Viking Night: Roadhouse
By Bruce Hall
November 4, 2014
BoxOfficeProphets.com
That’s pretty much the gist of Road House, Patrick Swayze’s 1989 love letter to short, skinny bar bouncers with futuristic mullets. It's 114 minutes of the camera reverently worshiping Patrick Swayze almost to the point of totalitarian propaganda. And the story takes place in an insanely violent alternate universe where Swayze is a vengeful, spin-kicking God, and those who do not fear the mullet will surely be destroyed.
Yes, it's insane. Gloriously insane.
The reason is because Road House gives absolutely zero shits what you think about plot or logic, or about your mental stability. Road House has a story to tell, and it is lunacy incarnate - but by God, you WILL hear it. Case in point - as Tyler Durden reminded us, most people will do anything to avoid a fight. But this does not apply to the characters in Road House. Oh, no. Everyone in this film carries either a comically large gun or comically large hair, and they have absolutely no problem with whipping either about in public while actively trying to slaughter the people around them.
The characters exist in some sort of moral wormhole where the basic things that make us human spontaneously fail in an alarming percentage of people. Men don't just get drunk in this story. They get drunk and then start trying to rape and stab everyone in the room, but then Dalton appears and kicks them in the face with the grace and power of a majestic elk. This is literally how the movie begins.
After putting the man's face through a tabletop, Dalton takes a break to stitch himself up, because awesome people do their own stitches. It is at this time I should mention that in the version of 1989 where Road House happens, the job of “bar bouncer” ranks just above “Joe Montana” and “Lead Singer of Whitesnake” on the list of jobs that everyone wished they had. So it’s no surprise when a star struck club owner named Frank Tilghman (Kevin Tighe) tracks Dalton down and offers him a ridiculous amount of money to punch people in the face at a different bar.
Dalton immediately accepts, walking out on what is clearly a lucrative and well established position because fatalistic impulsiveness is badass. When Dalton arrives at the infamous Double Deuce bar in Jasper, Missouri, everyone knows who he is and they all cower in fear, because Dalton. The bar itself is kind of like a cross between the Star Wars cantina and an episode of Miami Vice. Big haired 20- and 30-somethings willingly mingle with what appear to be slack-jawed redneck mutants, because that's something that would happen. You'd be surprised at who starts most of the fights. Unfortunately, in the process of cleaning up the place, Dalton terminates several people connected with local entrepreneur-slash-psychotic madman Brad Wesley (Ben Gazzara).
That’s right. Not Jack Studd, not Buck Stormcock - Brad Wesley. It is one of the worst names ever chosen for a villain. And he looks like an orthodontist. But Brad Wesley is so hilariously over-the-top I’m surprised they didn’t give him a shark tank. He's the most powerful man in town, mainly because he runs a protection racket on all the businesses. When people cross him, he burns down their houses. What he doesn’t know is that Dalton isn’t merely a bouncer. He’s a living, breathing, bar-brawling mini-Messiah whose purpose on earth is to karate kick people like Brad Wesley right in the face.
But it doesn't come easy. Dalton is your standard issue conflicted loner with a checkered past. He's quiet. He's soft spoken and frugal. He's got demons that keep him from trusting people, smiling, or putting down roots. But also there's a significant streak of kindness in him - for a man who smashes people’s kneecaps for a living. He rarely drinks or swears, he's respectful of women, and he avoids junk food. When he visits the ER to get a stab wound stapled shut, the winsome Dr. Elizabeth Clay (Kelly Lynch) immediately falls for his twinkling blue eyes and Zen-like capacity for understatement (“Pain don’t hurt”, he says of his ability to absorb repeated stabbings).
You know how the rest goes. Despite his face-breaking prowess, nobody in the community is willing to get Dalton's back, let alone stand up for themselves. Dalton's relationship with the good doctor makes him want to become a permanent resident - but between his dark past (the details of which end up feeling like not such a big deal), and someone trying to murder him every few minutes, it's hard to stick around. Eventually, Dalton's equally world famous mentor Wade Garrett (Sam Elliot) shows up to offer clarity. The presence of Mr. Elliot has the effect of doubling both the film's level of awesomeness AND blood soaked, batshit insanity.
He also gives the movie a hero/mentor dynamic to go with the redemption-through-love angle provided by Dr. Elizabeth, as well as the Jesus Christ complex Dalton rocks throughout most of the film. The truly great thing about Road House is how much it has to offer almost anyone. The girls get to see Swayze without his shirt on. The guys get to see him snap a guy’s leg in half and rip out his throat. There’s a love story AND a monster truck - neither of which really affects the story. Eventually the film implodes into a hyper-violent revenge fantasy with some moderately inspiring moments of human development, a blind guy shredding on guitar, a generous amount of unintentional humor, and of course - boobs.
Road House is not a work of art - it’s an art form. Yes, this is a bad movie. There’s no question of that. But it’s also a movie that does a great job of building a universe, establishing the...um…”logic” of that world, populating it with suitable characters and flawlessly executing that vision in a way you will not be able to stop watching. Whether it’s in admiration or disbelief, you will watch Road House, and whether it’s out of morbid curiosity, irony or intentionally, one day you will probably watch it again. Patrick Swayze may be gone, but of all the work he leaves behind, this is the one they will remember him by. Godspeed, Dalton - but for God’s sake, put a shirt on.