Jeff Bridges portrays author Lawrence Blocks' character Matt Scudder in this picture, and his able performance is one of its few virtues. Matt is a detective for the L.A. Sheriffs' Department who is also an alcoholic. Ultimately, his drinking costs him his marriage and his job. However, he is soon approached by a hooker named Sunny (Alexandra Paul) to remove her from her unhappy life, and when he gets involved, he incurs the wrath of a smug drug kingpin (Andy Garcia) and a powerful pimp (Randy Brooks).
Sadly, this was the final theatrical credit for editor turned director Hal Ashby. A recovering substance abuser himself, he had little to no creative control over the final product. He wanted something grittier and closer to the novel (which this movie barely resembles), the producers wanted a feature film version of 'Miami Vice'. But what really hurts it is the poor script (credited to Oliver Stone and R. Lance Hill (a.k.a. "David Lee Henry"), which moves at a snails' pace and doesn't encourage us to really care about the characters.
The lack of success is not for lack of effort on Bridges' part. He, the intense Brooks, and the amusingly slimy Garcia entertain the viewer sufficiently. But Paul is miscast, and Rosanna Arquette, as one of Sunny's co-workers, looks like she couldn't care less. Familiar faces in supporting roles and bits include Vyto Ruginis, James Avery, Tommy 'Tiny' Lister, Rosalind Allen, and Loyd Catlett.
Absolutely gorgeous photography, good use of locations, an atmospheric score by James Newton Howard (one of his earliest), stunning helicopter shots, and some jarring violence work in the films' favor. But it goes on too long (especially that climactic confrontation in the warehouse, which becomes unbearable rather than tense), and has too much inane dialogue.
The man who made "Harold and Maude", "Coming Home", and "Being There" deserved a better theatrical swan song than this.
Five out of 10.
