July
23, 2005
I
spent a considerable amount of time trying to capture the right
screenshot to use for the review of Overnight, and after some time
I finally found what I was looking for. It's a short moment when
the subject turns, after a long-winded tirade, and glances at the
camera.
The
subject is Troy Duffy, an LA bartender and musician who has been
offered the chance to direct his first screenplay. He is loud, obnoxious;
a schoolyard bully and and an aspiring alchoholic. But in that momentary
glance, I saw something else: a genuine sadness, a weariness behind
all the shouting and the boasts.
Duffy
is responsible for making a movie called The
Boondock Saints. It is a movie that, like its creator, is incessantly
vulgar, violent, obnoxious and vain, and I deplore it deeply. It
is without hesitation the sorriest excuse for a film I've seen in
years (I stumbled onto the DVD at an acquaintance's house last winter).
The
real tragedy, for me at least, is that Boondock Saints has become
a cult favorite among teenagers and college students. Young adults
who are supposed to know better are actually entertained by this
rediculous, schlocky revenge fantasy. That's the thing I can't wrap
my head around; I lie awake at nights and fear for the future of
the Republic.
Overnight
is a documentary about the rise and fall of Troy Duffy, filmed on
digital video cameras by two friends, Tony Montana and Mark Brian
Smith. In 1997, Duffy had a screenplay, played in a band, and worked
as a bartender in Los Angelos, which, really, describes half the
population of Los Angelos. One day, Harvey Weinstein and Miramax
buy his script, agree to produce it, and hand him a $15 million
shooting budget, complete with total creative control and right
of final cut. As an added bonus, Duffy's band would record the soundtrack,
and Weinstein even promised to buy the bar Duffy worked in, and
make him a full partner.
As
anyone should know, this is manna from Heaven. It is every aspiring
filmmaker's wildest dream come true, and Duffy and his friends are
ebulliant, drinking it up night after night and making endless boasts
of becoming Hollywood legends.
It's
very clear that Miramax was looking to capitalize on Quentin
Tarantino's sensational success with Pulp Fiction, and saw in
the Boondock Saints script an easy cash-in. It's also very clear
that Duffy has no experience whatsoever making movies, or even
writing. His script is endless cussing and belligerent
swearing, just like him.
Montana
and Smith are there every step of the way, capturing everything
they can. They're very clearly amateurs at this, but at least they
show a genuine enthusiasm for what they're doing; more importantly,
they demonstrate a willingness to learn and grow.
You
don't get that from Duffy, and you can tell within the first five
minutes how it all will end out. The long, exhausted faces by everyone
in attendance - family, band members, friends in the entourage -
spell it all out, too. They're used to this braggart puffing out
his chest and issuing damands and threats to the whole world.
Overnight
was meant to chronicle Duffy's rise to stardom, but ultimately becomes
the story of his fall. It's a live-action version of all those Road
Runner cartoons, where Wile E. Coyote gets pummeled by his own ACME
traps. After dealing with a hungover blowhard one too many times,
Miramax effectively shelves the project, sending it to the dreaded
"turnaround" status. This brings out Duffy the bully,
Duffy the crybaby, Duffy the fool. He's proves to be the worst kind
of fool: the kind that believes his own hype.
I
don't gloat in his self-inflicted misfortune, but I don't feel
too sorry for him, either. This child has never been turned
over a parent's knee, likely never told "no," likely
never taken down a notch. Life has a funny way of teaching you
those lessons, one way or another.
The
ones I truly feel sorry for are his bandmates, and his younger brother,
Taylor, who plays guitar. He's the one I sympathize with in this
picture. He offers his older sibling love and support, only asking
that this dedication spent on The Boondock Saints be equally devoted
to the music, Taylor's one true love. And he is repaid with scorn
and broken dreams. I'm reminded of the Bob Dylan song, "I Am
A Lonesome Hobo," and it just breaks your heart.
Eventually,
Boondock Saints is made for a fraction of the original budget, somehow
lumbers through production, in spite of the presence of decent acting
talent and the great Willem Dafoe (we'll just forget about Ron Jeremy
altogether, please). It is screened at Cannes in the wake of the
Columbine shootings, and, understandably, no one makes any offers
(the movie's suggestion of a vast Weinstein conspiracy is patenly
ludicrous, and it's Overnight's greatest fault). It eventually plays
on five screens, then disappears to home video.
As
a final gesture to Troy Duffy's management skills, he is never
given royalties from sales of the DVD, which, again to my great
frustration, became a cult hit. The final shot of Duffy barreling
off a roof into a large pool couldn't be more appropriate. |
