Patrick Swayze leaps out of the barn with such delicacy and style it is a surprise he does not pirouette upon the tail of the breeze and autumn leaf his ass over to the burning ranch.
I speak of my favorite moment in Rowdy Herrington's blockbuster magnum opus, Roadhouse.
Can you see the movie poster in your mind? Swayze leaning, arms crossed, knee bent with one shit-kicker propped against the cherry oak entrance of the Double Deuce. The title a neon bar sign beaming beneath.
The year is 1989, and Patrick Swayze is portraying (sans irony) a bar bouncer named Dalton who is so good at disposing of riffraff that his legend as 'cooler' is already whispered in saloons across the land. And so he is recruited to the Double Deuce--a joint whose rowdiness is matched by its horniness, both in bombast and volume.
Speaking of volume... while there is no paucity of praise for Patrick Swayze's hair, I will add this. Farrah Fawcett walked so Swayze could float to the heavens, lure the Gods back to earth, and trap them in Jasper, Missouri, where bands play behind cages and doctors have tans like Kelly Lynch.
Now, to the leap.
Our protagonist lives in a barn, where he enjoys morning Tai Chi and elides daily first-world amenities like phone lines and underwear. After the head bad dude sets fire to his landlord's house, he jumps out of the 2nd story onto a truck bed full of hay.
Let us dissect.
Other actors may dive, tumble, and make it showy, while other movie stars may suffuse a superhero machismo—slamming their fist down upon dismount.
But Swayze quite literally glissers--his agility imbued with grace. There is a gentility in how he rends the heavy's throat from his body. This is what makes him believable as a dancer, a bouncer, or an outlaw surfer. His panic, even his violence, is ballet.
A few Sundays ago, I stayed in bed--the fog of melatonin dreams dissipating slightly faster than the dreary curtain of LA rain. I Postmated a Popeye's spicy chicken sandwich and watched Point Break, my favorite movie of all time, for the 87,001st time.
Swayze, lit by the last flickers of a beach bonfire, shakes off the cold of a night surf and whispers bodhisattva wisdom to the Dead Presidents.
I shed a single tear into my buffalo sauce, considering his Mount Rushmore—Dirty Dancing, Roadhouse, Ghost, and Point Break—and further contemplated what made his onscreen presence so indelible.
Those cheekbones and his profound sweetness? That hair and his unshakable earnestness? Or was it that constructs like gravity and traditional masculinity had no command over him? Generous enough to compromise with the elements, and still, they took him from us so soon.
If you ever see me trying to pull off a silk shirt, now you know why.
BEST one ever !! There will surely be much streaming of Swayze movies after this post!
Sir, I take the skin off chicken.