Another day, another Bond movie. Forgive me if I can't get worked up about the McConcept, although David Arnold is, by any standards, a slick operator who does as much as anyone could to keep the formula fresh. Paul Oakenfold has a stab at remixing the James Bond theme, and, of course, Madonna and Mirwais concoct that title song. Here Madge contrives to sound like a tracheotomy victim rattling through an outtake from the Music album. "Sigmund Freud," she croaks. We wonder why. Then we realise she's simply trying to tell us she read a book once.
John Travolta begins his '80s career slide as Bud Davis, a hick who migrates to Houston, falls for the honky-tonk bar scene, marries city girl Sissy (Debra Winger), loses her to recidivist Wes (Scott Glenn), and enters a mechanical bull-riding rodeo. Compelling supporting performances (especially Winger) and authentic bar footage from-director James Bridges (The Paper Chase) compensate for Travolta's squeaky, misjudged central turn.
This'll be the one Denzel didn't win the Oscar for. His factory-worker Everyman holds up a hospital when the nasty insurance company won't help his dying son. Shades of Dog Day Afternoon, but an astounding cast (Robert Duvall, James Woods, Ray Liotta) can't stop director Nick (son of John) Cassavetes from descending into trite, teary sentimentality.
