There
is nothing wrong with not taking life too seriously, and Burt Reynolds cruised
through most of his films doing just that, being a hot and heady swashbuckler
who didn’t have to internalize. When you’ve got the swagger, you’ve got it.
There was simply too much of a hard on in that swagger for the dowager’s taste,
with notable exceptions, like The Longest Yard. Is its Southern insolence
contrived? Certainly, but this is good old Americana, with all its feel good
bluster, a favorite of mine that of a sudden evokes the man’s absence, and this
absence, preserved in his presence on camera, belies the dismissive attitude I
had for Reynolds throughout his career. Comparing the jaded pro baller Crewe
from this 74 classic to the tightly wound Pentagon brass starred general in the
06 End Game as Gooding's moral arbiter comes as something of a shock, even as we nag ourselves with critical annoyance. Why was the optic capture of Woods meeting a publisher so critical to this Hillary as wish fulfillment film? The
action figure ossifies into a mannequin before our eyes in this disappointing
Clintonesque fable. We knew we were saying goodbye, even 12 years ago, with
great affection, never to be back this way again. And also, coincidentally, one year into my looming obituary.
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