ROAD HOUSE: 4K UHD Blu-ray (United Artists, 1989) Vinegar Syndrome

Patrick Swayze, who left us much too soon at the age of 57, followed up his phenomenal breakout performance as Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing (1987) with three characterless caricatures of the Hollywood he-man, designed to capitalize on his machismo and rugged masculinity. The best of these was likely Rowdy Herrington’s Road House (1989), a rather sordid, and marginally idiotic story about a seemingly ‘super human’ bouncer for hire. Eviscerated at the time by the critics for its needless bloodshed and pretty pedestrian fanfare in the actioner genre, Road House today has evolved a cult status that shows little signs of slowing down. This is, in no small part, due to Swayze’s enviable charisma that goes well beyond his well-honed physical prowess or his undeniably sexy good looks. Indeed, Swayze once classified himself as a throwback to the old Southern gentleman and illustrated the mettle of this archetype with fetching accuracy in TV’s sprawling miniseries, North & South (1985-94). Yet, even when removed from the milieu of the American civil war this standard of the moonlight and magnolia-mannered man of veracity pretty well fit Swayze to a tee. Whatever the era or character he was playing, Swayze commanded our respect for this genuine, quiet rectitude. And even after super-stardom took hold, he never forgot or mislaid the importance of this ingrained integrity. Were that there were more of his kind – or, in fact, any – in today’s Hollywood!

In Road House, Swayze is James Dalton – simply known as ‘Dalton’ – a cooler, notorious for taking some very rough trade watering holes and transforming them into classy nightclubs where the elite do more than meet, but keep it all behind closed doors. Dalton’s a ‘cool customer’, his steely gaze, sinewy frame and impeccably tailored wardrobe making him the envy of every man and the target of too many liquored up buffoons who moronically think they can ‘take’ Dalton on and win. Dalton may not be as big as some of the steroidal dead heads who challenge his supremacy. In point of fact, one of the movies running gags is “I thought you’d be taller.”  But Dalton keeps himself extremely fit and maintains a clear head at all times, thinking his way through spectacularly violent bar fights that predictably end in his favor. For Swayze, a classically trained dancer, these staged fisticuffs seem almost second nature, choreographed with a dancer’s finesse and actor’s eye for exploiting the human form in almost balletic terms. There is an artistry to Swayze’s execution of the classic barroom brawl that belies the usual muscly thug-thrash-and-whack encounters usually to materialize on the screen, a sort of elegance matched up to some truly devastating brawn. It works - spectacularly well – lending Dalton an air of sophistication that is never smug, overbearing or gauche.

Less successful is David Lee Henry (R. Lance Hill) and Hilary Henkin’s whacky screenplay, migrating the ‘frontier justice’ motif of a classic shoot ‘em up western to the ‘then’ present, most of the head-smashing set in and around a road house built on the outskirts of a seedy little town, fascistically dominated by Brad Wesley (Ben Gazarra). Wesley’s a middle-aged millionaire fat cat who delights in manhandling all he surveys with a sort of clouded, delusional psychosis. He thinks himself a god. Therefore, he must be one. Point blank: Wesley’s money has gone to his head. He wouldn’t be the first man to think a bank role the size of Bolivia can expunge virtually any and all sins while lending an air of entitlement to his already over-weaning authority. And, true to this stereotype, dear ole Wes’ has surrounded himself with a butch goon squad, renegade mercenaries, perpetually scowled and packing a small arsenal of weaponry as though they were plotting to invade the nearest third world hell hole next week. Road House is an odd movie to critique because it precariously teeters between its virtues and vices as a good ‘bad’ movie that did perform altogether as anticipated at the box office. Nevertheless, Road House today is considered one of the guilty little pleasures of the eighties, to be enjoyed by exactly the sort of armchair warrior who would wish to be half the man James Dalton is, but more oft’ than not leans heavily toward the big bully with a perpetual ‘hard on’ for co-star, Kelly Lynch.

With her teased out blonde tresses and a slinky bod immaculately tailored in form-fitting gowns (even her doctor’s scrubs look as though they have been customized by Lord & Taylor) Lynch’s Dr. Elizabeth Clay is precisely the sexpot to cause the usually austere Dalton to throw caution to the wind, sit up and take notice. She is also the sort Wesley would prefer to add to his collection of felines ‘for hire’; gals, dear ole Wes’ would not have a hope in hell of acquiring, much less satisfying, except by showing off the girth of his wallet. Money, money, money…it’s a rich man’s game. Ben Gazarra is an actor I have merely, if unfairly, tolerated over the years, if for no other reason, that he always seems perennially cast as the sulking brute suffering from the proverbial ‘short man’s complex. Personally, I feel Gazarra’s best movie is Otto Preminger’s Anatomy of a Murder (1959), though chiefly because it stars, James Stewart and has the uber-sexy Lee Remick in it. Gazarra holds his own in that movie, but he still plays the dirty little bastard hoping to stand tall using shoe inserts instead of personality and class to achieve his not terribly prepossessing disguise. Road House needs another villain comparable in physical stature to our hero. So, we get Anthony De Longis, a pro-stuntman/coordinator come actor, as Wesley’s leering henchman, Gary Ketchum; Marshall Teague, as steely-eyed Jimmy, and, Gary Hudson as Steve – a real scruffy dog of a disgruntled coworker, looking to kick some proverbial butt simply because he thinks he can. Viewed in the right frame of mind, Road House comes across as an unabashedly sexist and ultra-violent smash up, a demolition derby that uses human remains instead of cars to achieve the same effect. Dalton frequently puts his finely honed body through the paces and in peril, getting his muscly gut and arms stabbed, slashed, shot, and cut wide open with broken beer bottles, switchblades and knives. Exactly how this daily desecration of human flesh equates to butch manliness has, frankly, always escaped me. If Dalton were to live on after this movie, he would likely wind up arthritically stricken and confined to a wheelchair by the age of fifty. But Dalton’s appeal, at least for scores of young men who look not beyond their own immortality at the age of twenty-something, cleverly straddles the chasm between Nietzsche’s notion of the super man, and our knuckle-dragging Neanderthal ancestors who indiscriminately clubbed both their prey and their women with a dispassionate grunt for simply getting the job done.

The trouble with Road House is it desperately wants to illustrate precisely the opposite, how Dalton’s superior intellect outfoxes these hulks and the Brainiac puppet-master pulling their hamstrings. One might sincerely suggest, ‘Okay, so what’s wrong with that?’ the obvious reply being, that if Dalton is such a smart fellow, with a good head snapped onto his sport n’ shaved broad shoulders, why does he repeatedly place both it and what’s attached from the neck down in imminent peril. It doesn’t make for sound logic… or even from the perspective of an ex-military special ops assassin, forsaking his rather gruesome past, yet called upon again to do some bare-fisted throat-ripping (literally). Again, put in the proper context it is possible to be ‘entertained’ by this sort of needless butt and brain-bashing blood feud in much the same way WWE Wrestlemania and UFC caged kickboxing has its ardent followers and armchair champions. But Patrick Swayze is a perceptive actor. It is precisely this strain of intelligence, coupled with an infinitely more manly grace and an intuitive sensitivity that made Swayze profoundly appealing to both men and women in the first place. And Swayze has proven the ability to poke fun at life and his place in it in tandem, and, to stride, not with only an air of masculine confidence, but with an aesthetically pleasing cadence, devoted more to a celebration of life than ego.

There is more to Dalton’s saunter than swagger for which far too many male action stars of any generation have seen necessary to exaggerate as though a pair of ten-ton balls were clanging back and forth in their Jockeys. As such, Swayze is largely working against type as Dalton. He succeeds, primarily because he is a better actor than most any critic of his day gave him credit. But he is also going against the grain of that highly desirable ‘cuttie/toughie’ he portrayed in Dirty Dancing, and, the stalwart, charger-riding southerner, Orrie Maine depicted in North & South. Both performances made Patrick Swayze the stud du jour. Road House wastes no time knocking that reputation down a peg or three, a betrayal of the principles Swayze innately possesses and has presented for our infinite enjoyment elsewhere. Subsequent attempts Swayze made to break out of the conventions of his inbred respectability, as in 1991’s Point Break (now, also considered something of a cult classic), nevertheless illustrated then, as now, the misguidedness in that exercise.  You can’t take the ‘gentle’ out of the man. More to the point – why would anyone want to?

Road House opens, appropriately, with a mild skirmish inside an upscale nightclub. Dalton intercedes after one of the patrons gets hostile with his ‘lady of the night’ and pulls a knife to slash open his triceps. Unnerved by either the assault or the obvious pain, Dalton has the drunken morons escorted to the edge of the property before retiring to his private office. Ever the pragmatist, Dalton packs his own surgical kit and expertly stitching together his gaping wound. Evidently, he has had a lot of practice. This impresses Frank Tilghman (Kevin Tighe); the proprietor of the Double Deuce – a honkytonk in desperate need of some tough civilization, so described as a one-time ‘sweet deal’ but now the sort of place ‘where they sweep the eyeballs up after hours’. Dalton recommends Wade Garrett for the job. But Tilghman wants Dalton. For $5000 up front, $500 a night, plus all medical expenses paid, Tilghman gets his man. Dalton makes his way, tossing the keys to his beat-up Chevy to a homeless guy (Chino 'Fats' Williams) before tearing off to the town of Jasper in a brand-new Mercedes.  The Double Deuce is every bit the cesspool Dalton expected. A few of the bouncers are more interested in feeling up the barely legal female clientele. Others are merely inebriated on their own brutish, thick-headed power trip. A few of the waitresses are dealing drugs in the bathroom. Cody (Jeff Healey) and his band have to be kept behind a protective screen as the shirtless, lewd and thoroughly bombed out of their respective gourds, frequently throw trash and beer bottles to exercise both their idiotic approval and disrespect for the live entertainment. Good-nature waitress, Carrie-Anne (Kathleen Wilhoite) encourages Dalton to ignore the intimidation.  Not that Dalton is intimidated, or even put off by what he sees. On the contrary, the Double Deuce is exactly the sort of bottom-feeder’s pit he is going to relish transforming into an upscale class act where everyone can feel welcome and safe.

In short order, Dalton sets himself up inside the barn loft of local farmer, Emmett (Sunshine Parker). The property is divided by a modest lake. On the other side sits the stately manor of Brad Wesley. The millionaire’s arrival by helicopter deliberately spooks Emmett’s horses. We later learn, Wesley is determined to run Emmett off the land that has been in his family for generations. Dalton does not take kindly to claim jumpers any more than he appreciates drunkards. He makes waves, driving a beat-up ’65 Buick Riviera, his cool demeanor unsettling to Tilghman’s bouncers who prefer the roughhousing antics of streetfighters to Dalton’s more refined and militaristic diffusion of any situation. Without hesitation, and after being placed in charge by Tilghman at a joint meeting of all the staff, Dalton begins to clean house by laying down some basic ground rules. “People who want to have a good time do not patronize ‘a slaughterhouse’ with too many power drinkers, felons and trustees of modern chemistry running amuck. So, Rule #1 – never, underestimate your opponent. Number two: take all altercations outside. And Rule #3…be nice.”

It's Dalton’s law, almost immediately tested when a drunken moron allows his equally as inebriated girlfriend to perform a table dance. Dalton orders one of his own, Hank (Kurt James Stefka) to intercede. And while Hank obeys Dalton to the letter, he is accosted at the point of a switchblade until Dalton breaks up the brawl, casually splitting the table in half using the drunk’s head, then, ordering the disorientated fool ‘escorted’ to the front door without further delay. His short shrift finesse impresses everyone and convinces Tilghman he has hired the right guy to manage his club. But Dalton is not finished. He barges into the storeroom where another bouncer, Steve (Gary Hudson) has a willing female patron over a barrel – literally. Dalton fires Steve on the spot. “I’m on break,” is his excuse. “Stay on it,” is Dalton’s quick reply. Dalton also confronts bartender, Pat McGurn (John Doe), who is skimming the till for about $150 a night. “Consider it severance pay,” says Dalton, before giving Pat his walking papers. And while Tilghman is exceptionally impressed with Dalton’s results, Dalton also warns him, “It’ll get worse before it gets better.” Indeed, exiting the club later that night, Dalton discovers all four of his tires slashed and his windshield smashed. But hey, he takes it all in stride. 

Come to fix his car, Dalton has his first cordial meeting with Brad Wesley inside Red Webster’s (Red West) local auto parts store. The congenial Red forewarns Dalton never to marry an ugly woman, a bad joke that continues to sour as the mood turns palpably more ominous with Wesley’s arrival. Wesley’s henchman, Jimmy (Marshall Teague) and Dalton exchange a few penetrating stares. Not long thereafter, Wesley observes from his property line as Dalton indulges in some meditational Tai Chi. Aside: there are two valid criticisms I have of Road House: first, it is a movie teeming with the objectification of Patrick Swayze’s male form, so much that we might just as well have had an extended ‘workout’ video featuring Swayze in place of what’s here, sweat glistening in slo-mo, the camera having its 360-degree love affair to some exotic strains of Michael Kamen’s underscore. Perhaps, a hard man really is good to film. Earlier, we were given the obligatory nude butt crack for which a certain vintage of 80’s action movies are, at least in hindsight, justly (in)famous. Road House is, I suspect, endeavoring to establish its equal opportunity sexism to appeal to a broader audience. Men will pay to see some aggressive ass-whipping, and women, who will simply pay to see Swayze’s loins, preferably unsheathed without giving away the full-frontal goodies. After all, let us leave something to the imagination and the R-rating.

It does not take long for the Double Deuce to be revisited by Pat, who holds Tilghman hostage in his office at knifepoint with a couple of his goons. Dalton valiantly defends his employer, but is severely wounded in the side, nevertheless sauntering off to the local hospital where he is promptly treated by Dr. Elizabeth Clay, adding eight staples to his laundry list of sundry injuries and broken bones. This leads to my second problem with Road House; its sincerely flawed love interest. Actress, Kelly Lynch is undeniably good eye candy. But she is too much in love with Dalton from the get go. Despite wearing glasses – a hopeless effort by costume designer, Marilyn Vance to dowdy up her surfer girl image while adding a more bookish charm to her character – even draped in a hand-me-down physician’s white coat, Lynch is no more convincing as an emergency room practitioner than Ben Gazarra is as the movie’s diminutive, if ever so slightly menacing tyrant. The good doctor and Dalton share a playful exchange of dialogue – arguably, the best piece of ‘bad writing’ in the movie. She gets to know him socially and he welcomes her flirtations. It is an almost screwball cute meet, inserted between all the boozing, ballin’ and brawlin’. Like the other set pieces in this increasingly unwieldy mishmash, it just does not fit.

Dalton arrives at Red’s Hardware to find the place totally trashed. Red explains the situation. Wesley owns the town. All the businesses paying a cut of ten percent to start, the ante going up and up with the proverbial ‘hot coals and thumb screws’ tactics applied to insure everyone pays up on time and in full. Tilghman is not beholding to Wesley and that is a problem. Having failed in his previous assaults on the club, Wesley now sends a small army of his best thug muscle, including Gary Ketchum, to perform a little roughhousing and remodeling tear down. But Dalton and his newly trained entourage are ready for them. “You’re too stupid to have a good time,” Dalton tells Ketchum, before twisting his ankle and dragging him outside for a good skirmish in the dust. This ends in abject humiliation for Ketchum and his boys. Now, the romance between Elizabeth and Dalton heats up. Apparently, there is nothing hotter to a woman than a man who can defend himself. In short order, Liz joins Dalton for some feral tomcatting on the rooftop, their steamy sex observed by Wesley from a distance. More butt crack and boobage. Later, Wesley summons Dalton to his home, ostensibly, to make him an offer he cannot refuse. Wesley threatens Dalton with exposure of a sordid chapter from his history as a bouncer – knowledge that he killed a man in cold blood in Memphis, using his tactical military training to rip the other guy’s throat out with his bare hands. Although the law classified the incident as ‘self-defense’, Wesley suggests he can have the exoneration overturned. Wesley tries to buy off Dalton. But it is no use. Dalton will never work for Wesley.

A short while later, Dalton learns from Cody that Wesley had ‘a thing’ for Liz. But before Dalton can contemplate the ramifications of screwing around with the plaything of Jasper’s biggest gangster, the liquor truck has arrived for unloading out back. Too bad this is a surprise ambush. Morgan and a few nondescript thugs take Dalton to task and manage – briefly – to get the upper hand. Dalton is spared a good pummeling by the arrival of his ole buddy, Wade Garrett (Sam Elliott) - the ‘cooler’ Dalton has always idolized. Wade is, after all, the best in the biz and despite his graying mop of straggly hair, he has lost absolutely none of his vim or vigor to get the job done. Dalton and Wade clean house, mopping up the pavement with Morgan and his buffoons. Dalton introduces Wade to Elizabeth. Wade approves, but not if Dalton refuses to let go of the past - the man he killed in self-defense. Partly as retribution, Wesley gives the command to have Red’s store torched, making light of the blaze. Unwilling to exacerbate the situation, Dalton allows Wesley and his entourage their visit, hoping to quell the bad blood. Alas, it won’t work. Car dealership owner, Pete Stroudenmire (Jon Paul Jones) is the next to be taken to task for not paying his dues. Ketchum derives the greatest of pleasures from demolishing Pete’s showroom and flattening four of his prized station wagons with a monster truck as Dalton looks on.

As night falls, Liz implores Dalton to get out of town. But before they can debate the issue, Emmett’s house is rocked by a gas explosion. Dalton witnesses Jimmy fleeing the scene and makes chase after him on foot. The two men take their stance. Dalton has had enough. But Jimmy is a potent adversary. In this fight to the finish only one man will walk away.  His rage exposed for the first time in a very long while, Dalton rips Jimmy’s throat out with his bare hands, the murder witnessed by Elizabeth who now is quite uncertain as to what sort of man she has given her body, heart and soul to in the name of love. Dalton receives an ominous phone call from Wesley vowing to have either Wade or Liz murdered. At this same instance, Wade staggers into the Double Deuce, badly beaten but very much alive. Believing Elizabeth to be the real target of Wesley’s revenge, Dalton races to the hospital. Alas, she has taken a step back from her feelings for Dalton and wants nothing more to do with him. Returning to the Double Deuce, Dalton discovers Wade’s body splayed on the bar with a knife stuck in his chest. Fighting back tears, an enraged Dalton dislodges the blade and jumps into his Mercedes, determined to settle the score with Wesley once and for all.

Wesley’s boys are ready for him, certain the Mercedes barreling toward them at top speeds belongs to Dalton. They are partly right. It is Dalton’s car. Only Dalton isn’t in it. Wesley’s men discover the knife used to murder Wade holding down the accelerator. With militaristic precision, Dalton picks off Wesley’s toughs one at a time.  Now Wesley is determined to kill his arch nemesis. It is a brutal scene, ended only for a moment when it appears as though Dalton will kill the old bugger as he finished off Jimmy. Instead, Dalton withdraws. Despite his earlier altercation with Jimmy, Dalton is not a bad man, just a good one thrust into some very bad circumstances. It’s over as far as he is concerned. He wants nothing more to do with Wesley, Jasper or the Double Deuce. Too bad, Wesley does not play by the mark of Queensberry Rules, seizing the opportunity of Dalton’s back turned to him to reach for his concealed pistol. Dalton is spared death by Red, Emmett, Stroudenmire and Tilghman, each unloading either his pistol or shotgun into Wesley’s body with calculated revenge. Before the law can arrive, the weapons are stashed. Everyone backs up the others’ innocence. Nobody saw anything. The secret of how Wesley met with his justly deserved, if gruesome end, is left an open-ended mystery.  Unable to simply leave the plot here, director, Rowdy Herrington adds an obligatory footnote - the ‘love scene’. Elizabeth and Dalton lock in a passionate embrace at the ole swimming hole, suggesting a reconciliation and Dalton’s desire to retire from being a ‘cooler’ for good. After all, he has found the right woman…or at least a very firm one… with which to share the rest of his life, or so it would seem.

Road House is an inconsistently rendered entertainment - just one extended ‘fight sequence’ intermittently interrupted by a few lighter moments to make the grotesqueness of human carnage palpable. Unfortunately, these characters have very little to say in between sweaty, blood-soaked bits of business, the dialogue perfunctory at best and largely constructed around pithy retorts and a lot of male chest-thumping. This, I suspect, is meant to infer the real mettle of any man is in his fists, not his head. Wrong, rubbish and badly done! Patrick Swayze does his best to offer us an ‘intelligent’ read of this remarkably inarticulate student of life and philosophy. It is primarily due to his diligence as an actor, a lot of this soul-searching, plus some fairly graceful maneuvers besides, that Swayze succeeds in at least hinting Dalton is a guy with hidden qualities and talents. Kelly Lynch is a write off – taut and sexy, but without any intelligence on the side. Out of her doctor’s scrubs, she carries herself like leggy flesh bait with an attitude on the prowl. Her indignation at witnessing Dalton kill Jimmy is a real misfire for which Lynch cannot seem to muster anything more affecting than a pouting grimace with big and wounded cow eyes. The rest of the characters are cardboard cutouts at best, relying wholly on the actors’ real-life presence to sustain them.

As example, what do we know about gawky waitress, Carrie-Anne? She brings Dalton his morning coffee, and, in an early scene that goes nowhere, is left to gaze admiringly at Swayze’s naked butt crack. Actress, Kathleen Wilhoite’s smiling eyes and toothy grin have always reminded me of Janice, the Muppet lead singer from the band, Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. Her goony Southern drawl give us ‘her character’. Wilhoite is a presence, just not the embodiment of a character in this movie. One can argue, we need not discover anything else about the ensemble. They are, after all, just backdrop. The problem, however, is virtually everyone in Road House is ‘only’ backdrop. Even Ben Gazarra’s villainous geezer. If Brad Wesley is the ranking kingpin of Jasper, what could he possibly hope to gain by such obvious intimidation tactics? David Lee Henry and Hilary Henkin’s screenplay paint him as a pure psychopath. At one point, Wesley informs Dalton the town of Jasper owes him everything because he alone has been responsible for bringing such big business investments as J.C. Penny to town. But would a big retailer like Penny’s in its prime truly flock to this dirt road enclave on Wesley say so alone, especially since his tug-o-war with the locals has generated a sort of ‘frontier justice’ surely to discourage more progressively-minded big American corporations to partake of Wesley’s ‘progressive’ plans for the future.  And what would Wesley want of this competition anyway, a conglomerate certain to abstain from his thuggish extortion tactics?

No, the premise is flawed. The Hill/Henkin effort would have done better to telescopically focus on Dalton’s reformation of the Double Deuce and the camaraderie fostered between the remaining bouncers loyal to Dalton and their boss, Tilghman; also, the mounting sexual chemistry between Dalton and Elizabeth. It’s a no brainer actually, except that grey matter seems to have been in short supply or taken a complete holiday during the executive decision-making process and artistic choices made by director, Rowdy Herrington. The story is a bust – more than mangled by the rising body count. We must give kudos to stunt coordinator, Charlie Picerni, fight sequence trainer, Benny Urquidez and the myriad of stunt men and women, too numerous to list herein, for their incredibly varied work. Road House features some of the most ingenious and unhinged bar room brawls yet achieved on the movie screen, full scale, bone-crushing/body-slamming assaults that, even under the most stringent safety conditions, must have been sincerely painful to pull off. Arguably, it is their work that has maintained Road House’s reputation as a ‘fun’ actioner for the blockbuster summer trade it miserably failed to entice into theaters back in 1989.

On an estimated $17 million dollar budget, Road House went on to gross a respectable $30,050,028.00: hardly a sleeper, but a sizable return on investment nevertheless. Today, Road House rises and falls on the reputation of the late Patrick Swayze. Yet, it is disheartening to think of Swayze in these terms, given short shrift as beefcake poured into a pair of form-fitted jeans, stripped raw for the obligatory butt cheek moment, though otherwise utterly denied the opportunity to act his way out of a paper bag in this wafer-thin/no nothing, plot-less, pointless, and, occasionally plodding blood-bashing/ball-breaking spectacle of testosterone run amuck. Swayze had more to offer and proved it elsewhere in his screen achievements. Road House is far from his finest hour. In fact, it is nothing more than a footnote to his career. Apart from Swayze’s presence, the movie is blessed to have cinematographer, Dean Cundey, an artist with an eye for lensing 2.35:1 aspect ratio images that are always interesting to look at, finding the depth in his visual presentations, utterly lacking in the story’s plot or otherwise nonexistent character development. In the final analysis, Road House is a dumb, silly movie made for chicken-livered boys and bullies who think getting into fights is cool – at least, from the relatively safe distance of their movie screens. It also appeals to men who still have not entirely grown up to realize there is more to life than a brain-bashing free for all. Ugh – what an insincere waste of time, money and talent.

Previously released as part of Shout! Factory’s ‘Select’ series on Blu-ray, we now have Vinegar Syndrome’s new 4K UHD and it easily surpasses the previous effort in leaps and bounds. Road House by Shout! was sourced from a 2K interpositive. And while color saturation, then, was just fine, the new Vinegar 4K virtually explodes with an eye-popping spectrum of colors that are so deeply saturated they pounce off the screen. The image here, sourced in native 4K from an original camera negative, takes a quantum leap into the future. Where the Shout! was softly focused, the Vinegar is razor-sharp, revealing exceptional amounts of fine detail throughout. Age-related artifacts are a non-issue. The one curiously is ‘contrast’. The opening credits are shot at night. But black levels are rather anemic at the outset. A few of these early shots under the main titles actually exhibit a slightly softer focus too. Not sure why this is. The body of the movie however snaps together as anticipated and looks fantastic. Vinegar has retained the 5.1 DTS sound mix from the old Blu-ray release; also, a 2.0 DTS theatrical option.

Ported over from Shout! to Vinegar on the 4K - two audio commentaries that were part of the ole MGM Blu-ray release, the first featuring Rowdy Herrington, who divides his time discussing and defending his creative decisions; the other, a gushing appraisal from Kevin Smith and Scott Mosier. These commentaries survive on the accompanying 2-disc Blu-rays. Vinegar adds some new content here; separate interviews with actor/stuntman, Anthony De Longis, second unit director/stunt coordinator, Charlie Picerni, Roger Hewlett, Travis McKenna, and actress, Laura Lee Kasten. On the second Blu-ray, we get all of the archival junkets reassembled. ‘On the Road House’ is a reflection piece made for the 20th anniversary of the movie, and, What Would Dalton Do? is a featurette on real-life bouncers who regale us with some of their most cringe-worthy experiences.  There’s also ‘The Making of Road House’ – a reflective piece reuniting Herrington with Kelly Lynch, John Doe, Kevin Tighe, Julie Michaels, Red West, Lisa Niemi Swayze, casting director, Jackie Burch, director of photography, Dean Cundey and editor, Frank Urioste. For all its cast involvement, it really is more of a puff piece riddled in sound bites instead of good solid critiquing.

Also included, two featurettes devoted to Swayze, the best being Remembering Patrick Swayze, by far the most bittersweet and heartfelt, with Swayze’s widow weighing in on what the loss has meant since, and Swayze’s costars remembering the ‘good times’ shared on the set. The goodies continue with ‘A Conversation with Rowdy Herrington’, another puff piece in which the director covers a lot of ground already explored in his audio commentary and the ‘making of’ featurette.  Two more featurettes, ‘Pain Don’t Hurt’ – devoted to the stunt coordination – and ‘The Music of Road House (self-explanatory, n’est pas?) round out the content.  Bottom line: for those desiring the optimal presentation of Road House, Vinegar Syndrome’s 3-disc set comes very highly recommended. The real homework has been done this time out. The film looks fabulous and, with virtually all of the previous extras, plus much new content added for your enjoyment, this one is a real no-brainer. Fits the movie, actually!

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

2.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

4K UHD – 5+

Blu-ray - 4

EXTRAS

5++