Boxoffice-September.1989

iIk
mopean
How
oiild
ihlmh
in
—
know how it works, even while it's working on us. But just as in
"
"Do the Right Thing, where if just one more character were
to mop his brow or exclaim "Phew! What a scorcher!" the
audience would probably storm the screen, all that ladled
atmosphere serves only to hurl the audience headlong into the
Fine acting helps here, too. James Spader collected the Best
Actor Prize at Cannes for his work as Graham, and it's not
hard to see why. How often do the Cannes critics get to reward
a brilliant performance in the role of a man more comfortable
with images than people? Still, critics' familiarity with Graham's
predicament shouldn't taint the acclaim Spader continues
to receive. He's given Graham a great, indelible smile
that's really more of a wince than anything else, and a pained,
searching voice to go with it.
The rest of the company matches him close-up for closeup.
There's Peter Gallagher, who pulls off a great piece of
slapstick character acting when he wants to hit his wife but
knows that husbands aren't supposed to do that anymore, and
so swishes his arms menacingly around her head and shoulders
instead. There's cover girl Andie MacDowell (look for
that epithet to disappear faster than "acrobat Burt Lancaster"
did) in a startlingly natural performance. Lastly, there's the
previously unseen Laura San Giacomo, who singes everything
she touches in the misunderstood-siren part of all time.
For all its triumphs, "sex, lies, and videotape" isn't exactly a
masterpiece. Too much revelatory significance is placed on an
unlikely Freudian slip late in the proceedings, and that lowercase
title really is the last word in pretentiousness. Or is it just
a sly wink at the deplorable undercapitalization of American
independent films?
Rated R for sex. —David Kipen
LICENCE TO KILL
Staniug Timothy Dalton, Robert Davi, Carey Lowell and Talisa
Soto.
Produced by Albert C Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson. Directed
by John Glen. Written by Richard Maibaum and Michael G Wilson.
An MGM/UA release Action, rated PG-13 Running time. 133
min Screening date: 7/6/89
If "Lethal Weapon" ever reaches its 16th installment (let's
all say a prayer for that eventuality), it should be so lucky as to
be as entertaining and well-made as this latest chapter in the
James Bond series. Just when we thought that the spy saga
had completely run out of steam, along comes "Licence to
Kill," a surprisingly fun piece of work.
The structure of this globe-trotting adventure is doggedly
faithful to what has come before, but with a dark twist: Bond
(Timothy Dalton), intent on avenging the brutal assault on
two friends by an infamous drug dealer, has quit Her Majesty's
Secret Service because it wants to pull him off the case.
Fueled by a personal vendetta and relieved of the constraints
of the law, this is a more human and definitely more lethal
James Bond. We know he's ultimately going to get his man,
but this time his means are just a bit more vicious.
007's prey this time is Franz Sanchez (Robert Davi), one of
the best Bond villains in years. While on a drug run in Florida,
Sanchez had brutally tortured Bond's old friend Felix (David
Hedison) and killed Felix's new wife (Priscilla Barnes), and
Bond, who had been best man at their wedding, will not be
stopped until he stops the international drug trafficker.
His search ultimately takes him to the tropical gambling
city of Isthmus City, which is completely under Sanchez's
rule Bond attracts the lust of both Sanchez's mistress (Talisa
Soto) and a spunky, tough-talking former Army pilot (Carey
Lowell), and in time he infiltrates Sanchez's drug factory,
which is hidden within a religious compound run by a comical
and under-utilized Wayne Newton. The film concludes — and
Sanchez gets his fiery comeuppance — during a jaw-dropping
chase sequence involving massive Kenworth trucks.
"Licence to Kill" l.iki's some shrewd incisures to keep the
story fresh for Amciii .m .niJii m . . I',\ l.iuni hmi; the story
from an American s( inn.', ii . Inniniir .
I bias
which most of the cuhei tihiis emln.K ( d .\iu\ by making
Sanchez a fairly realistic villain taken straight from current
headlines, it allows the story to rise above the cartoon level
which manv of the recent ludicrous Bond bad guys engen-
(IcM-.l
Some of the recent Bond problems remain, however. Most
of the bit parts are handled by remarkably bad actors, and
some of the less spectacular stunt scenes are directed in a
stiff, TV-like fashion (John Glen, who has directed the past
five Bonds, is long overdue for a replacement). But Dalton has
settled into the role nicely, and his sexy repartee with Lowell
(she of the long neck and gorgeous gams) provides an unexpected
lightness to the character.
If audiences haven't finally grown tired with the series —
and if space can be found in this summer's outrageously
crowded field — "Licence to Kill" should do well. It's a far
better film than I987's "The Living Daylights," and it deserves
its share of the boxoffice pie.
Rated PG-13 for violence, language and sexual situations.
Tom Matthews
GREAT BALLS OF FIRE
Stalling Liciiius Qiuiid, Wmuna Ryder, Alec Baldwin, Trey
Wilson, Lisa Blount, Stephen Tobolowsky, Mojo Nixon, and Joe
Bob Briggs
Produced by Adam Fields. Directed by Jim McBride Written by
Jack Baran and Jim McBride
An Orion Pictures release Musical drama, rated PG-13 Running
time 108 mins
Could it be that we only want biographies of '50s
rockers if they died young? The Killer is still kicking
but his movie isn't, having grossed an
industry-surprising low of $10.8 million in three weeks.
If anybody could have made a movie out of Jern,' Lee Lewis'
life, that man looked to be Jim McBride. On the evidence of
"The Big Easy," McBride had the feel for music, for the South,
and for the dangerous, reluctant sexuality that pervades
Lewis' story. For those of us too young to remember, Jerry Lee
Lewis was everybody's choice for "the next Elvis" when the
King shipped out to defend the 49th Parallel. How he blew his
chance, if indeed he wanted it in the first place, by marrying
his 13-year-old cousin and failing to seem dutifully ashamed
of it, especially on his British tour, is the subject of McBride's
strangely slack biography, "Great Balls of Fire."
If casting is 90% of any movie, as some directors and almost
all casting directors will insist, Dennis Quaid as Jerry Lee is
about 50% of that 90% absolutely perfect. He seems completely
comfortable behind, and frequently on top of, Lewis' piano,
and his concert scenes go a long way toward reminding us of
how threatening his thirty-year-old "devil music" inust originally
have seemed. In person, however, down from the stages
and away from the crowds, Quaid doesn't size his performance
down in the slightest. He pitches his bedroom scenes
with Myra as though he's still trying to reach the last row of
the balcony at the Albert Hall.
His performance is an unmistakabl.e cousin to Nicholas
Cage's gaga turn in "Vampire's Kiss," where mis-inflected
lines became almost a style, and rumors had Cage eating cockroaches
even off-camera, straight out of the wrangler's bag,
Quaid and Cage have the guts to make fools of themselves,
and deserve our appreciation for that, but it's a strategy' that
works better in solo scenes than with other actors waiting for
them to spit out the scenery and get on with it.
Resplendent among Quaid's patient co-stars is "Beetlejuice's"
Winona Ryder as Lewis' child bride. She's a coquette
without trying, alternately flattered and flabbergasted by the
attentions of a whole generation's heartthrob. The rest of the
cast has little to do but look scandalized, which can't have
been hard with the spectacle of Quaid stealing scenes from
himself right there in front of them.
Since M( I'.iule has failed to do justice to Jerry Lee Lewis'
life, ni,i\ be nil one i
have. No one will, now, so it doesn't
much 111, nil 1 ihis version even made it to the screen,
though, wuli ,1 si,ii|)t so feeble ,in(l c .irtdonish, is a puzzlement.
Was it rushed into produc luui in i .i|iii.ili/c on the recent
scandal involving Lewis' olhii . hiiimy Swaggart?
"
Swaggart pops in and out of "Gre.ii I'., ills ol I ne the person
of Alec Baldwin, but the easy irony of an eventually unmasked
patron of prostitutes lighting into Jerry Lee for moral turpitude
wears thin fairly fast. Moreover, Swaggart's period sermons
are woefully unconvincing ,\t one point he lautions his
Aui;iist, l'>xy R-5S