Review: 8 Million Ways to Die

More like ‘100 Ways to Suck’. LA detective Jeff Bridges’ alcoholism stemming from a bad on-the-job incident, costs him his job and his family. Now attending AA classes, he runs into call girl Alexandra Paul, who invites him to a swanky party. It turns out that the party is at the home of Randy Brooks, a pimp whom Bridges once busted. Also attending the party are drug dealer Andy Garcia and another hooker, played by Rosanna Arquette, who is Garcia’s main squeeze. When Paul ends up murdered, Bridges sees it as his duty to find out who killed her and why. Look for hulking ‘Tiny’ Lister as Brooks’ muscle-bound bodyguard, in a small role.

 

Based on a Lawrence Block novel (in a series that includes “A Walk Among the Tombstones”, turned into a solid Liam Neeson film fairly recently), this 1986 cop/crime flick was the last theatrically released film from director Hal Ashby (“The Last Detail”, “Coming Home”) and has a screenplay co-written by Oliver Stone (who the same year directed his masterpiece “Platoon”), along with David Lee Henry (“Road House”, “Out for Justice”). It was a troubled production, with Ashby fired after principal photography, and Stone apparently upset that his original script was re-written by Robert Towne (“Chinatown”, “The Last Temptation of Christ”), and then Ashby had the actors improvise much of it anyway. I’d like to tell you, dear reader, that all this turmoil led to a great film. It didn’t, the film sucks, despite all the talent in front of and behind the camera. How can a film involving the talents of Ashby, Stone, Bridges, and Garcia be such an epic fail? Behold one of the biggest disappointments you’re ever likely to come across.

 

The film isn’t exactly a monumental disaster of “Heaven’s Gate” proportions, but it’s surprisingly poor. The dialogue at times is surprisingly puerile. I don’t care who it was who wrote it (Stone, Henry, Towne, Ashby, or an improvising Alexandra Paul), but at the very least someone should’ve been fired for coming up with the following line; ‘The street light makes my pussy hair glow in the dark—cotton candy with a glow’. I mean, what the fuck? Who thought that was a great line? It’s not great, it’s one of the worst lines in cinematic history. Then again, we’re talking about a film so badly written that the dialogue in the climax is 95% profanity (Stone might’ve had something to do with that, or it might’ve been improvised but my money’s on Henry because he showed in “Out for Justice” how much he likes the F-word).

 

But believe me, the film has more problems than just dialogue. I mean, why didn’t composer James Newton Howard (“Signs”, “The Happening”, “The Dark Knight”) just go ahead and change his name to Jan Hammer? Because his score is the biggest “Miami Vice” rip-off you’re likely to hear. I kept waiting for the sunglasses, Hawaiian shirts and speed boat chases, Howard’s score is that distracting. The plot is based around a potentially interesting idea but it is completely botched in execution. It’s totally clichéd but more importantly, it’s clunky, woefully unconvincing and beyond heavy-handed (Bridges alcoholism is dealt with in an especially ham-fisted manner). The introductory scene between Bridges and Paul is so incoherent and terribly written that the rest of the film just doesn’t work. I just didn’t buy Bridges getting mixed up with all these seedy people, not the way this film script’s the situation. I know he’s a troubled ex-cop, but the situation just doesn’t work on screen. Almost as bad is that when you consider what it is that set Bridges off the rails, all of his subsequent behaviour just comes off as ridiculous. The story has promise in there somewhere, but it ends up utterly absurd.

 

The cast, sadly, cannot bring things up to a level of even modest respectability. Of the actors, a slightly off-kilter Bridges tries really hard (and hey, it’s better than “King Kong” and “The Vanishing”), and Brooks steals the show (as a slick and relatively articulate pimp), but Paul is incompetent and Garcia is a massive disappointment. Sadly, even Brooks becomes a liability towards the end, or at least his character does, when one realises he’s just going to end up as the token black sidekick. A pimp being the token sidekick to an ex-cop, folks. Think about that. I’ve never liked Alexandra Paul or Rosanna Arquette as actresses (or beauties), but Arquette gives one of her more competent turns here. Paul flat-out can’t act and is terribly miscast in the kind of role Rachel Ward absolutely owned in the 80s in films like “Sharkey’s Machine” and “Against All Odds” (also starring Bridges in happier times). Ward could play these roles, Paul cannot. She isn’t remotely convincing. She was subjectively never my idea of a "Baywatch" babe, but more importantly, I don’t even know how she even managed to get any work after this terrible performance. Sporting a terrible, tiny ponytail, Andy Garcia gives a surprisingly stereotypical, Tony Montana-wannabe performance (And come to think of it, Stone scripted “Scarface”). One look at the guy and you know he’s a poor man’s “Scarface” drug-dealing gangster, and Garcia’s performance never goes beyond the surface. As a result, he’s more fatuous than frightening or intimidating. That’s a real surprise and a real disappointment, given Garcia can indeed do the bad guy thing quite well, as “The Godfather Part III” showed (And no I can’t believe I’m using that film in a positive context, either). But here he’s just an unconvincing, unthreatening poseur.

 

With this much talent, you’d probably be shocked at how it gets absolutely no good reviews whatsoever, but then you start watching it and all becomes clear as day.   

 

Rating: D