Unable to remember if he is responsible for a murder, an alcoholic writer recalls bits and pieces of the previous few days while conversing with his cynical father in this unusual film written and directed by Norman Mailer, based on his novel of the same name. With lead actor Ryan O'Neal narrating the film retrospectively, the unsolved murder theme and tons of shady characters, 'Tough Guys Don't Dance' has often been cited as a neo-noir but it is actually closer to a noir spoof with some comedic moments so bizarre that it is hard to tell if the humour was intentional or not. Whatever the case, the film benefits from memorably eccentric supporting characters and the capable likes of Penn Jillette and Wings Hauser try to make the most of the material, though there remains room to question whether the film would have been better played straight without the comedy angle. The central dynamic is certainly quite interesting with O'Neal torn internally as he solves the mystery, unsure of whether he is responsible and if he is, whether he truly wants to find out. The final product though is pretty messy and it is easy to see why the film received several Razzie nominations in its day.

I once had the opportunity to tell Mr. Mailer how much I enjoyed his book and he told me he owed his publisher one more novel so he wrote it to get out of his contract as quickly as possible. I get the feeling this movie was produced in much the same manner. While I loved Lawrence Tierney and Wings Hauser, the rest of the characters, as well as the plot, are as contrived as any Spike Lee movie I've ever seen. Friends of mine hail this as the "New England Blue Velvet" which would explain Isabella Rossellini but I'm not a big fan of David Lynch either. For better or worse, I am addicted to (Neo) Noir and Wings Hauser is the perfect foil for this genre. The best that can be said about the film is his scenes make the movie palatable.

Ryan O'Neal's infamous "Oh Man Oh God" moment, while awful and embarrassing, taken on its own accord.. linked all over the Internet and embedded below this review... within context of an equally bizarre vehicle, just sort of comes and goes, coinciding with a cheesy spinning camera-glide in this Neo Noir thriller with little thrills, tons of intentionally pulpy dialogue that Norman Mailer, who directed based on his novel turned screenplay, purposely borrows from the likes of Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillaine… Although there weren't many cocaine addicts written about back in those dime novel days; at least not for an aimless anti-hero to be involved with without a second thought. Enter O'Neal's low-rent ex-con writer, Tim Madden, literally counting the days with shaving cream on a mirror of his missing wife's beachfront mansion...

We begin as Tim finds his dad sitting reposeful in the living room, and Lawrence Tierney, a man who reigned genuine terror in the true crime flicks of yesteryear (and would growl in RESERVOIR DOGS a few years later), actually has a reason to be bald-headed: His surprisingly subdued, world-weary Dougy Madden is suffering from the after-effects of chemotherapy. The conversations with his son, including banal dialogue seeming like ad libs from a macho actor's workshop (TIERNEY: "Your mother was delicate, she spoiled you a lot" O'NEAL: "Well I did my three years in the slammer standing up, no one made me a punk" TIERNEY "Good for you... I didn't want to ask") is how, instead of the usual narration, we're provided exposition through this steamy, uneven tale centering on O'Neal trying to figure out how the severed skull of a woman got buried in the woods, and why he knows the exact location. The sporadic O'Neal/Tierney wordplay is performed good yet awkwardly leads to each flashback sequence: a keyword is repeated at the end of the present time and the start of the backstory... just in case you missed it. A sort of Film Noir for Dummies. And Mailer throws in a score of naked bodies and taboo subjects that end up serving as wallpaper.

The second-billed and not very important "one that got away" ingénue Isabella Rossellini aside, if any particular dame steals the picture it's femme fatalle Patty Lareine. Actress Debra Sandlund (now Debra Stipe) chews scenery without chomping too loud, knowing just how to play kitsch unlike O'Neal in his "Oh God" moment or Wings Hauser, who goes his usual overboard after being subtle for most of the film.

The real problem with TOUGH GUYS is the direction by Norman Mailer, but that's not exactly true… For DANCE doesn't seem like there's any real direction at all. As if the actors are performing in a vacuum; their characters exist on a treadmill course throughout the gorgeous New England beach locale. And while O'Neal has lived to regret his performance, it's not that god-awful, and he's a comfortable enough shoe to trudge along the muddled plot line: For when our man vanishes for twenty long minutes, taken over by tormented simpleton John Bedford Lloyd as… someone's crazy lover… what was once aimed downhill reaches rock bottom, with vengeance.