Well, not JUST, but . . .
Seriously, it’s a rockin’ good movie feature half the directors in Hollywood, a biychin’ Caddy convert, David Bowie and a title song by B.B. King.
It also has the virtue of having NO frat-boy “humor” (Animal House), no kappa-male miscast as a werewolf (American Kappa-male in London) and no fat, dead alleged loud and classless comic (The Blues Brothers) in it. It has the virtue of being one of my favorite niche categories, the Crime Drama, some actual A-list Movie Stars (Pfieffer, Goldbloom), a Legend (David Bowie), one-quarter of the best film directors who were working at the time, in cameo roles, a sharp script and an old guy having sex in a classy men’s room, plus respect for Elvis. Landis never did as well again, before or since. Oh yeah: no connections to Saturday Night Live, a show for people who don’t actually go out on freaking Saturday night—and I knew Michael O’Donohugh.
Who? Exactly. He told me, “Send me stuff [articles for The National Lampoon, the progenitor for SNL].”
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