The Runaways

What am I gonna do?

Oh, shit.

You have to get it now?

Why does everything happen to you first?

Here, take these.

You took Ma's heels?

Like she's ever worn anything twice.

Besides, you should be more worried about her finding out...

- how old your skanky boyfriend is. - Does your boyfriend have a car?

I'm sorry, do you even have a boyfriend?

Maybe I don't want a boyfriend.

No way.

Nice.

You're officially a woman. Let's fucking celebrate.

Derek, did Marie tell you that she's not wearing any underwear?

Really?

I hope that runs in the family.

Are you just gonna hang around...

or are you actually gonna buy something this time?

Hey, honey, you're looking in the wrong section.

The Women's section is on the other side.

I want what he's wearing.

Oh, dude.

- Who am I? - Elvis.

No, man. I'm the fucking Glycerine Queen.

Suzi Quatro.

- I'm the fucking wild one. - Yeah!

Mom's gonna kill you.

- It really looks terrible. - Good.

Crap.

Here, let me help you.

Fuck.

My brother says that guys don't like girls that are tough.

He says guys like girls that are soft and flirty.

Yeah, he would say that. He's a pussy.

He does spend a lot of time doing his bangs.

Next contestant, from Mrs. Morgan's 10th grade class...

Cherie Currie performing "Lady Grinning Soul."

Nice pants!

Yeah!

- Sit down. - Love you, Cherie!

You suck.

- I love it! - Freak.

You go, Cherie!

We love you!

Stay up there, Cherie!

Sit down now, please.

- Cherie! - She's going off.

Just keep working on those scales.

- I'll see you next week. - Okay. See you.

Joan Larkin.

It's Jett. Joan Jett.

Come on in, Joan Jett.

All right. Here.

Okay. Well, let's get started.

- So what kind of amps you guys got? - Amps?

Well, why don't we just keep it unplugged for now, okay?

All right. A...

Well, I wanna play, like, Chuck Berry, you know, "Johnny B. Goode"?

Why don't we just start with a G chord?

A G chord to a C, to a D. How's that?

G chord, like that.

On top of Old Smokey.

All covered with snow.

Now we're gonna go to a D.

I lost my poor sweetheart.

To the G.

From courting too slow.

- You see that? Did you see...? - "Old Smokey"?

That one's goofy, man.

I mean, at least teach me "Smoke on the Water." I know you know that one.

Girls don't play electric guitars.

On top of Old Smokey.

All covered with snow - Covered with slow

I dumped my poor sweetheart.

For screwing too slow.

That's not funny, Miss Larkin.

I can teach you to play the guitar, but you're gonna have to...

Excuse me, what are you doing? Excuse me?

Excuse me, I don't think you ought to do that right now.

Turn that off, please. Turn it off.

Hello?

Happy birthday, kitten.

Hey, Daddy. I saved you the best piece of cake, the one with my name on it.

- Know why? - Tell me.

Because guess who ruled the school talent show.

- You? - Yeah.

Well, me and David Bowie. But when are you gonna get here?

The cake's gonna melt and Mom says there's no room left in the freezer.

Well, I can't, kitten. I got... I gotta stay late tonight.

I'm sorry. I'll be by tomorrow, promise. I only have a few minutes, though...

so why don't you let me say hi to the other kitten.

Marie's out with her friends.

What, you didn't wanna go?

- No. - Okay. Well, give her a pet for me.

I love you, kitten.

Love you too, Daddy.

Yeah. So wacky though, right?

- No. I could do all right. - Right there, that's right.

- You gonna go dance? - I don't know.

- You like it strong, don't you? - Yeah, I like it...

No, I can't.

- It's too much. - This is fine, okay?

All right. Let's keep it going all night.

Here is more supersonic sounds of London.

Yeah!

That's Kim Fowley.

You see that guy over there? That's...

He's a famous record producer.

This is Dick Johnson. He'd like to produce you.

Well, tell Little Richard to heel, all right?

No?

Just...

stay.

So he got really in.

- Hey. - Hey.

You need a cab or something?

No.

Yeah.

- He's... - You're Kim Fowley?

I am the King Hysteria himself.

And let me guess, you sing in a band...

and it's the greatest band in the world...

and I am the luckiest dog fucker in outer space...

because I get to hear it first, right?

I'm Joan Jett.

I play...

I play guitar. Electric guitar.

Joan Jett, that's a cool name. You guys got a demo?

No.

No, I don't...

No guys. I wanna start an all-girl rock band.

Really?

Maybe I am the luckiest dog fucker after all. Hey, Sandy.

Hold on, I'll be right back.

Sandy West is a drummer.

Joan Jett claims to be some sort of guitar goddess.

Well, I didn't say that goddess thing.

No, no, it's cool, man. These guys are talking about going to some party...

on the south side. It's supposed to be bitchen. You wanna go?

No, I mean, I can't tonight. But we should jam.

- Yeah. - You play drums?

Yeah, let's play.

See what kind of noise you two make, call me if you have something...

that won't make me regret giving you my number, okay?

Okay.

Cool, so we'll play.

Hey.

Okay, I get it. Yeah, that's enough.

Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Joan?

Hello?

Pick up the phone!

- Dog meat! - Hi, sorry.

Hey, what the fuck you girls been doing over there?

Well, we've been practicing, man, like you said.

Oh, yeah?

Well, get back to it.

You bitches are gonna be bigger than the fucking Beatles.

- Cool. - Yeah.

All right.

Let's do it.

Ready? One, two, three.

- Hello, Mrs. West. Is Sandy home? - Oh, God.

Tougher, tougher, tougher.

Come on.

I mean, come on, this is really good music.

There's nothing like this on the radio. There's nothing.

Elvis and Priscilla got divorced...

the president is a prowler...

and all these housewives talk to their fucking plants.

Now, you dogs need to get dirty. All those little fuck boys out there...

are wearing dresses and leaving their lipstick...

on each other's cocks, okay?

Now, I wanna hear you fuck girls growl!

Halt.

I know what we're missing.

- I know what we need. - What are we missing?

Bitchen.

Hey, I like your pants.

Thanks.

Kim Fowley, record producer. You've heard of me.

Have I?

I like your style.

A little Bowie, a little Bardot. A look on your face that says:

"I could kick the shit out of a truck driver."

Joanie.

This is Joan Jett.

And you are?

- Cherie. - Cherie.

- Cherie what? - Currie.

Cherie Currie. Is that your real name?

Well, Cherie Currie, do you sing or play a musical instrument?

Yeah. Yeah, I can sing.

- Why? - "Why?"

Asked the maybe-great Cherie Currie.

Read my lips.

We love your look.

We are choosing you to be a part of rock 'n' roll history.

Do you wanna be in a band?

Are you kidding?