Watch: Quiksilver’s ‘WASHED’

“We wanna be free! We wanna be free to do what we wanna do. We wanna be free to ride. We wanna be free to ride our machines without being hassled by The Man!”

As I hit play on Washed for the very first time and heard Peter Fonda’s words, I thought that starting a surf movie with Primal Scream’s Loaded was courageous — and why not? It left me feeling giddy for a few seconds.

Then came the 180. Mudhoney’s intro turned into J Mascis droning over a few Kauli Vaast bombs just before Rio Waida’s electric, featherweight frame launched itself practically off-screen.

Within those first couple of minutes, it became clear what Washed actually is: a turbo-charged, straightforward compilation of ripping from what might be the most lethal roster any legacy brand can currently assemble.

The 2020s have become a bottomless pit of anxiety for the artistically inclined. How long can a surfer actually sit on unseen footage, knowing some YouTube poacher will drop their bangers and murder the novelty?

Resorting to a sections format, composed of maybe a few hundred different sessions spread across the entire roster, the surfing in Washed was documented by thirty-four different camera operators, who had their stacks of orange-rubber-encased bricks couriered to the main concourse of Quiky’s ship, where the final edit was efficiently put together.

Truth is, it can’t be simple to logistically make ends meet with six CT’ers, one above-the-lip phenom with a dirty mouth, a tube contortionist with a burgeoning presenter/anchor career in the pipeline, an Olympic gold medalist, and a handful of loose cannons.

The friend beside me muttered, “Looks like each surfer edited their own part.” Not the case, but I would’ve believed that version if it were written in the blurb. The fact that no editors are mentioned in the credits makes this theory somewhat credible.

Nevertheless, Quik solved a complicated problem in a simple and effective manner. While Washed won’t define an era, it’ll provide pre-surf ammunition for groms, gromettes, and old boys, just before they do their lower backs in trying to emulate the blowtails of their children’s heroes.

The surfing is, forgive the cliché, absurd. The land-based sections format may have been picked cleaner than a carcass in the desert, yet somehow the film resurrects that old anticipation of wondering who gets the closing section, and why they got it.

Which brings us to the closing acts. No piece of writing about Washed should omit Mikey Wright’s monumental and cartoonish straight air at Lakey Peak. His makes a convincing case for airs in the ocean having greater legitimacy than airs in any pool.

Read on if you’re not offended by spoilers: Kael Walsh’s certified psychopathic rampage in Ireland will have you scratching your head while holding your chin in place. His nightmarish part is worth watching and rewatching, preferably on mute.

Washed isn’t perfect and feels occasionally disjointed, but in an era when sitting on footage is professional suicide and artistic cohesion feels like a luxury brands are no longer willing to afford, Quiksilver did what needed doing: they got it made, they got it out there with premeires around the world, and they gave their ridiculous team a platform to advertise the ridiculous things they can do on a surfboard.

And sometimes, that’s enough.