(Viewed 7/29/15, available on Netflix)
Man. Man oh man. Road House is terrible. Terrible and perfect, shining at us like a beacon out of 1989. Patrick Swazye at his absolute peak. I believe in this man. I do not, however, believe in a single other thing in this movie.
Road House is a modern camp classic. In a world populated entirely by stuntmen and models, the mysterious “cooler” (the much, um, cooler term for “bouncer”) Dalton takes a job cleaning up the rough and tumble Double Deuce. There’s romance, brawling, improbable explosions, impossible martial arts, fantastically volumized hair, taxidermy, small-town corruption, genuine blues music, heroic feats, oiled up bodies, dark pasts, and generalized awesomeness.
This movie’s only failing is that it takes itself seriously.
Pop some popcorn. Turn off your brain. There are no allegories, there is no moral to be learned. This movie does not apply to reality in any way. Do not attempt to watch this movie so much as experience it. Let yourself step into the avatar of Dalton, coil around yourself your perfect hair, your gleaming muscles, and your tortured past. Road House is an unblemished example of machismo put on screen, of every self-gratifying fantasy that you’ve ever had made visible.