“The Butcher’s Wife” is a 1991 movie starring several women I fancy (Demi Moore, Mary Steenburgen, Frances McDormand, Margaret Colin), and Jeff Daniels, who a lot of women favor, at least when they’re not getting him confused with Bill Pullman. George Dzundza is in it, too (I just wanted to say Dzundza). It’s a chick flick (crossed signals, unrequited love, happy ending, blah blah blah). A barefoot Demi Moore is supposed to be a clairvoyant from North Carolina, spouting cornpone wisdom in a terrible accent. It mostly takes place in New York (the movie, not her accent). Dzundza, Dzundza, Dzundza.
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If you ever want to understand the difference between a musician and a rock star, watch Gregg Allman as the saloon owner (who may or may not be a drug kingpin) in “Rush” (1991). Dude has only five lines of dialogue, but he owns the whole damn movie. Nobody ever said more by simply strutting through a doorway, hair and charisma flowing equally and in all directions. The movie itself is kind of bleak, as undercover cops get high on their own supply. It should have been the vehicle that catapulted Jason Patric into stardom. Instead, his career went undercover.
Patrick Galen Dempsey, born eight days before me in 1966, was once a nerd. I have visual evidence from 1987 vis-a-vis “Can’t Buy Me Love.” In it he plays a high school geek who has a crush on the cheerleading captain. Through the familiar formula in which a nobody makes a deal to become a somebody and loses his moral compass but regains it through implausible soliloquies (while learning a valuable lesson about himself), we briefly see the essence of what would someday become McDreamy. It’s a good time-killer on a lazy afternoon. You’ll wonder whatever became of the cheerleader, Amanda Peterson.
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