8 Million Ways to Die (1986)

• Year: 1986
• Released: 25 Apr 1986
• Country: United States
• Adwords: 1 nomination
• IMDb: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090568/
• Rotten Tomatoes: https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/8_million_ways_to_die
• Metacritics: https://www.metacritic.com/movie/8-million-ways-to-die
• Available in: 720p, 1080p,
• Language: English, Spanish
• MPA Rating: R
• Genre: Action, Crime, Drama
• Runtime: 115 min
• Writer: Lawrence Block, Oliver Stone, R. Lance Hill
• Director: Hal Ashby
• Cast: Jeff Bridges, Rosanna Arquette, Alexandra Paul
• Keywords: based on novel or book, los angeles, california, neo-noir, investigation, prostitute,

	5.7/10
	29/100
	0% – Critics
	33% – Audience

8 Million Ways to Die Storyline

Scudder is a detective with the Sheriff’s Department who is forced to shoot a violent suspect during a narcotics raid. The ensuing psychological aftermath of this shooting worsens his drinking problem and this alcoholism causes him to lose his job, as well as his marriage. During his recovery through Alcoholics Anonymous, he meets a mysterious stranger who draws him back into a world of vice. In trying to help this beautiful woman, he must enter a crime-world of prostitution and drugs to solve a murder, while resisting the temptation to return to his alcohol abuse.

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8 Million Ways to Die Movie Reviews

One of the more bizarre movies I’ve seen in a while

“8 Million Ways to Die” is a perfect example of why Jeff Bridges is one of my favorite actors. The overall movie might be muddled (even bad) but he always brings a laser focus to the job; more often than not, he keeps things alive and kicking. Here, he’s playing an alcoholic cop who only really develops an interest in the case after he fails to keep his employer alive. And he really sells the self-loathing that comes with addiction.

This is one of those mid-’80s noirs, comparable to “Against All Odds” and “To Live and Die in L.A.” (although not as good as either of those). The plotting is scattered throughout, but it starts out very nicely (a beautiful aerial opening) and sees a few startling lows (a snowcone negotiation and a frenzied warehouse shouting match). Trivia has it that the production was troubled by rewrites and studio interference, and that certainly shows in the final product. Ultimately, it just reminds me of better movies.

5/10

Ineffective crime drama.

Jeff Bridges portrays author Lawrence Blocks’ character Matt Scudder in this picture, and his able performance is one of its few virtues. Matt is a detective for the L.A. Sheriffs’ Department who is also an alcoholic. Ultimately, his drinking costs him his marriage and his job. However, he is soon approached by a hooker named Sunny (Alexandra Paul) to remove her from her unhappy life, and when he gets involved, he incurs the wrath of a smug drug kingpin (Andy Garcia) and a powerful pimp (Randy Brooks).

Sadly, this was the final theatrical credit for editor turned director Hal Ashby. A recovering substance abuser himself, he had little to no creative control over the final product. He wanted something grittier and closer to the novel (which this movie barely resembles), the producers wanted a feature film version of ‘Miami Vice’. But what really hurts it is the poor script (credited to Oliver Stone and R. Lance Hill (a.k.a. “David Lee Henry”), which moves at a snails’ pace and doesn’t encourage us to really care about the characters.

The lack of success is not for lack of effort on Bridges’ part. He, the intense Brooks, and the amusingly slimy Garcia entertain the viewer sufficiently. But Paul is miscast, and Rosanna Arquette, as one of Sunny’s co-workers, looks like she couldn’t care less. Familiar faces in supporting roles and bits include Vyto Ruginis, James Avery, Tommy ‘Tiny’ Lister, Rosalind Allen, and Loyd Catlett.

Absolutely gorgeous photography, good use of locations, an atmospheric score by James Newton Howard (one of his earliest), stunning helicopter shots, and some jarring violence work in the films’ favor. But it goes on too long (especially that climactic confrontation in the warehouse, which becomes unbearable rather than tense), and has too much inane dialogue.

The man who made “Harold and Maude”, “Coming Home”, and “Being There” deserved a better theatrical swan song than this.

Five out of 10.

See L.A. and Die.

Actually, a minor but diverting film about marginally alcoholic ex-cop Jeff Bridges, now a private investigator, who is hired by hooker Alexandra Paul to protect her. He fails. She dies.

He spends the rest of the film tracking down her killers with the reluctant help of Paul’s pimp, Randy Brooks, and one of Paul’s stable mates, Roseanna Arquette. He soon links the killing to Latino drug boss Andy Garcia, who killed Paul in an attempt to protect his means of smuggling cocaine into the country. The plot’s a bit complicated but that’s about all you need to know, going in.

Bridges is an interesting actor. He usually brings something extra to each of his roles, but here, with his dark mustache and the chronic temptation to booze it up again, he seems to hold back. Not that he does a poor job, just that he’s been more inventive in other roles.

Alexandra Paul doesn’t last long. Too bad because there’s an engaging scene in which she gets stoned on coke and examines her pudendum in the light from a refrigerator. She’s not a bravura actress. Neither is Roseanna Arquette, with her little-girl’s voice, but Arquette exhibits some over-sized features of face and figure. She has a bosom with authority, for one thing, and large lips and incisors that are at the same time inviting and frightening. Andy Garcia is always a presence on screen. He’s terribly slick. But Randy Brooks as the pimp is stuck with a one-dimensional part. There are several subordinate thugs and assorted goons who are mainly around to gin up the body count.

Hal Ashby has directed some interesting stuff before, but here he allows — or seems to allow — his actors to improvise long talky scenes, mainly arguments. Garcia really picks up the ball and runs with it. Everybody is addressed as “man” or “baby.” Sometimes the calumny reaches majestic proportions just before it all explodes. At other time, like near a stadium or in Garcia’s flamboyant, Gaudi-designed house, it leads only to anti-climax. The final shoot out in an unusual location is de rigueur.

It’s not insulting. Nothing blows up, No heads are wrenched off. Blood is minimal. It’s absorbing in its own way since it pretends to be nothing more than what it is — no “Chinatown,” just another routine private-eye thriller.