Tough Guys Don't Dance | Chicago Reader

Tough Guys Don't Dance

Norman Mailer's best film, adapted from his worst novel, shows a surprising amount of cinematic savvy and style from a writer whose earlier film efforts (Wild 90, Beyond the Law, Maidstone) were mainly unvarnished recordings of his own improvised performances. Working for the first time with a mainstream crew and budget and without himself as an actor, he translates his high rhetoric and macho preoccupations (existential tests of bravado, good orgasms, murderous women, metaphysical cops) into an odd, campy, raunchy comedy-thriller that remains consistently watchable and unpredictable—as goofy in a way as Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. Where Russ Meyer featured women with oversize breasts, Mailer features male characters with oversize egos, and thanks to the juicy writing, hallucinatory lines such as “Your knife is in my dog” and “I just deep-sixed two heads” bounce off his cartoonish actors like comic-strip bubbles; even his sexism is somewhat objectified in the process. Coaxing good performances out of his male actors (Ryan O'Neal, Lawrence Tierney, Wings Hauser) and mannerist displays from his actresses (including Isabella Rossellini and Debra Sandlund), he is certainly capable of broad strokes—the southern accents are laid on with a trowel>mdbut his framing, editing, and use of sound and music are often fresh and tangy. For whatever reasons, Mailer's managed to trim the fat off his prose, eliminate digressions, and introduce an effective (if convoluted) flashback structure; he also shows a genuine flair with his Provincetown locations, including his own home. The results are giddy and singular>md100 percent Mailer, and one of those rare occasions when a novelist's obsessions and vision have been brought to the screen intact.


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