Roadhouse Review (1989)

By Chad Jarrah

Where do I begin? There are so many types of movies out there to watch. To start with, there are the really good movies: Shawshank Redemption and Fight Club, Old School and Office Space. These movies truly move a person to cry and to laugh, to show a man his true potential, be it good or bad. These movies stay with us long after they end. Then there are the really bad movies: Vanilla Sky and the White Chicks. These movies are hard to watch and it’s a wonder how these piles of trash ever got made. Between these two generalized categories lies a subset of movie that is paradoxically both. The really great, bad movies: Enter Roadhouse.

Roadhouse was the kind of movie I would stumble upon on the TV at 3 a.m. on a Saturday night, after a long-night of drinking and subsequent drunkenness. The movie would be playing between infomercials for the Magic Bullet Mini Food Processor and reruns of Mama’s Family. I’d sit and watch bits and pieces of it in an alcohol-induced haze before finally passing out, never realizing what I had missed: the true diamond in the rough.

My cousin often touted Roadhouse as one of his favorite movies but I scoffed, knowing that his top movie choices also included Weekend at Bernie’s (both I and II) and Ernest Goes to Camp. How could I ever trust him with that list of winners? The mistake was humbly mine I came to learn after forcing myself to watch this movie just so I could have something to review.

Starring in this ultimate Man Flick is Patrick Swayze, an actor who has not done men as a whole any justice with castrators like Dirty Dancing and To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar. Never judge a book by its cover.

Patrick Swayze stars as Dalton, a professional bouncer who specializes in whipping failing clubs into shape. His reputation apparently precedes him as a club owner approaches the ultra cool Dalton with a proposition to save his bar, the Double Deuce. Dalton agrees and despite his sustaining 31 broken bones, two bullet wounds, nine puncture wounds, and four stainless steel screws, refuses a plane ticket to the Double Deuce’s location, instead touting “I don’t fly…too dangerous.” Two words: bad, ass.

Dalton begins fixing this dump with machine-like efficiency, getting rid of the bad element as he goes. After all he states in an underused cliché: “It’s my way or the highway.” His efforts were a benefit to the Deuce, but unfortunately not for me. There were plenty of great pickup lines spouted by the Deuce’s former patrons, and I only wish I could have learned more from them before Dalton jacked them up. For the working man: “You know I get off at two and I’d, uh, just love to get you off about half an hour after that.” How could that not attract a woman? Great, yes, but not as romantic as my favorite line: “What do you say you and me get nipple to nipple?” I’ll be on one knee with a ring in my hand when I use that piece of genius.

Despite the copious ass beatings he delivers, things are not all fun and games for the enigmatic Dalton. As he cleans up the Double Deuce’s trash, he comes up against the root of the club’s, and seemingly, the dusty town’s problems: Brad Wesley. This guy is a total douche and causes mischief in every scene as he flouts around in his trademark ascot. I used to think ascots were an effeminate form of style. A fashion statement worn only by eccentric millionaires, like Thurston Howell III and the Monopoly Man as they drink coconut milk and ride down Ventnor Avenue in their top hats. Now I think differently. As far as I’m concerned, an ascot now equates to pure evil.

Ever the persistent villain, Wesley continues to send goon after goon to thwart Dalton’s plans of maintaining the Double Deuce’s order, and the persevering Dalton sends each lackey back bloodied and broken. I was fast becoming a disciple of Dalton. But despite his overwhelming display of manhood, I admit to doubting certain aspects of Dalton’s machismo. I’d be ready to fill out bouncer job applications, and then Dalton would perform shirtless tai chi in the forest. Just as I lost my resolve to start my new life as a bouncer, he would go and get stitches without anesthesia. Apologizing for my doubt I’d get online to order myself a STAFF t-shirt, and then see Dalton put one of his ho’s before his best bro. Shaking my head and canceling my order in shame, Dalton would win me back again as he sent a disgruntled bartender through a plate glass window. Once, in a riveting fight scene with Wesley’s nephew, Dalton began leaping at his opponent with a series of ballet like leaps and spins. ‘What are you doing Dalton? Must you be so gay?’ I questioned. Soon after, Dalton tore out the throat of this opponent with his bare hands. I never doubted him again.

With a taste of blood in his mouth and the death of his friend to avenge, Dalton goes on a killing rampage picking off Wesley’s goons one by one until he reaches the only homicide that will slake his thirst: the death of the lawless Brad Wesley. With the help of the townspeople, who also have converted to the Church of Dalton, Wesley goes down with three shotgun blasts to the chest. Interestingly enough through all the countless fights, two blown up buildings, and five white guy afros, the police only now decide to show up. Of course nothing happens. Who would dare to challenge Dalton the Great. I mean the guy only has one name for God’s sake!

This movie is wonderfully bad and I recommend it to anyone with a set of testicles. By the end of the movie my chest hairs doubled in length and I gained a new respect for the bouncer profession. Looking at the DVD cover prior to watching this masterpiece, I thought the same thing that many of Dalton’s doubters thought when first laying their eyes on him: ‘You don’t look like much.’ On both counts we were sadly wrong.

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