There
are people who believe that the 1980s – specically the second
half of that decade - was a period of great film making. The technical
term for these people is ‘morons’. But even the most
deluded Eighties apologist might struggle to hail 8 Million
Ways to Die as a classic.
Directed by Hal Ashby at the end of his career, when substance
abuse had long-since robbed him of the talent that made him one
of the 1970’s most acclaimed directors (and believe me,
it’s all too obvious in this film), this is the story of
LA cop Matt Scudder (Jeff Bridges), who rapidly sinks into alcoholism
and loses his job, family and self-respect – apparently
after shooting a drug dealer. While recovering, he meets hooker
Sunny (Alexandra Paul) who is in fear of her life. When she winds
up dead, Scudder falls off the wagon, but then decides to find
out who killed her and bring him to justice. This involves lots
of testosterone-driven face-offs with coke dealer Andy Garcia
and an unlikely relationship with another whore, Rosanna Arquette,
mixed with very little actual story and even less action as the
film slowly grinds to a lacklustre ending.
Originally
written by Oliver Stone (who apparently, and understandably, tried
to have his name removed), rewritten by Robert Towne – under
a pseudonym – and apparently improvised by much of the cast
after Ashby threw out the screenplay, this feels like a long-winded
episode of Miami Vice, with a definite sense
of style over substance. Every ghastly Eighties cliché
is here – the godawful soundtrack that even in 1986 must’ve
seemed ridiculously bombastic makes Jan Hammer seem classy and
understated, while the pastel fashions, rolled-up jacket sleeves,
mullets, designer stubble and Bridges’ gruesome Eighties
‘tasche all look particularly dated. The coke-driven action
(and yes, you can take that any way you wish) is indulgent, plodding
and sloppy, while the dramatic finale, where everyone is shouting
every line at the same time, must be like what pitch meetings
for films like this were like back in the day, with a combination
of guys trying to see who has the biggest dick before screaming
hysterically as a pile of cocaine is wasted. Notably, the only
two women in the film who get more than a minute of screen time
are both prostitutes who are murdered, threatened, or
slapped around (something the film thinks is so normal, apparently,
that one scene has Garcia calmly watching as his girlfriend Arquette
is manhandled into a cable car and assaulted by Bridges without
finding anything untoward in it).
8 Million Ways to Die bombed theatrically and
crept out unnoticed on VHS, where it gathered dust in video stores,
undisturbed even by the less-than-discerning action film fans
of the time. It’s hard to see the DVD breaking that pattern,
unless some viewers can find an unintentional camp appeal in the
film – an unlikely event.
Like
Scudder, you might find yourself reaching for a stiff drink if
you have the misfortune of sitting through this dreadful effort.
There
are people who believe that the 1980s – specically the second
half of that decade - was a period of great film making. The technical
term for these people is ‘morons’. But even the most
deluded Eighties apologist might struggle to hail 8 Million
Ways to Die as a classic.
Originally
written by Oliver Stone (who apparently, and understandably, tried
to have his name removed), rewritten by Robert Towne – under
a pseudonym – and apparently improvised by much of the cast
after Ashby threw out the screenplay, this feels like a long-winded
episode of Miami Vice, with a definite sense
of style over substance. Every ghastly Eighties cliché
is here – the godawful soundtrack that even in 1986 must’ve
seemed ridiculously bombastic makes Jan Hammer seem classy and
understated, while the pastel fashions, rolled-up jacket sleeves,
mullets, designer stubble and Bridges’ gruesome Eighties
‘tasche all look particularly dated. The coke-driven action
(and yes, you can take that any way you wish) is indulgent, plodding
and sloppy, while the dramatic finale, where everyone is shouting
every line at the same time, must be like what pitch meetings
for films like this were like back in the day, with a combination
of guys trying to see who has the biggest dick before screaming
hysterically as a pile of cocaine is wasted. Notably, the only
two women in the film who get more than a minute of screen time
are both prostitutes who are murdered, threatened, or
slapped around (something the film thinks is so normal, apparently,
that one scene has Garcia calmly watching as his girlfriend Arquette
is manhandled into a cable car and assaulted by Bridges without
finding anything untoward in it). 