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I'm not saying he's not an honest actor, but every time this rectangular jaw with blond-ish hair appears on the screen, my mind instantaneously links him to those 90 minutes and so, regardless, he loses all acting credibility. He has works in his c.v. that have also been box office hits, but Val Kilmer can flap his damn bat wings all he wants, play the ice cube on an F-14, sing in the Doors, duet with Al Pacino and DeNiro. That does not change the fact that for me he is and will always be Nick Rivers: the protagonist of this wonderful nonsense.
Sometimes it happens to fall, without even knowing how and why, into evenings where the prevailing sloth easily wins a tender and weak arm wrestling match against the scant desire to go out. And then you find yourself fiddling with the remote control: wandering through the ether without a course, a defined channel. You temporarily land thus on a brand-new film, a parody whose name doesn't interest anyone, that's supposed to be funny; and it is in these moments that I take a shovel, dig into memories, and pull out works like the one I'm about to unravel for you.
That it's a dizzying delirium is beyond doubt, but it's equally true that the smell of phosphorus permeates this inspired script, crazy and exaggerated. There's no brake, no hesitation: only a cascading outpouring of gags with not the slightest sense of shame and capable of unsettling the viewer on their first viewing. Like Van Der Sar in front of Totti's chip at the 2000 euros, twisting on the sofa, you will watch amazed the ball enter the net; your lips that, having transformed into theater curtains, will open to reveal teeth and fillings. And your laughter, rich and abundant, will then rise to continuously fill the room's air until the end credits.
To testify to the superiority of “Top Secret!” is the rating from “Morandini” who defines it without appeal thus: “some funny ideas, floating in a pond of verbose and agitated banality”. And if this pleasant coronation is not enough to make you want to download or watch it again; if you really needed one more push, it is enough for you to know that it never grazes in prime time or early afternoon with the more or less unfortunate siblings of the period. This one is a badass type and is found walking stealthily along with shady figures of the caliber of “1941” “Animal House,” “Alta Tensione,” “The Meaning Of Life,” "Army of Darkness" only once a year between 3 and 5 in the morning. Like an old harlot, it shakes its fat butt to the few scattered passersby, usually near channel 4, wedged between a rich frame of splendid '80s commercials and weather forecasts!
It is my questionable, and objectively correct and irrefutable as that of the "Merighetti/Morandini," opinion one of the last examples (1984 the release date) of high-level slapstick films and I remember it fondly.
In the midst of the cold war, in East Berlin, an enigmatic spy story sees an American pop singer, of course reluctantly, don the mantle of hero. It rises above mere citationism to intelligently reclaim a convoluted plot that results in an immense mocking of patriotic action film scripts of the period. It is in all respects an anarchic work: a paella, a minestrone, in which no idea conceived by the three directors in evident state of grace is discarded. Frenetic pace for surreal and standalone jokes, puns, very heavy double entendres, bashing against past film techniques without skimping on funny slashes to the society of the time captured with irreverent clarity. It is an inspired script that in its prevailing delirium will find a balance there, in your now irreparably addicted and compromised mind, even in the senseless end. And when you rise from the sofa, your jaws, now exhausted, will thank you because they couldn't have lasted another ten minutes. Not at that infernal pace.
It is very likely that David Zucker will be remembered for “The Naked Gun” and “Airplane!“. Well, I just say this. Let's talk about it.
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