Movie Review
‘Blue City’ is just plain awful
By Matt Diedrich
Reporter
The advertisements for “Blue
City” say it’s located “below Mi
ami and above the law.” They
should have said it’s bevond be
lief and beneath contempt.
“Blue City" is nothing more
than a Caucasian version of
“Beverly Hills Cop." It virtually
matches the Eddie Murphy film
scene-for-scene, creating one of
the most blatant, shameless ri-
poffs of recent years.
It stars Eddie Murphy — I
mean, Judd Nelson — as Billy
Turner, a tough-talking guv
who returns to his hometown
after five years to find out his
father, the mayor, has been
murdered. Rumor has it a big-
time hood named Kerch (Steven
Berkoff — oops, I mean Scott
Wilson) did it, but the police
chief (Ronny Cox — I mean,
Paul Winfield) savs he doesn't
have enough evidence to make
an arrest. So Billy decides to
catch his father’s killer on his
own.
This, of course, involves
things such as blowing up
Kerch's car, tearing up his ca
sino, and stealing some of his il
legally-obtained funds. In be
tween these scenes of mayhem,
Billy barges in on Kerch’s busi
ness meetings and savs things
like, “I’ve got vour number.”
After a while Kerch decides to
fight back. What follows is a
predictable series of action
scenes, culminating in the big
final shootout at (where else?)
Kerch’s private mansion.
The embarrassing superficia-
litv of “Blue Citv” is a big reason
for its failure. Besides the ob
vious elements of “Beverly Hills
Cop,” “Blue City” borrows
much of its look from “Miami
Vice.” Every few minutes, for
instance, the action stops dead
to allow time for another music i
video, bringing whatever pace
the movie might have estab
lished to a grinding halt.
There's an obligatory^ sex
scene, an obligatory^ barroom
brawl, even an obligatory
nighttime motorcycle ride. The
only thing missing is a stone
And that’s writer-producer
Walter Hill’s fault. Hill has al
ways excelled at making slick
looking action films but, with
the exception of “48 Hrs.," has
never invented enough of a
ston 7 to go with them. His cre-
ativity has reached its nddir
with “Blue City',” which actu
ally contains two sequences
that Hill lifted directly from his
last action picture, “Streets of
Fire."
Hill isn't the only one who
should be ashamed of himself,
however. Judd Nelson, who was
oh-so-great in “The Breakfast
Club,” is totally out of place
| here. He can talk tough with
the best of them, but when it
comes to being tough — well,
let's just sav Clint Eastwood has
nothing to wony about. Nelson
has a few great smart-aleck re
marks and even some nice dis-
plavs of emotion, but as an ac
tion hero he’s a bust.
You may wonder why I
haven't vet mentioned Nelson’s
co-star, Ally Sheedy. That’s be
cause her role is so incidental
and unnecessary' that it hardly
deserves mention. Sheedy plays
Nelson’s girlfriend Annie, who’s
alwavs around to warn him
about the big bad crime boss,
or to do some detective work
for him, or to comfort him in
times of sorrow.
“Blue City” does have its good
points. The visual styJe, the ac
tion, the music and even certain
bits of dialogue are excellent.
But watching an hour of
“Miami Vice” yields the same
result, and costs a lot less.
Opinion
By Nancy Feigenbaum
Stajf Writer
I once took a class known to the
student body as “prime-time
psych.” A bald version of Bob
Barker lectured 2,500 of us in
the university’s largest audito
rium, trailing a microphone
cord and making liberal use of
slides, films and other sleep-in
ducing materials.
Three mornings a week at 8
a.m., he would emcee a list of
facts for us to copy in our note
books. Not too fast.
It was a great course for ex
ploring the capacity of short
term memory. One of the facts
I still remember is about pi
geons and people. Or maybe it
was pelicans. In any case, it had
something to do with birds.
People, he said, are just like
birds on a telephone wire. They
always sit far enough apart so
no one bird infringes on an
other bird’s space. I can appre
ciate the analogy, however ung-
lamorous and elevators are a
perfect example.
A person alone in an elevator
does whatever he pleases. He
stands in the middle, leans on a
rail or checks his fly. The next
person walks straight to a cor
ner. The first guy moves to a
corner, too, and neither one
says anything.
When the next few people get
on, everyone moves a little until
equilibrium has been regained,
then they stare at the numbers
over the doors.
There’s a good chance that if
anyone says anything no one
will answer.
One elevator in the language
building of my old school gave
everybody trouble. It was very
small and very slow, so when
six people rode at the same
time, they were likely to be
caught in intimate poses for
several minutes at a time.
Even' day at 30 seconds to
noon, I would dash into the el
evator and engross myself in
the panel of numbers above the
doors. This elevator didn’t have
any and people never got used
to the elevator’s deficiency. One
day, someone with an astute
appreciation of human (and
bird) psychology painted num
bers on the metal panel.
The only thing worse than
having to look at strangers in a
small space is having to pretend
you’re not listening to them.
People who have conversations
on elevators deserve to be stuck
between floors at closing time
— with nothing to read.
Elevator conversations are al
ways appropriate and usually
whispered but even small
sounds cany over a distance of
two feet, subjecting the rest of
the elevator to something like
this:
Sweatshirt No. 1: “Did you
hear the news about Carla?”
Sweatshirt No. 2: “Don’t tell
me. Not again!”
No. 1: “Uh huh, and this time
at the laundromat.”
No. 2 (rumaging in her purse
for something): “You can’t be
serious. I thought she was over
that.”
No. 1: “Apparently not. It
took the firemen all night to get
her loose.”
No. 2 (finding her lipstick
and putting some on as she
speaks): “Well, I get off here.
Say hi to Carla, will you?”
For all they knew, Carla was
squeezed in at the back, blush-
ing.
Another place for peculiar
conversations is in bathrooms.
Here the problem is one of se
lective deafness. I overheard
this conversation in restroom at
a college lecture hall.
“Is anyone in there?” asks a
woman in line.
“I don’t know,” says the other
person waiting. “I think it’s
empty.”
The first person crouches at
the stall door slightly, but not
quite enough to learn anything.
They both shrug.
“What about that one?” asks
the first one, pointing to the
open door at the end.
“I think it’s for handicapped
people,” the second one says.
The first one accepts this ex
planation and they both both
continue waiting until someone
emerges from the closed stall,
where she’d been listening all
along.
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