Touches You

Entertaining from beginning to end, it maintains the spirit of the franchise while establishing it's own seal with a fun cast

The best films of this genre always show a path and provide a takeaway for being a better person.

By the time the dramatic fireworks start popping off, each one feels earned.

"Tough Guys Don't Dance" is one of the strangest movies I have seen for quite some time - and I've watched a LOT of movies! Technically the movie is sound, with good photography and well chosen location. But everything else is bizarre. All the characters in the movie speak oddly, unlike the people you usually encounter in various aspects of your life. The acting is also over the top at times, perhaps to compliment the strange dialogue. Those facts may turn off some viewers early, but I had to admit that those attributes to me made the movie compelling - for the first third or so. After that point, the movie starts to become very confusing. There are some things that are never explained, like the hero's new tattoo and his dog suddenly appearing in a scene. (Was the movie's length cut down in the editing room?) Still, I admit that the movie is probably unlike any other cinematic experience you've had, so more adventurous and patient viewers may find it very rewarding. And I have to also admit it's a heck of a lot better than Norman Mailer's earlier movie "Wild 90"!

When Lawrence Tierney utters the line that gives Tough Guys Don't Dance its title, he evokes the stoic, hard-boiled codes of post-war noir, felt in films he made like Born to Kill, The Bodyguard and The Devil Thumbs A Ride. And when Isabella Rossellini shows up, she suggests David Lynch's kooky and subversive Reagan-era suspense movies like Blue Velvet. These homages mark two of the many streams that flow into Norman Mailer's rhapsody on themes of sexual intrigue, multi-tiered duplicity and garish murders. (Mailer directed his movie from his 1984 novel.) It's a baroque contraption that comes close to self-parody - and may even cross the threshold - but neither is it just a fling at film making by a celebrity author intoxicated by his own publicity. The forlorn setting is Cape Cod under the sign of Sagittarius: the dunes and the bars empty, and the Atlantic is choppy and gunmetal grey. Ex-con Ryan O'Neal (his boyish superstardom well behind him) has been drinking heavily since his wealthy if white-trash wife (Debra Sandlund) left him; one morning he wakes to find a tattoo on his arm and his jeep's upholstery soaked in blood. Circumstances lead him to a burrow where he stashes his marijuana harvest; in it he finds the severed heads of his wife and a woman he had picked up (along with her boyfriend) a few nights before. The clues he starts piecing together lead him back down paths that wend through his own none-too-savory past. There's the out-of-town `couple' with whom he had spent a hard-drinking night (Frances Fisher and R. Patrick Sullivan); a woman he had once loved (Rossellini) now married to Provincetown's sadistic Chief of Police (Wings Hauser); another woman he had met when she was married to a wife-swapping Christian preacher (Penn Jillette) and who later wed a rich, spoiled Southern boy (John Bedford Lloyd) then, ultimately, O'Neal, whom she recently left. Helping him find his way is his gruff, cancer-ridden father (Tierney). What plot line there is hangs on cocaine (maybe) and several millions, but that's but a pretext for Mailer to worry the preoccupations, even obsessions, which crop up again and again in his work, most notably the yin/yang of eroticism and violence. The women come across as predatory sirens but end up being almost beside the point - they're prizes for sexual competition between males, conflict that shades into edgy attraction, right up to taunting flirtation. (The movie is loaded with homosexual references, generally pejorative - the bisexual boyfriend is even given the name `Pangborn' - and the continuum of couplings, both on screen and in the back story, results in a very kinky daisy chain in which everybody save Tierney might just as well have slept with everybody else. Mailer comes close to suggesting that two men who have slept with the same woman share an implicit homosexual relationship themselves.) Coming to Tough Guys Don't Dance expecting anything like a conventional suspense film (even something `post-' or `neo-') is to court disappointment. One comes for Mailer, who's like the little girl with the curl right in the middle of her forehead: When he's good, he's very, very good, but when he's bad, he's horrid. How the proportions weight out in this movie can be argued, but adventurous and provocative nuggets nestle among some very bad choices (the acting runs the gamut from rather good to execrable, often within the same performance). Caveat spectator: wildly uneven and sometimes grotesquely macho, Tough Guys Don't Dance is far from negligible.

What were they thinking? Didn't anybody read the script or did they read it and then lack the guts to tell Mailer it didn't work? Whatever the reason this is one pathetic film. Bad script and hilariously bad acting. It is the bad acting that keeps you watching. You want to find out how bad can it get. In most films, even bad ones, you can find something to recommend it. I can't think of anything to recommend about this one.

This is a hard film to stomach.It has a lot of intense,extreme scenes of sex,violence and obscurity.Ryan O'Neal could have done better.Wings Hauser outshines all in his role of sadistic,sex crazy chauvinist police officer.Who at the end turns insane.And thats what he isnt alone in.There are even more obscure characters here,like southern reverend Big Stoop and his "friendly" ex-wife Patty.They create a spiral of sex and intrigues which ends in suicide of the first and death of the other.All in all,a movie every sado-masochist would love to own.For normal people-a torturingly mad 2 hour experience.