Micro Movie Reviews Uncategorized


The 1989 Patrick Swayze vehicle Road House is, and it pains me to say this, not a perfect movie. And here’s why.

When we first see the owner of the “Double Douche” enter his bar, we get a better idea of his intentions. On the way to his office, Tilghman notices an explicit sexual invitation written on the wall in all caps, like so:

The eager proprietor, hot off the successful recruitment of our protagonist, whips out a permanent marker with an ease that implies he’s had to do this many times before. With but a few strokes of a Sharpie, Tilghman neuters the lasciviousness of the solicitation by making it look like this.

This is a move I can only describe as aesthetic blasphemy. And for a guy who is trying to improve the image of his bar, the entire thrust of the film’s plot, he’s sure off to a pretty bad start. I mean, I’m supposed to believe there are no other words that came to mind as a replacement? No other transportation themed nouns that maybe rhyme with fuck?

Now, sure, the impromptu edit looks ridiculous even on a first viewing, independent of any further context. But for those of us who have seen this masterpiece over 100 times, we know a couple of things. One, Jasper is a town small enough that it can be lorded over by a two-bit hustler as unimposing as Brad Wesley. And two, they have a literal fucking MONSTER TRUCK zipping around town, menacing businesses for extortion money. You expect me to believe Tilghman, a dues-paying member of the Jasper Improvement Society, a man whose business relies on a steady stream of liquor deliveries, didn’t think to change the word  ‘FUCK’ to ‘TRUCK’?

Let me further add to my frustration by introducing exhibit C.

Not only was he already halfway to an R when he began rounding out the F, but he also had plenty of space to slap a T at the beginning without compromising the general structure of such an enticing offer. Instead, he awkwardly slipped in an i that was not only spatially out of whack, but was lowercase for no apparent reason! It’s an upside down exclamation point to punctuate such a baffling choice.

Now, as a viewer, I’m left with two options. Either Tilghman is a horrible decision maker. In which case, why the fuck do I care that he’s gone and hired a guy whose job title sounds like he keeps cheap beer cold at a public beach? If that’s the case, I might as well be yanked out of my suspension of disbelief like a bouncer throwing me out of a bar with much better interior design because I was trying to write on the wall.

It’s either that, or this is really just product placement. In which case I should just go BUiCK myself.

DISCLAIMER: The opinions herein are those of the erotic novelist Kevin Francey alone and do not necessarily represent those of Buick. Also, is Buick even still in business to have an opinion?


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