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The commedia dell'arte of Eighties gangland tackiness, ran by Jonathan Demme to irresistible extremes. A rubout aboard a New Jersey commuter train tests the tonal elasticity of the territory ("Mambo Italiano" on the soundtrack, a silencer in a flickering tunnel, a car of magically asleep passengers), the Long Island underworld has its own aesthetic of contraband furniture with the plastic still on, lounges done up like medieval castles, and motels with "theme rooms." The last serves as the rendezvous spot for the capo di tutti capi (Dean Stockwell) and his mistress (Nancy Travis): "You're going to start a fire," he says, the smoking kitty bare on her tummy just giggles, "It's a waterbed!" Jealousy bumps off the horndog torpedo (Alec Baldwin), his widow is a fetchingly stressed-out Mafia princess (Michelle Pfeiffer) set on starting things over in a tenement flat. Cock-dodging with Tracey Walter at the Chicken Lickin' eatery, commiserating with Sister Carol East at the Hello Gorgeous salon, the daffy FBI agent (Matthew Modine) surveys it all. "The mob is run by murdering, lying, cheating psychopaths. We work for the President of the United States of America." Supermarket skirmishes, Miami's Day-Glo side and Chris Isaak as a pistol-packing fast-food clown are integral to the whirlwind, Mercedes Ruehl as the wrathful harridan might be Maria Callas by way of Tex Avery. At the center is Pfeiffer's affecting dizziness—in the sublimest mercurial moment, she punctuates a tearful close-up by crossing her celestial peepers. "You've put on some weight." "It's probably the bulletproof vest." It just about dances on Demme's grace notes, a very broad smile and a wink (Charles Napier and Joan Cusack! David Johansen and Al Lewis!) all the way down to the end credits. Afterwards, Scorsese simply had to do Goodfellas. With Oliver Platt, Trey Wilson, Paul Lazar, and Obba Babatundé.
--- Fernando F. Croce |