Death is always near in this film and nothing makes it seems more frightening/depressing than Dustin Hoffman's flawless acting. From the moment you are introduced to the seemingly scummy character, "Ratso," to Hoffman's infamous im prompt tu line: "I'm walkin' he'e!" right up until his last moments, there is an ominous cloud of despair hanging over the heads of our two main characters.
The second main character is Joe Buck, played by an adorable Jon Voight. (How can you NOT think he's adorable when Ratso accuses him of being a "fag"? Joe's dumbfounded, hesitant response was: ". . . Uh. John Wayne! You think he's a faggot?") Voight plays his character almost perfectly, too, capturing from the get-go the naivety Buck has towards "the real world" (something that was perhaps exacerbated by his tumultuous upbringing, shown in sporadic, nightmarish flashes throughout the movie).
But as an audience, we don't just love Joe Buck because of his boyish Texan charm. He also has compassion. He manifests this feeling in awkward, confusing, and often harmful ways, but nevertheless Joe is constantly thinking of his only friend. To give examples, each time Joe pays a special visit to 42nd St., he does so to gather "mony" for both himself and Ratso. He could take the money and run (though where to remains a matter of speculation), but instead he buys medicine, soup, etc. for his friend (and not himself).
Our sympathies are manipulated more in our main characters' favor at the end of the film, on the bus ride. Joe, being the post-adolescent that he is, finally gets "Rico's" name right, while monologuing in the middle of a fixed camera shot. At this point the ominous cloud hanging overhead has turned black, and we all of a sudden know that Rico will be dead by the time the camera moves over to him, despite our deepest hopes that the fixed camera angle is some sort of cruel joke; the film DOES seem peppered with pitch black humor, after all, we try to rationalize.
But our rationalizing is vain. Ratso's unmoving eyes, and still sweat on his brow say it all. Then we look at his tropical shirt, and we try to feel happy for him. We say to ourselves: "At least he made it back to Miami," but even this does no good. The blow is simply too great. There is an unnecessarily long black screen, and then the credits roll. Nothing relieves the terrible feeling that everything we're doing is pointless and despondent.
Nonetheless, this film showcases superb acting/directing, and at least we can use that little boost to appease that depressing feeling. This is definitely a must for any cinephile.
8/10
The second main character is Joe Buck, played by an adorable Jon Voight. (How can you NOT think he's adorable when Ratso accuses him of being a "fag"? Joe's dumbfounded, hesitant response was: ". . . Uh. John Wayne! You think he's a faggot?") Voight plays his character almost perfectly, too, capturing from the get-go the naivety Buck has towards "the real world" (something that was perhaps exacerbated by his tumultuous upbringing, shown in sporadic, nightmarish flashes throughout the movie).
But as an audience, we don't just love Joe Buck because of his boyish Texan charm. He also has compassion. He manifests this feeling in awkward, confusing, and often harmful ways, but nevertheless Joe is constantly thinking of his only friend. To give examples, each time Joe pays a special visit to 42nd St., he does so to gather "mony" for both himself and Ratso. He could take the money and run (though where to remains a matter of speculation), but instead he buys medicine, soup, etc. for his friend (and not himself).
Our sympathies are manipulated more in our main characters' favor at the end of the film, on the bus ride. Joe, being the post-adolescent that he is, finally gets "Rico's" name right, while monologuing in the middle of a fixed camera shot. At this point the ominous cloud hanging overhead has turned black, and we all of a sudden know that Rico will be dead by the time the camera moves over to him, despite our deepest hopes that the fixed camera angle is some sort of cruel joke; the film DOES seem peppered with pitch black humor, after all, we try to rationalize.
But our rationalizing is vain. Ratso's unmoving eyes, and still sweat on his brow say it all. Then we look at his tropical shirt, and we try to feel happy for him. We say to ourselves: "At least he made it back to Miami," but even this does no good. The blow is simply too great. There is an unnecessarily long black screen, and then the credits roll. Nothing relieves the terrible feeling that everything we're doing is pointless and despondent.
Nonetheless, this film showcases superb acting/directing, and at least we can use that little boost to appease that depressing feeling. This is definitely a must for any cinephile.
8/10