Movie Review: “Suburban Cowboy” Beats A Dead Horse

[yasr_overall_rating]
 

In this gritty story based on real events, a drug dealer on Long Island finds himself over his head when one of his soldiers robs a connection to ruthless Serbian gangsters. When the debt falls on his shoulders he is forced to take drastic measures.

Quentin Tarantino influenced a splurge of mid-to-late-1990s films that attempted to emulate his poetic, highly cinematic dialogue and defiance of conventional narrative structure. From utter trash (“The Boondocks Saints,” “The Big Hit,” “Suicide Kings”) to flawed-but-valiant attempts (“Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead,” “2 Days In The Valley,” “Go”), no one quite got away with it. The eloquent vulgarity, the darkly humorous violence, the racist rhetoric his characters spout, the little references to films of yore – it’s all essentially an extension of QT’s persona, shaped by countless years of sifting through cinematic treasures; it comes naturally to the geeky tall genius. Attempting to plagiarize THE master plagiarist is futile.

While QT’s influence can still be felt today (look no further than the recent, admittedly entertaining “Seven Psychopaths” for a “Tarantino-lite” experience), his impact has lessened, or rather morphed into that of a different, more commendable kind – directors trying to “out-Tarantino” Tarantino and, in an ocean of constant regurgitation, stand out with auterish trademarks of their own (see: Alejandro González Iñarritu, Alfonso Cuarón, Richard Linklater (who just keeps getting better at being Richard Linklater)). I can’t say for sure whether that was one of the intentions of the filmmakers behind the deplorable, grimy thriller “Suburban Cowboy,” but the film certainly gives off a stale whiff of a director resorting to cheap shock tactics and blatant provocation to make a name for himself, bringing to mind last decade’s cheap QT knock-offs. Crammed with filthy characters, filthier language and next to no plot, this “Cowboy” should have stayed in the stable.

Blank-faced Jeremy Sisto doppelgänger Frank Raducz Jr. plays Jay, a werewolf-obsessed Long Island drug dealer with a stripper girlfriend, Victoria (Alandrea Martin), and a traitor henchman, Alex (Matty Finochio), who used Jay’s product to pay off his own debts. Alex swears to stop gambling and begs Jay to front him some more product – or “spark plugs,” as the drugs are referred to. But “Alex is bad news, always has been,” according to Jay’s boxing coach. Next thing Jay knows, he’s on the run with Victoria from some vicious Serbian gangsters. He has no choice but to confront Vuk (Zoran Radanovich), the boss, trying to justify Alex’s mistake. The Serbians want $150 grand and – why not – throw in Victoria too.

So Jay goes around collecting money, spouting pseudo-intellectual talk about werewolves and vampires. “Be the wolf,” Jay tells himself at wrestling practice (is there a form of contact sport he is NOT into?). If the parallel isn’t obvious enough, he exclaims at another point: “Me? I’m like a werewolf – gnarly in every way. And when I turn…” – and he trails off, letting his “prey” fill in the blanks. To further emphasize Jay’s canine nature, a shadow on a wall morphs into a werewolf as he goes berserk on said “prey” – it’s hilarious in its spontaneity and pretentiousness, and wrongheadedness of the chosen soundtrack to accompany the sequence. Victoria finally comes up with a plan… Will she and Jay come out of this mess alive? Does anyone give a shit?

It’s jaw-dropping how misogynistic and racist “Suburban Cowboy” is. If it was intended to be ironic or knowingly referential, it doesn’t back it up with any semblance of character development, wisdom or poignant moments. The very first shot is that of a naked female body; soon after, the same young woman dances in an unnecessary, icky strip scene, covered in Wonder Woman body paint. She is the only female character of any worth in the entire narrative. Oh hell, I’ll let the film’s dialogue speak for itself: “I cream-pied the bitch”; “She lets me put it in her ass, so I keep her in my back pocket”; “I turned her face into a Van Gogh, it was beautiful.”; “I got a roll of duct tape with her name on it”; “You better have your wet snatch, ‘cos I’m about to face-fuck you”; “You’re coming in like a spick at the end of the month”; “I like to do my drugs the way I fuck – when I pound the pussy, I like to hurt it”… Lovely. No race seems to go unscathed – “The [Jews] are so cheap…”; “I’ll go to war with that Greek motherfucker”; “What’s up with the Mexican standoff?” “Yo, we’re Dominican, alright?” – and no derogatory, sexist statement left unsaid. Bravo.

If I had to point out some redeeming things, under gunpoint, it would have to be the inventive, graphic novel-like title credit sequence, and the cool electronic soundtrack by Dirty South (a.k.a. the film’s producer Dragan Roganovic). Otherwise, “Suburban Cowboy” has next-to-no driving momentum, its dialogue lacking Tarantino’s wit and grace – it just sits there, as ugly as the characters spouting it. The film doesn’t have a lot to say, reemphasizing its point (or lack thereof) over and over again, as we follow the coke-sniffing protagonist round and round in circles, his charcoal-black eyes revealing a deep dearth of feeling. On a technical level, the film is more-or-less proficient, but there’s just no reason to ride into the sunset with this cowboy.

“Suburban Cowboy” had its World Premiere at the Austin Film Festival October 14th