Tough Guys Don't Dance (Norman Mailer, 1987)

Oh, man! Oh God! Oh, man! It's time to stop beating around the bush and sit down, or lounge seductively with your shapely legs crossed in a manner specifically designed to drive all the men in the room wild with heterosexual desire, and watch Tough Guys Don't Dance, the Cape Cod set film noir from writer-director Norman Mailer, with the fullness of our attention. (It is?) Of course it is. It's got forthright women, the kind you meet in the back of Screw Magazine (the '80's version of Christian Mingle); femme fatales who used to have bright gold pussy hair back in high school; bland Italian women; southern dandies who use the word "imbroglio" unabashedly; blonde women in white gloves; and, for some sane reason, there's a woman who answers the door in nothing but a red thong. (Wow, this film sounds like a real winner.) You got that right. And get this, cocaine is ingested and heads are severed. In fact, some of the heads that are severed in this film were probably under the influence of cocaine when they were severed. (Looking over the list of things you cited as examples why this film needs to be watched, I couldn't help but notice a couple of odd choices. While there's nothing odd about savouring women in white gloves or forthright women with bright gold pussy hair, citing "bland Italian women" seemed a little strange. I mean, the words "bland" and "Italian women" don't really go together.) That's right, they don't. But Isabella Rossellini is surprisingly bland as an Italian woman who gets mixed up with a couple of losers. Or maybe she was just bland compared to the one woman saucy minx symposium Debra Sandlund was conducting in this movie as Patty Lareine, the southern belle who will shoot you in the mouth if you as much as look at her funny. Yeah, that was probably it. You would be a fool to try to compete with the uncut brand of southern-fried sexy/crazy Debra Sandlund (a.k.a. Debra Stipe) puts out there on a semi-consistent basis throughout this film; a fool, I tell you.

(Hmm, it would seem, judging by the words you have typed so far, that you were quite taken with the performance given by Debra Sandlund as Patty Lareine, is this an accurate statement?) Yes and no. Yes, I was quite taken with her performance; one minute, she's uncouth and vulgar, and the next she's the poster girl for elegance and sophistication. And, no. Wait a second, no? Forget I said no. There's no need for no. In other words, your statement is the very definition of accurate.

What I should have said was: Yes, it's true, I was quite taken with Debra Sandlund's performance as Patty Lareine, shameless gold digger/irresistible cutie pie. But the alluring and hella leggy Frances Fisher does give her a run for her money as Jessica Pond, a professional floozy/cocaine enthusiast with a glare so enticing, you will think you have died and gone to heaven the moment you dip your pinky toe in her azure whirlpool-esque eyeballs.

Welcome to Provincetown, Massachusetts, a small town located on the very tip of Cape Cod. Get comfy, we ain't going anywhere else. Seriously, we're not. Following the wacky misadventures of Tim Madden (Ryan O'Neil), a writer of some kind, the film, amongst other things, tries to explain why there's a severed blonde head in a bag tucked away in the place he likes to stash his drugs.

Starting somewhere near the end of the story, Tim limps downstairs one morning to find his father Dougy (Lawrence Tierney) in his kitchen. From there, Tim tells his father how he got himself in this sticky predicament, one that involves sultry blondes, cocaine parties, suave chauffeurs and Wings Hauser.

We're given a taste of three of those things almost immediately when we're ushered to a cocaine party at Tim's house being hosted by his sultry blonde girlfriend, Patty Lareine (Debra Sandlund). (Hold on, that's only two things.) Don't worry, Wings Hauser is about to make his presence felt. Knocking at the door, acting police chief Capt. Alvin Luther Regency (Wings Hauser) is greeted by a topless woman wearing a skimpy red thong. (I say, don't you think calling a thong skimpy is a tad redundant?) I guess, but there was hardly anything to this thong. I mean, it was barely there. (Fair enough.)

Falling in love with Patty Lareine the moment I laid eyes on her at the cocaine party, it's clear that Debra Sandlund is going to be my ticket to making it through this film unscathed. (Is it that grim?) No, it's not that. I just like to latch onto something, whether it be a sultry blonde, a leggy blonde, or a blonde who is both sultry and leggy, in the early going as insurance. And I think I might need some, some insurance, that is, for this film, as I don't know how much more I can take of Ryan O'Neil's mopey-looking mug.

A quick show of hands: Who wanted Wings Hauser's bug-eyed cop to punch Ryan O'Neil in the face? Interesting, that's more than I expected. What's even more interesting is that I bet most of you haven't even seen this movie. Meaning, his face is the very definition of punchable.

Wearing a yellow dress at the cocaine party, Patty Lareine, or I should say, Debra Sandlund, utters a chunk of dialogue that will cause your jaw to hit the floor.

My favourite chunk being Patty's response to when Tim informs her that she isn't a real blonde. All I'll say is two words: Bright gold!

After a séance, Patty, who is now wearing a white dress with white gloves and a white hat, leaves Tim for Lolo (Clarence Williams III), her chauffeur.

In order to keep track of how many days Patty's been gone, Tim writes the number in shaving cream on the bathroom mirror (the first number we see him write is 24). It's sad, but rather touching. It's also apt, as I would be crawling walls too if I had a woman like Patty Lareine in my life and then suddenly didn't thanks to some smooth-talking chauffeur.

Don't feel too bad for Tim, as he's about to meet the leggiest sultry blonde to hit Provincetown since, well... since Patty up and left. Drinking his problems away at the Widow's Walk, Tim spots a blonde named Jessica Pond (Frances Fisher) sitting cross-legged in a white dress at the other side of the pub. Hey, she's leggy and she's sultry, just like Patty. Yeah, and get this, she's wearing white gloves.

His face may be punchable, but his crotch knows first-rate legginess when he sees it, and wisely excepts her offer to join them. (Wait, join "them"?) Yeah, Jessica is with some guy named Lonnie (Stephen Morrow). But don't worry, he's a queer as a three dollar bill. And by "queer," I mean he's sexually attracted to men.

If he's so gay, why is he molesting Jessica's knee like that? Since when can't gay men molest Frances Fisher's knees? I don't want to live in a world where gay men can't feel up their gal pal's shapely knees in public.

Anyway, if you look closely, you'll notice that Frances Fisher is wearing white gloves when she enters the pub, yet they're conspicuously missing as the scene progresses. (Um, that's because she took them off.) Yeah, but, where did she put them? (That's a good question.) What are you talking about, that's a horrible question. The fact that I'm wasting everyone's time talking about Frances Fisher's gloves in Tough Guys Don't Dance is a bloody outrage.

When they finish their drink, Tim takes Jessica and Lonnie back to his place to enjoy some cocaine. And you know what that means? (Cocaine sex?) Exactly.

The next morning, a hungover Tim wakes up to find a tattoo on his arm, bloody clothes in his jeep and a severed head in a bag in the hole out in the woods where he keeps his stash. Now, I don't want to say what the tattoo said or whose severed head it was in the hole, but let's just say Tim's life is about to get complicated.

According to my research, "tallywacker" is slang for penis, so, when Patty tells Tim he's got a tongue like a tallywacker, she means his tongue boasts the same attributes that of a penis.

(Aren't you going to mention Isabella Rossellini?) Why would I do that? She's not blonde (he pussy hair was probably never bright gold), she's not sultry (she wears frumpy sweaters), she doesn't do cocaine (it's 1987, honey, do some cocaine), and she's not leggy (she wears pants in every scene). Ipso facto, you're not going to get any praise thrown your way. If, say, you looked and acted the way you did in Wild at Heart, that would be a different story all-together.

The majority of people who stumble across this film nowadays are probably not interested in Debra Sandlund, Frances Fisher, or even John Bedford Lloyd (he rocks as a southern dandy named Wardley Meeks III). No, I would say most folks are aware of this film's existence thanks to the infamous clip of Ryan O'Neil saying, "Oh, man! Oh God! Oh, man!" While that's as good as any reason to watch this film. However, I think the film definitely has more to offer than awkward Ryan O'Neil line readings. If you want to see an off-kilter film noir that takes place in a one of a kind location and is stuffed with sultry blondes of the leggy variety, make sure to make a date with Tough Guys Don't Dance.

Deadfall (Christopher Coppola, 1993)

On top of being the perfect con, it was supposed to be his last con. But what if the perfect con turns out to be not-so perfect? Well, if that's the case, the chances that the not-so perfect con will be your last con are pretty slim. (You can say that again.) The chances that the not-so perfect con will be... (No, it's just an expression. You're not actually supposed to actually say it again. Anyway, how does one go about making the perfect con your last con as well?) I don't know, but not many films have the guts to contemplate such a common con-based conundrum. Then again, the electrifying Deadfall is not many films. A jet black film noir replete with actors, dialogue and sets filled with furniture (tables, chairs, lamps, etc.), this hard-boiled thriller about life on the wrong side of the tracks from writer-director Christopher Coppola will literally blow you away. Everything about a this film drips a gritty form of grittiness. If I didn't know going in that this was only a movie, I could have sworn I had been magically transported to a murky world where even the pretzel vendors are leading double lives. (You mean Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees isn't just peddling pretzels?) Are you kidding? Nothing again is ever as it seems once you enter the dark underbelly that is this two-fisted tale of love, sex, betrayal and Nicolas Cage. (Hey, wait a minute, since when has Nicolas Cage's name been applicable as a noun?) Um, since always. Have you seen a Nicolas Cage movie from the past thirty years? The Nicolas Cage movie is a genre unto itself. Now, this isn't the Nicolas Cage of Valley Girl or even Leaving Las Vegas, subdued strains of Nicolas  Cage, that, while entertaining in their own right, lack a certain bite to them. On the other hand, the Nicolas Cage that appears in this film is pure, uncut Nicolas Cage; in other words, it's pretty potent stuff, snort with caution.

(Aww, c'mon. You sound like one of them fedora-wearing smart asses who repeatedly make exaggerated claims about the power of Nicolas Cage--you know, like he's some kind of scenery chewing monster hell bent on destroying cinema as we know it.) While I'll admit, I'm a tad uncomfortable about the sarcastic tone I'm using at the moment. However, you have got to remember, I'm currently not talking about a leggy Sarah Trigger in black stockings in order to express my opinions regarding the human clusterfuck that is Nicolas Cage's performance in this movie, so, yeah, it's a big fucking deal.

(Hmm, Sarah Trigger. Why does that name sound so unfamiliar?) Oh, I don't know, maybe because this is your first Sarah Trigger experience. (Yeah, I think you're right. By the way, that was an interesting choice of words you used to describe the act of watching a Sarah Trigger movie for the very first time.) You mean, "experience"? It's very apt, as you simply don't just watch a Sarah Trigger film, you experience it. While Nicolas Cage and, to a lesser extent,  Charlie Sheen think they're walking away with this picture, it's actually Sarah Trigger who ends up dominating the proceedings.

I'll explain, in lurid detail, how she goes about doing this in a minute. But first, I'd like to introduce you Joe Donan (Michael Biehn), a con man who uses his All-American good looks to swindle pigeons out of their hard earned cash. When we meet him, he's in the middle of conducting a drug deal for a low level gangster (Michael Constantine) at a rundown warehouse. (I thought you said he was a con man?) He is. (No, he sounds more like a drug dealer.) Oh, I see. The drug deal is all part of an elaborate con. Or I should say, an elaborate con that blows up in his face when the gun that was supposed to contain blanks fires real bullets into the chest of Mike Donan (James Coburn), Joe's con man father.

Crestfallen over the fact that he killed his father, Joe is comforted by Pete (Peter Fonda), one of his father's henchmen. Just for the record, there's no real reason for Peter Fonda to be in this movie; he must have had bills to pay or owed someone a favour.

At the funeral, a mysterious redhead in black shows up to leave a single rose on Mike Donan's grave. I don't know who that is, but check out the slit on her skirt, it's so freakin' substantial, it hurts.

As a result of both movement and the environment, the slit flaps open every once and a while. And when it does, it reveals black nylon-adorned gams.

(Hey, pervert.) Who... me? (Yeah, you. Do you mind not going on and on about that lady's slit, Joe is trying to grieve over here.) But she's currently crouching. Are you aware how sexy that is? Crouching on a breezy day is a slit-lovers dream come true. (I don't care, Joe's father is dead.) Well, maybe he should have checked the gun to make sure it had blanks in it before he shot his father point blank in the chest.

I'm sorry, that was I uncalled for. (You see what you did. You made Joe take off for the west coast.) I said I was sorry. Hopping on a bus, Joe, with the help of his father's address book, decides to look up Lou Donan (James Coburn), the uncle he never knew he had. And just like his dad, his uncle is apparently a pretty big deal in the world of organized crime.

In order to get in touch with Lou, Joe must first find him. And he does this by hanging out at the local market. Would you look at that, Clarence Williams III (Link from The Mod Squad) is selling veggies, Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees is hawking pretzels, and Adrienne Stout-Coppola is offering cups of coffee in exchange for money.

Never mind them, wearing a pea green suit and a black Beatle wig, Eddie (Nicolas Cage) makes his presence felt in the Deadfall universe in an abrupt manner by instructing Joe to pick a card from the deck of cards he presents before him. Clearly not interested, Joe eventually gives in to his badgering, and picks a card. Even though he's only been onscreen for five seconds, Nicolas Cage has already performed two Elvis Presley-esque hand gestures.

After these hand gestures have been employed, Eddie takes Joe to see Lou, who, much to Joe's surprise, looks exactly like his dad; hence the reason James Coburn plays both parts. While Joe and Lou seem to be hitting it off, it's obvious that Eddie is none too pleased by the burgeoning nature of their chummy relationship. When Lou tells Eddie to take Joe clubbing (show him a good time), Eddie throws Lou a thumbs up. But there's a hint of anger and resentment in the way Eddie threw his thumb in an upwardly direction. This does not bode well for Joe, as Eddie doesn't look like the kind of person you want as an enemy.

Standing on the balcony of her suburban home, Diane (Sarah Trigger) saunters down the stairs with a refined elegance. Her sexy body sheathed in a slinky red dress, her legs lovingly poured into a pair of black nylons, Diane is a bombshell and the definition of trouble. In other words, she's perfect woman for Eddie. Though, I have to wonder, what kind of woman leaves the house without a purse? (Are you sure she wasn't carrying a small clutch?) No, I didn't see a clutch, either. (Well, that is strange.)

Anyway, a purse-less, and, apparently, clutch-less, too, Diana gets in Eddie's convertible, and the threesome hit the road for a night of, to quote Eddie, "fun-time family fun."

When they're finished grifting a bartender (Talia Shire) out of two hundred dollars with the old missing bracelet trick, Eddie, Diane and Joe visit a sleazy strip club. Oh, and before they do that, Joe and Eddie share a moment alone in Eddie's car. The use of neon in this scene was actually quite effective when it came to creating an air noirish cool.

You can tell Diane gunning for Joe's All-American cock, but you have to question her seduction skills. I mean, what kind of femme fatale shows up without nylons attached to her legs? According to the femme fatale handbook, you're supposed to be waiting for the man you want to seduce in his motel room (preferably sitting in the dark). Which you did. But you forgot to wear nylons. Big mistake. Miraculously, you were still able to entice your mark. But you were forced to drag out some sob story in order to lure Joe into your web of deceit.

(How do you know Diane's feelings for Joe aren't genuine?) Well, if look closely, you'll see Diane smile briefly the moment she gains Joe's confidence. (Maybe she was just happy.) Nah, her smile smacked of malicious intent.

Someone should check the record books, because I think Nicolas Cage's utterance of the word "fuck" during the film's second strip club scene might be the longest in film history. (What do you mean, "longest"?) An agitated Eddie yells the word "fuck" for a period of time that was longer than usual. (What's usual?) It shouldn't take longer than 0.5 seconds to say, "fuck," but Eddie takes close to five maybe six whole seconds to finish saying the word. (Fuck.)

I have to say, Diane regains her femme fatale cred when we see her lounging on her bed in a black slip and black heels whilst holding a stiff drink. She gets even more femme fatale cred when pulls a gun on a deranged Eddie moments later.

The contrast between performance given by Michael Biehn and the one unleashed by Nicolas Cage isn't even worth examining; Michael Biehn seems half asleep most of the time, and Nicolas Cage is basically acting like a coked up mental patient. (Is it Tuesday already?) Exactly. However, the contrast between the performance given by Charlie Sheen as ultra-suave pool shark Morgan "Fats" Gripp and Nicolas Cage is quite telling. Like his turn in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Charlie Sheen manages to steal the movie he's in with minimal effort. Even though I'm a tad uncomfortable saying this, but Charlie Sheen in Deadfall is a straight-up badass. It's a shame Charlie Sheen has become a bit of a reoccurring punchline as of late, because this Charlie Sheen, the one wearing the shiny blazer currently schooling Joe at billiards, is pretty great.

After being schooled at billiards, Joe begins to set the groundwork for his latest con. Only problem being, it bears a striking resemblance to his last con--you remember, the not-so perfect one where he accidentally killed his father. Involving selling a case of uncut diamonds to the claw-handed Dr. Lyme (Angus Scrimm), this con will definitely test Joe's commitment to the grifting lifestyle. When all is said and done, Joe will probably wonder why he didn't just get a job a the post office and settle down with Adrienne Stout-Coppola's coffee pusher. The moral of the story: Never trust leggy blondes. They're trouble with a capital 'T.' Roll credits.