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There are movies that are so brazenly stupid that they require new methods of critical interpretation. Like Scientology or Ron Paul, their disavowal of reality and its conventions is so inescapably complete, so utterly confident, that these films approach a sort of ludicrous grandeur. ... Road House is one such movie, and Patrick Swayze is its Christ.
Frustrated by repeated typecasting in “beefcake” roles, Swayze somehow found himself in this epic showcase of well-oiled manliness, playing a dour warrior-sage who is forbidden from ever fully buttoning his pants. ...
Ben Gazzara, smiling his way through the role of chief villain Brad Wesley as if bravely soldiering through a hemorrhoidectomy, appears to have prepared for his role by smoking pharmaceutical grade Mary Jane before every shot.
Even Kelly Lynch, sex object and token female presence, is demoted from emergency room doctor to whining, table cloth-trussed piece of [tushy] in just three scenes. ...
On the scale of homo-erotic American cinema, Road House ranks well above Brokeback Mountain (2005) for sexual tension, but the lack of catty flirting keeps it from being quite as openly gay as Top Gun (1986). ...
... Like all true myths, Road House is bound by an internal logic. It operates at a level above our understanding, and we judge it at our own peril.