Physical Evidence (1989)

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PHYSICAL EVIDENCE

Reviewed by Heather Picker

Directed by Michael Crichton. Screenplay by Bill Phillips from a story by Steve Ransohoff and Bill Phillips. Starring Burt Reynolds and Theresa Russell, with Ted McGinley and Ned Beatty. 1989, 99 min., Rated R.

Do I really need to review this? If you found this review, you were looking for this review. And if you were looking for the review, you know a bit about the movie. You know that it stars not just Burt Reynolds, but also Theresa Russell. Assuming you're over the age of 20 or so, you know who Reynolds and Russell are. You know the kind of movies they make, the kind of actors they are. Why, then, do you need me to tell you about "Physical Evidence?" Is this really how you get your kicks?

Let's start by saying "Physical Evidence" is a failed family enterprise. I'm interested in these kinds of things because I come from entrepreneurial stock. Family businesses abound on both sides, and I know firsthand all the ways such arrangements can flourish, and all the ways it can blow up in your face. "Physical Evidence," you see, was produced by Martin Ransohoff. He produced things like "Class" and "Hanky Panky." In 1986 he produced "Jagged Edge." Eight years later he produced "Jagged Edge" again, only it sucked more and was called "Guilty as Sin." Joe Eszterhas, the kooky Hungarian screenwriter behind "Jagged Edge" and such venerable classics as Sylvester Stallone's "F.I.S.T.", Adrian Lyne's "Flashdance" and Paul Verhoeven's "Showgirls," published a memoir in 2004 called Hollywood Animal. You might be familiar with Ransohoff from the book – Eszterhaus spent several pages tirelessly cataloging Ransohoff's complaints during the filming of "Jagged Edge," with particular attention to Mr. Ransohoff's thoughts on lead actress Glenn Close's ass. But I digress. Martin Ransohoff also produced "Physical Evidence," and his son, Steve Ransohoff, shared credit with screenwriter Bill Phillips for developing the story. What a story it isn't.

Burt Reynolds is Joe Paris, one of those movie cops who is always fighting authority and kicking scuzzy ass. Trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes. That he likes to drink does not, it turns out, help matters. When we first meet Joe he is passed out in his messy Boston apartment. Two police officers have come by to question him about the murder of a notorious local extortionist – we saw the discovery of his corpse in a meandering opening sequence that perfectly choreographed the uninspired antics to follow – and whaddaya know – they find a bloody murder weapon right there in his kitchen, among the dirty dishes and empty bottles. Joe does not seem surprised by this development. He can hardly muster any indignation at all as he tells the officers the weapon was planted and calmly dresses so they can escort him to his holding cell. Before they leave he makes a perfunctory lunge at the young, smug cop who insists on reading him his rights, but you can tell Reynolds's heart wasn't in it.

Then we meet Theresa Russell, a young public defender with a great head of hair and a flat manner of speaking. She wants the Paris case. Why does she want the Paris case? Because the movie requires her to. Her character, Jennifer Hudson (not to be confused with the former American Idol contestant – holla!), goes to meet with Paris. They clash. Russell flounders painfully for several minutes before she's permitted to get angry. She yells, "Fuck you, asshole!" at Paris, briefly coming to life. Theresa Russell, you might remember, is always at her best when she's angry. (See: "Bad Timing." The staircase scene. Or don't. I warn you, if you rent that movie you'll have to see Art Garfunkel naked. And grinding. Art Garfunkel Naked and Grinding would be a good name for a painting, if any of you are artists.) The problem is she's not allowed to stay angry. Hudson and Paris might not get along so well, but they never really argue. There's the occasional half-baked bickering, and she doesn't approve of his drinking and he doesn't approve of her living the high life with her junk bond-pushing boyfriend (played by – prepare yourselves for this – Ted McGinley), but their arguments are barely written and there is no heat between the actors. Sometimes you wonder if they were ever introduced to each other.

It's hard to describe what happens next as Hudson prepares her client's defense. I'm not sure the screenwriter could explain it to you. There is some convoluted business involving men Paris has busted before, their seedy business deals, corrupt cops, and Kay Lenz as the smokin' hot married woman Paris drinks (and maybe does some other stuff) with. This is not a tightly plotted enterprise with suspense and intrigue and complex webs of deception. The story plays out like it was written (on a napkin, at four in the morning, in mostly illegible writing) as they filmed it. Everyone involved brings so little conviction to the table that towards the end of the film, when Hudson has decided to leave her smarmy boyfriend and the tacky palace he calls home, and Paris just happened to stop by in time to help her tape some boxes, Russell can't even accidentally walk into Reynolds right. She turns, misses her mark, looks momentarily thrown, then recovers and takes a couple quick steps so she's right in front of a Reynolds who someone forgot to tell to smolder. Nobody noticed how awkward that looked? No one could be bothered to re-film it?

The ending, dear reader, is just as slap-dash and hokey as the bungled packing scene. I don't want to give much away – I'd hate to rob you of such a deeply moving, emotionally satisfying viewing experience – but let's just say the final five or ten minutes is one of the most abrupt, ill-conceived, jaw-droppingly bizarre sequences I've ever seen in a movie. And you know how much crap I watch. If you don't believe me, just pay close attention to Russell's facial expressions as she finds herself in jeopardy and reacts in a manner rarely called for in this kind of movie. She seems to be in constant danger of rolling her eyes or shrieking at woefully unskilled director Michael Crichton what a stupid fuckhead he is. As for Reynolds, a remote presence throughout much of the movie, he looks as genuinely baffled in the final scene as most people are when they see his latest hairpiece. "Physical Evidence" might be one of the lesser movies of the 1980s, but watching it you get the feeling a 10-minute long no-holds-barred interview with the cast about the making of the film would be an instant classic.

"Physical Evidence" is currently out out-of-print on DVD. Used copies are easy to come by.

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