Cocktail

Sometimes, when I’m watching a film, I’m unable to stop watching regardless of how shit it is. We’ve all been there; it’s been blogged to shit already, but here goes…

Some films have this magic “x factor” which means no matter how bad they are, it’s not possible to turn away. Some films have bad scripts, plots and acting but good action sequences (Point Break, Face Off, Con Air etc.) so you just don’t care how God Awful the film is, it’s still pretty to look at- the action is good enough for the rest of the shit to just be funny.

Some films are worse still -with nothing to redeem them except some teenage flesh (Bring It On -definitely a contender for Worst Film of All Time, but I’ve seen it start-to-finish… three times.)

But the 1988 Hollywood Romantic Classic “Cocktail” is an enigma.

Cocktail is total, unequivocal bullshit. It’s 104 minutes of brain-addling garbage of the most crass, cheesy and shameless calibre. And yet it is amongst the greatest movies ever made.

Why? How can this be?!

In case you haven’t seen it, here’s what it’s all about:

Tom Cruise plays Brian Flanagan, an ex-army twentysomething Irish New Yorker who’s looking for work. He’s cocky, opportunistic and vain -characteristics which, by today’s standards, are unacceptable, but in the 80-’s were much sought-after commodities (everyone in the 80s was a bastard, it’s fact).

Anyway, Flanagan is trying to get a job in marketing (like everyone in the 80s) in New York, but keeps being told by prospective employers that this wont be possible without a college degree.

But young Flanagan is persistent and plucky, so he enrols on a business course at the City College and gets a part time job as a bartender to support his studies. After a shaky start behind the bar, Flanagan is a hit with the ladies and is twirling bottles of vermouth behind his back like he’s some kind of crazy, fucked-up circus-freak with a mouthful of massive white teeth that look like marble headstones jutting out of his weasely face.

His success behind the bar is thanks to Australian mentor-and-boss Douglas Coughlin (played by the dreadful Brian Brown; who comes across really well in this film because Cruise is just that bit more atrocious) who teaches him the mysterious secrets of the bar trade (secrets my ass; his so-called “wisdom” is both patronizing and painfully obvious and you sit there saying “Well, duh!” and “Shut the fuck up you slimy little prick!” whenever he’s on screen).

They frequently engage in dialogue like this:

Brian: I’m looking for the Manager.
Doug: What’s the problem? Did you find a hair in your quiche?
Brian: No, I’m looking for a job.
Doug: Ah, you’d like to put a hair in somebody else’s quiche.

Genius.

Flanagan and Coughlin, pursued by a plethora of attractive and promiscuous aerobicised 80s tottie, quickly become the talk of the town and Flanagan throws in the towel (see what I did there? As in bar towel?) at his college course and focuses full-time on being the best bartender in the world.

But there’s trouble afoot; Coughlin steals Flanagan’s girlfriend to settle a misogynistic bet they made over a game of basketball (Tom Cruise playing basketball? Like Steven Hawking competing in a triathlon. Hilarious.) and Flanagan leaves New York to go to Jamaica in order to raise funds for a bar he wants to open in New York (confusing, I know) called “Cocktails and Dreams (which is an even gayer name for a bar than “The Queer-Bear-Spunk-Fist-Rim-Bollocks Inn”).

Cut a long story short, Flanagan meets another women while he’s in Jamaica, nails her for a while then Coughlin resurfaces and they make another misogynistic bet and the result is that Flanagan sleeps with a much older rich woman. New bird catches him, leaves him, he goes back to New York with his Sugar-momma, leaves her, reconciles with his Jamaica bird, knocks her up, Coughlin shoots himself (he’s depressed or something, who cares?) and they all live happily ever after.

You see: 100% garbage. It’s just terrible.

my confession: The first time I saw this film I was about 10 and spent the next three years of my life aspiring to be a cocktail waiter (much to the amusement of my family and friends).

I bought a cocktail shaker (never really used it; it’s quite dented though) and a book of cocktail recipes from The Ritz (we never had enough of the exotic ingredients so they all had pretty much the same shit in them: vodka, martini, gin and various soft drinks like Irn Bru and Coke).

I even went through a phase of wearing waistcoats and trying to do that wide, cheesy, toothy Cruise-smile. This didn’t last (I have teeth like the blade on a chainsaw, very poor hand-eye coordination and a pretty unsophisticated pallet. It was never meant to be.)

At 13 I got a scholarship to secondary school and my dreams of being a Cocktail barman were gradually replaced by the infinitely more realistic goal of being a platinum-album-selling musician.

If you haven’t seen Cocktail before; here’s what I suggest: get baked. Like really, really baked.

Now watch Cocktail.

If you watch the film and convince yourself it’s a comedy, I guarantee you’ll love every self-indulgent, nauseating minute of this train-wreck.

L8r dudes.