it's my theory that following the "success" of Dead Poet's Society, Robin Williams began a personal crusade to produce the most cloying, annoying, politically-corrected, sickeningly sappy body of work of any star in the history of Hollywood: Patch Adams, Centennial Man, Toys, Good Will Hunting, Mrs, Doubtfire, Jack, etcetera, ad nauseum, and the newest and most worthy contender to the body of dreck: Death to Smootchy.
But lo and behold, one year after the turning point, when Robin changed from quick witted comic to pedantic instructor to the lessor informed than himself, this little gem is released.
What other film has ever cast the salesman as the hero. Not a tragic failure, but a force of life. A hero, who "sells" the emotionally disturbed gunmen to surrender and not hurt anyone. The salesman who is the only possible hero to save this day!
He sells cars to everybody. He sells himself to multiple girlfriends far more attractive than himself, because he is the consumate salesman. I dare anyone to name me one work of literature or film who's creators were incorrect enough to find good, not bad, in the salesman. Contrast this with the very correct Glengarry Glen Ross, the result of David Mamet's never-ending search for the ugly underbellies ruining the world wherever he gazes.
Salesman as "force majeur"! And Robin Williams performance is perfect. Oh Robin, the saddest words of kith and kin are surely these: it might have been. Thanks you for this gem of a film standing out from the horrid body of work you have left us.
