The Great Outdoors

March 14, 2013

Great OutdoorsTwo brothers-in-law sit on the deck of a vacation hideaway, gazing out over the serene lake in front of them. One is content to enjoy the trees on the other side, but the other has a different idea: He takes one look at all of that unused space and has a grand vision for a toxic dump for medical refuse.

These two guys aren’t going to get along at all, which is the operating idea behind The Great Outdoors, yet another comedy from the pen of John Hughes. Here Hughes reworks some of the chemistry from Planes, Trains and Automobiles, in which straight-laced Steve Martin was terrorized by geeky John Candy.

In The Great Outdoors, Candy is back, but this time as the straight man. He plays an ordinary businessman who takes his wife (Stephanie Faracy) and two sons up to the lake cabin for a week of peace. There’s a surprise waiting for him: the crazed, crass brother-in-law (Dan Aykroyd), who’s brought his wife (Annette Bening) and spooky twin daughters up unannounced for the week.

Hughes’ script allows these two to lock horns over most of the familiar outdoorsy situations that are liable to confront the urban adventurer: water-skiing technique, fishing, a battle with a bat (“radar-guided vermin” in Aykroyd’s vernacular), and the ultimate test of camping manhood, the proper way to build a fire.

Howard Deutch directs these almost elderly jokes. He also directed Pretty in Pink and Some Kind of Wonderful, two other Hughes scripts. Deutch’s main task is to set the two comic actors up and allow them some room, which is does passably. As for the subplot with Candy’s son (Chris Young) romancing a comely local (Lucy Deakins), it is a completely separate sidebar.

Deutch and Hughes have a curious tendency to kill a comic sequence before it’s over. The set-up is there, the joke is delivered, and poof. On to the next gag. You almost get the feeling that these jokes are so well-worn, Deutch and Hughes are content to let the audience complete the missing material.

The Great Outdoors doesn’t approach the inspired high points of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, and the final 30 minutes or so of resolution are particularly half-hearted. Candy is perfectly okay as the laid-back family man, and Aykroyd does have a few amusingly grotesque moments, though his performance is something of a rehash of his role in Neighbors, in which he played that nightmarish figure, the friendly next-door neighbor.

First published in the Herald, June 1988

Huh–the review seems to be missing an ending. I forgot Bening was in this thing—it was her first big-screen job. The movie’s really dead in the water, a real dud after the first two Hughes-Deutch successes.


Brewster’s Millions

July 3, 2012

Brewster’s Millions has been a reliable commercial property since—well, since near the beginning of the history of movies. The story of a man who must spend a million-dollar inheritance in order to inherit even more has been filmed six times.

It’s natural that the idea would be revived again. The plot is such a sure-fire comedic premise that you can envision any one of the talented comics of today taking the property and scoring with it. Eddie Murphy or Bill Murray or Michael Keaton would all do well by it.

But Richard Pryor got it, and he probably needed it the most. Pryor’s star has been dimming steadily since his concert-film zenith a couple of years ago, and Brewster’s Millions ought to improve his standing.

Times being what they are, the amount of the inheritance has been beefed up considerably. Pryor, as a has-been pitcher for the Hackensack Bulls minor-league baseball team, inherits a fortune from his eccentric great-uncle (Hume Cronyn). The catch: Pryor must spend $30 million in 30 days. If he does it, he’ll inherit the old coot’s entire fortune—about $300 million worth. If he fails, he’ll get zilch.

He can’t give it all away, and he can’t acquire any assets. The money has to be completely gone at the end of the month. Oh, and he can’t tell anybody why he’s spending all this money, either. That means his best friend (John Candy) and his new accountant (knockout Lonette McKee, from The Cotton Club) assume he’s being foolhardy with his wealth.

You can see why the movie’s got a lot of built-in promise. There’s plenty of wish fulfillment at work here: Of course we all want to think about the various ways we’d spend that much dough if—I mean when we win the lottery next week. The film puts Pryor in that position, and delivers some pretty satisfying fantasies.

Pryor pours it on thick: natty clothes, a penthouse hotel suite in downtown Manhattan, well-paying jobs for all his friends. He leads an entourage to a posh restaurant and asks the matire d’ what the most expensive champagne is. “Chateau Lafitte 1961,” the fellow replies, apprehensively. Pryor mulls that over, and turns to the crowd behind him: “Hey, you guys like Lafitte?” Resounding cheer from the crowd—and from the audience, too.

The movie has such a talent bank—including the scriptwriters of Trading Places and Walter Hill, the director of 48 HRS.—that I was expecting more. It’s funny, and Hill moves the film along at a whipcrack rate, but it’s completely without surprises. In fact, the movie is so nonstop, you feel a little wiped out at the end. It would have been nice to pause now and again and get to know the characters a bit more.

It’s going to do good business, and it’s certainly fine to have Pryor back in harness. But for everyone concerned, Brewster’s Millions seems entirely too safe and sane.

First published in the Herald, May 1985

Ah, what to do with Richard Pryor: the studios never really did get a handle on that. But this kind of safe approach really does seem wrong.


Spaceballs

October 6, 2011

Mel Brooks found his winning movie formula in the 1970s. He settled on a target, took parodic aim, then filled the screen with as many gags as he could muster.

With Spaceballs, Brooks has the target: space epics a la Stars Wars. Unfortunately his aim is off, by about five years. And, most importantly, the gags aren’t mustering. Mustered?

Brooks probably figured that what worked with the western (Blazing Saddles), the horror film (Young Frankenstein), and the Hitchcock movie (High Anxiety) could work in space—and provide him a safe return to directing after the disappointing History of the World, Part I, which he made six years ago.

But Spaceballs reveals Brooks to be disturbingly out of touch with funny business, and I’d be very surprised to see this film do big box-office. It’s full of painful puns and far too many of those pauses that follow punch lines—the pauses that are supposed to be covered by laughter but which, I suspect, will be greeted with silence.

Brooks directs, produces, co-scripts, and plays two roles. The plot shakily orbits around a space adventurer (Bill Pullman) and his assistant (John Candy), who is half-man, half-dog (“I’m my own best friend,” he explains, in one of the film’s better lines). They assist a runaway princess (Daphne Zuniga) and her robot (voice of Joan Rivers), while an evil general in oversize headgear (Rick Moranis) plots something evil.

Brooks appears as the nasty president of one planet, who wants to steal the air supply of another; and as Yogurt, a shrunken and inexplicably Jewish wise man, built along the lines of George Lucas’s Yoda.

To avoid overkill, I will illustrate the film’s humor with one representative example. Pullman and Candy decide to jam the radar of the evil ship. In the next shot, we see an enormous jar of raspberry jam smash against the radar receiver of the enemy vessel. Jamming the radar, see.

That’s a median joke. At least half the gags are worse. Funniest, oddly enough, is the irrelevant ethnic humor. Zuniga, who comes from the planet Druidia and whines about her designer luggage, is described as a “typical Druish princess.” (I know, I groaned too.) And Yogurt’s inspirational phrase is the catchy, “May the Schwartz be with you.”

Mel Brooks is a funny person. But something’s gone out of his moviemaking. He needs better writing collaborators, for one thing: his former partners have included Gene Wilder, Richard Pryor, and ace comedy writer Andrew Bergman. Spaceballs credit is shared with Thomas Meehan and Ronny Graham, and they don’t have the wicked sensibilities necessary.

On the other hand, maybe Brooks has simply lost interest. For most of the last decade, he’s spent his time executive-producing interesting movies such as The Elephant Man, Frances, and 84 Charing Cross Road. He’s obviously lavished a good deal of care on them; whereas Spaceballs seems tired and perfunctory, as though Brooks half-heartedly felt he had to keep his comedic hand in. To put it bluntly, the Schwartz is no longer with him.

First published in the Herald, June 26, 1987

And yet people quote lines from this movie and remember some of its gags fondly, an aftermath I find surprising. It’s not just that the jokes seemed unusually lame, but that the movie should’ve come out in 1980 to have any sort of oomph at all.


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