries. He squints. He scowls. He rides bikes. He delivers lines like, “I was born to fly” as though he’s auditioning for a fragrance ad called Testosterone by TNT.
But Eads doesn’t have the madness, the swagger, or the sneer. He’s too polished. Too pretty. Evel Knievel wasn’t a GQ model with a death wish. He was an egomaniacal lunatic with a liver full of whiskey, a god complex, and the bones of a LEGO set after a toddler tantrum.
Instead, this version of Evel looks like he’d rather explain mortgage rates than risk his spine for cheers and Budweiser. He’s missing the danger. The unpredictability. The madness. Which is sort of like playing Beethoven without the notes.
The Script: Evel Talk, No Evel Walk
It’s hard to make a movie about Evel Knievel boring, but this script manages to flatten every explosive moment into exposition and every wild chapter of his life into soft-spoken monologues about family values and self-belief. You know, exactly the opposite of what made the guy interesting.
There’s no chaos, no rage, no scene where he threatens to beat someone with a tire iron while swearing at God and every member of the press. You know — Evel Knievel stuff. Instead, we get tender scenes with his wife and kids, as if Evel spent most of his time baking pies and attending PTA meetings, not chugging beers and jumping over flaming buses while telling his femur to just “walk it off.”
Every character speaks in wooden clichés:
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“You can’t keep doing this to yourself!”
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“America needs a hero!”
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“The bike’s just a machine, Evel. You’re the engine.”
That last one may not be real, but it wouldn’t be out of place in this brain-melting Hallmark death spiral.
The Direction: Badham on Cruise Control
John Badham once understood adrenaline. He made us feel the heat of Blue Thunder and the chill of nuclear war games. Here, he directs like Evel’s helmet — protective, rigid, and designed to cushion against anything remotely resembling real emotion.
The jump scenes — which should be the highlight — are laughably tame. There’s more intensity in a Razor scooter commercial. You’d think a man launching himself over 50 cars would deserve at least one pulse-pounding sequence. But no. Instead, we get stock sound effects, gentle slow-motion, and a soundtrack that sounds like Creed-lite on Ambien.
Everything’s lit like a Las Vegas gift shop and paced like a courtroom drama. You keep waiting for the moment it all takes off. For the wheels to scream. For anything to feel dangerous. But the only thing in danger is your ability to stay conscious.
The Supporting Cast: Cardboard Cutouts on Standby
Jamie Pressly plays Evel’s long-suffering wife, Linda. She’s given precisely three facial expressions and 1.5 character traits: “supportive” and “briefly angry.” Her job is to cry, plead, and occasionally fold laundry while muttering “I just want my husband back.” It’s like watching someone fall in love with a fireworks display and then complain when it keeps setting the backyard on fire.
Lance Henriksen — somehow slumming it harder than usual — plays Evel’s mentor, or boss, or possibly just a man who wandered on set and was too intimidating to ask to leave. He growls his lines like a man explaining how to gut a deer and fix a carburetor in one sentence. He’s the only one who seems aware he’s in a movie about a guy who literally tried to jump the Grand Canyon.
The Message: Whitewashed Americana
The most galling part? Evel Knievel tries to sell us on the idea that he was a humble, misunderstood patriot who just wanted to inspire the kids. This is a man who once beat a guy with a baseball bat for writing an unflattering biography. A man who went bankrupt in a fit of ego so large, the moon blushed.
But here, he’s shown as a maverick dreamer, a rebel with a cause, a kind of leather-bound Forrest Gump with a motorcycle. The film ends on a sentimental montage with narration about believing in yourself and dreaming big. You expect Evel to pull out a bald eagle and fly away on a flag-draped cloud of dignity.
Instead of wrestling with his demons, we get a hug and a high-five. Instead of truth, we get a handshake and a wink. It’s the cinematic equivalent of being sold a firework and receiving a glow stick.
Final Verdict: 1.5 out of 5 Broken Bones
Evel Knievel (2004) takes one of the most dangerous, reckless, and charismatic American icons and turns him into a motivational speaker in leather pants. The film is flat, safe, and laughably reverent — the very antithesis of the man it tries to honor.
Watch it only if you’ve lost a bet, or you’re stuck in a Motel 6 and the remote is broken. Or better yet, just find the real Knievel footage online — it’s messier, more thrilling, and doesn’t pretend the guy was anything other than a lunatic with brass balls and a death wish.
This isn’t a tribute. It’s a funeral in soft focus.
