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TIME: Almanac 1990s
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<text id=89TT2257>
<title>
Aug. 28, 1989: Saturday Night Dead
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
Aug. 28, 1989 World War II:50th Anniversary
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
CINEMA, Page 64
Saturday Night Dead
</hdr><body>
<p>By Richard Corliss
</p>
<qt> <l>WIRED</l>
<l>Directed by Larry Peerce;</l>
<l>Screenplay by Earl Mac Rauch</l>
</qt>
<p> Well, they sure could have called it Weird. After all, the
main characters in this bonkers biopic are two people John
Belushi never met during his brief, explosive life: Bob
Woodward, the actor's biographer, and John Belushi dead. You
have to cherish the daredevil idiocy of a movie whose climax is
a parody of Woodward's legendary deathbed chat with CIA director
William Casey. The journalist visits the hotel room where
Belushi took his fatal overdose and hallucinates an interview
with the dying star. "Breathe for me, Woodward!" the samurai
comic cries. And it's hard to hate a docudrama in which Cathy
Smith, Belushi's last drug source, materializes in the
straight-arrow reporter's fantasy and asks, "How 'bout you,
Woody? You want a hit?"
</p>
<p> If Woodward does want a hit, he is unlikely to get one from
this turkey, overstuffed as it is with mad ambitions and bad
karma. Wired wants to turn the story of the Saturday Night Live
comedian and gonzo movie star into a cautionary fable about
celebrity in the fast lane -- and never mind that some powerful
people in the movie business were not eager to see the picture
made or released. Reprising Belushi's career without being able
to use clips or skits from his most famous work should be
challenge enough. But nooo! Wired insists on merging the complex
flashback devices of two favorite old movies. So on one swerving
narrative track, Woodward (J.T. Walsh), like the reporter in
Citizen Kane, gets dirty dish from the star's friends. On the
other, an angel of death (Ray Sharkey), a hipster version of the
guardian angel in It's a Wonderful Life, escorts the dead
Belushi (Michael Chiklis) to the scenes of his ebullient crimes.
</p>
<p> Woodward's best seller, though it traced Belushi's last
days with a doggedness that would have done the Evangelists
proud, was a turgid read that had little feeling for its subject
and found no broad meaning in it. At least adapter Earl Mac
Rauch (The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai) knows that the only
way to pin Belushi and Hollywood is to wax satiric and
surrealistic. When the dead Belushi prowls his old haunts in a
morgue sheet that looks like a toga out of the Animal House
closet, the film almost has style to match its guts. So does
Chiklis' boldly percussive performance. But Wired's take on
Belushi is so lame and gross that it validates the verdict of
a cop in the movie: "He's just another fat junkie who went
belly-up."
</p>
<p> Was he? Not exactly, though the distinction eludes Wired.
Professionally, Belushi was a gifted TV sketch artist who found
the wide-screen format confining. Personally, he was a
middle-class white kid with an anarchic urge to play the cool
black jazzman -- so he partied and bullied and ODed just like
his heroes. Early death was only the last piece of the legend
this blues brother created for himself. In the film's one good
laugh, a physician elicits Belushi's pharmaceutical history and
then asks, deadpan, "Next of kin?" Belushi was delivered to his
humongous family of fans, who mourned a talent that went up in
free-basing flames. But where do you send a killer-B movie like
Wired, with many enemies and no mourners?
</p>
</body></article>
</text>