2 Dads 1 Movie

Steve Paulo & Nic Briana

A podcast where two middle-aged dads sit around and shoot the shit about the movies of the '80s and '90s. One each episode.

  1. Desperado (1995)

    5D AGO

    Desperado (1995)

    Nic picks the movie, and he picks one that wormed into his teenage brain during the blockbuster-video era of the mid-'90s: 1995's Desperado, Robert Rodriguez's stylish, blood-spurting follow-up to El Mariachi and the second chapter of his unofficial Mariachi trilogy. Back then it played like a revelation. Two guns at once. A ponytail with strategic strands falling out. Salma Hayek crossing the street so beautifully two cars crash trying to look at her. The question this week is whether any of that still works, or whether it lands in the Boondock Saints-shaped pit of "I can't believe I thought this was cool." Steve, an admitted college-era insufferable film student, somehow never got around to this one despite worshipping Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, so he comes in fresh. What he finds is an Antonio Banderas vehicle so committed to looking awesome it occasionally forgets about gravity, physics, and bullet trajectories. Both dads spend a happy stretch cataloguing the moves: the wrist-flicking gun mime, the guitar-case rocket launcher operated like a Little League catcher dropping into stance, Danny Trejo dialing a payphone with the tip of a throwing knife. The cold open belongs to Steve Buscemi and his "world-class turds" speech. Quentin Tarantino swans in to tell a piss joke and later gets shot in the head for his trouble. The squibs work overtime. Then comes the second half, and both dads start finding cracks. There's a "make it look like an accident" line that derails Bucho's whole logic. There's a sex scene followed by El Mariachi inexplicably wearing his boots in bed. And there's a late-breaking family revelation that lands somewhere between homage and shrug. Whether any of it costs the movie its swagger is for Steve and Nic to argue. Desperado doesn't always make sense, but neither does throwing a knife into a bulletproof limo like it's a grenade.

    1h 5m
  2. Clerks (1994)

    MAY 13

    Clerks (1994)

    In 1994, a 23-year-old Kevin Smith maxed out every credit card he could open to make a movie about two guys talking shit behind a convenience store counter for 92 minutes. Steve has been a stan ever since. Clerks (1994) is Steve's pick, and he doesn't hide it. This was the movie that made teenage Steve start asking how movies actually get made. Nic, meanwhile, saw it once around '97, has only watched two other Kevin Smith joints in his entire life, and is essentially arriving as a tourist in the View Askewniverse. Two pretty different angles on the same black-and-white slacker artifact. The dads work through Dante's worst day at the QuikStop, where the rolling steel doors are gummed up, the cigarettes are flying, and basically everyone in this New Jersey town wants to buy a pack at all times. They appreciate the resourcefulness it takes to make a movie for $27,575, from "I assure you we are open" shoe-polished onto a tarp, to a three-person rooftop hockey game shot to sound like ten. They also can't ignore the limits of that resourcefulness, especially when Veronica is wrestling with Smith's dialogue like it's been dipped in Crisco. Steve has thoughts on what a more experienced writer-director would have rewritten on the fly. The Death Star contractor monologue gets full appreciation, mostly because the roofer who walks in to escalate it grounds the bit in something real. Olaf the metal singer gives us the phrase "making f**k" and earns a slow clap for ESL effort. Randall gets full credit for being the most committed kind of bad friend, and Caitlin Bree gets treated, as Nic puts it, f*****g brutal for the crime of cheating on the worst guy in the world eight and a half times. Hi, can I get some cigarettes? Just cigarettes.

    59 min
  3. Menace II Society (1993)

    MAY 6

    Menace II Society (1993)

    Menace II Society opens with a cold truth and never looks away. For episode 60, Nic brings this Hughes Brothers gut-punch to the table -- a film he's been watching since high school, quoting with his college crew, absorbing into his bones -- and Steve arrives as a first-timer who's done his homework on the adjacent movies (Boyz n the Hood, Higher Learning, Colors) but not this one. He did, however, clock every frame of Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood. Which, as it turns out, is an oddly solid primer. From the liquor store cold open -- where Lorenz Tate's O-Dog goes from zero to murder over one comment about his mother, delivering that line so dangerously quietly you know immediately the man behind the counter is finished -- both dads start cataloging the ways this movie has seeped into everything. Caine's voiceover narration echoing Goodfellas. The surveillance tape O-Dog keeps screening like a home movie. The Watts riots pixelated like a potato cam. Samuel L. Jackson's table-clearing card game being, per Caine, not the last time he watched his father kill someone. What strikes Steve most is how precisely the Hughes brothers construct their world around absence: no safety nets, no systems that work, and underneath every quiet scene, just off in the distance, sirens or helicopter rotors running on a loop. Nobody on screen reacts to them. That, he notes, is the point. Nic zeroes in on O-Dog as something almost metaphysical -- possibly the id made flesh, never seen alone, never seen without Caine, showing up from nowhere and going back there -- and floats a Fight Club theory that nobody can quite dismiss. They argue over the film's middle section, trade a story about four-dozen malt liquor varieties that veers into census methodology and sommelier portion sizes, and find genuine tenderness in Charles S. Dutton's two minutes of screen time ("Andre Iguodala bringing that ring to Golden State"), Jada Pinkett's impossible conversation with a five-year-old, and a prison visit that quietly hands Caine the only permission slip he ever needed. Episode 60. The dads are now deep into the '90s, and the movies aren't getting easier.

    1h 26m
  4. Wayne's World (1992)

    APR 29

    Wayne's World (1992)

    Some movies leave a line or two rattling around in your head for years. Wayne's World (1992) apparently colonized Steve's entire personality. The man is 46 years old and recently said "exsqueeze me, baking powder" on a Zoom call with his direct reports. In a professional context. With no apparent regret. Steve picked this one as a deliberate palate cleanser after two heavy weeks, and it's hard to argue with the logic. Wayne's World is pure fun: Mike Myers and Dana Carvey in their element, a film that knew exactly what it was and executed it with loose, irreverent precision. Steve saw it in the theater as a kid, timing that was, as he points out, essentially perfect. Nic came to it slightly later on video, but the effect was the same. His 14-year-old daughter is currently in her own SNL phase, which tracks. The dads cover a lot of ground: Bohemian Rhapsody as genuine discovery (Steve's dad came home with a Queen's Greatest Hits tape shortly after), the sublime product placement scene that has somehow gotten funnier with age, and the eternal geographic mystery of who actually owns the Mirthmobile. Steve unpacks the champagne moment in Benjamin's penthouse with a level of specificity that Nic refers to as "The Sommelier Corner", and the correction is not wrong. Nic delivers a complete biography of the actor who plays Old Man Withers, which is a career résumé consisting almost entirely of roles like "Jail Bum," "Wino," and "Wino" again. Three times. There's real affection here for the supporting cast, a genuine appreciation for Tia Carrere doing her own vocals, and exactly the right amount of time spent on the three-ending finale. Plus: where else are you going to hear a spirited defense of Terry as a model of positive masculinity? Party on, Wayne. Party on Garth. Party on, Steve. Party on, Nic. Same thing, really.

    1h 21m
  5. Sleeping with the Enemy (1991)

    APR 22

    Sleeping with the Enemy (1991)

    Sleeping with the Enemy (1991) lands on the podcast courtesy of Nic, who has a habit of bringing thrillers Steve has never seen. Pacific Heights, Cape Fear, The River Wild -- all Nic joints, all new to Steve. The streak continues. The setup: Julia Roberts is Laura, a woman living a gorgeous, terrible life on Cape Cod with a controlling husband named Martin who irons his soul right out of every room he enters. His towels are aligned to the millimeter. His reaction to a neighbor admiring the house is to accuse his wife of sleeping with him. His idea of a post-beating apology is lingerie and the words "I'm sorry we quarreled." Nic notes the New York Times would be proud of that phrasing, and that the lingerie is not exactly a gift. The movie opened by knocking Home Alone off the top of the box office after sixteen straight weeks -- and Steve immediately clocks that the opening score sounds suspiciously like John Williams by way of a holiday film. His read: someone heard what America was watching and said, "give me that Home Alone sound for the movie where America's sweetheart kills a man at the end." The Saturn Award nomination for Best Music is examined with appropriate skepticism. What works here is sharp: the foreshadowing that doesn't telegraph, the commitment to Laura as the one who saves herself (not Ben, who is unconscious and irrelevant by the time it matters, like a WWF referee who took the bump), and a third-act line to a 911 operator that nearly earned a bonus half-point from Steve on the spot. What doesn't work is Martin, who both dads agree is cartoonish to the point of farce -- Snidely Whiplash with a Versa Climber and Berlioz on the tape deck. The casting conversation alone is worth the runtime. Two men watch a movie and ask: who should have been in this? The answer keeps circling back to a Hollywood that wasn't ready to hand a starring vehicle to a woman and expect men to show up and play second. Martin gets what's coming to him. The ring twinkles on the floor. The Home Alone music has come full circle.

    1h 5m
  6. GoodFellas (1990)

    APR 15

    GoodFellas (1990)

    Steve picked Goodfellas (1990) to kick off the '90s leg of 2 Dads 2 Decades, and the dads immediately acknowledged the absurdity of trying to review a movie that is, by any reasonable measure, perfect. Both discovered Scorsese around the same time — sophomore year of high school, mid-'90s, right in the post-Pulp Fiction window where you suddenly cared about what a good movie was and started hunting down the classics you were too young for the first time around. Steve's wife loves it so much she once built a Spotify playlist by adding every song as it came on, which, given the density of the soundtrack, is basically an entire decade of doo-wop and Motown in one sitting. The conversation moves through the film chronologically, but the dads keep circling back to the mechanics — the way Henry Hill's narration and Karen's narration create entirely different textures, the efficiency of Scorsese using voiceover to compress what would take ten minutes of screen time into one, and the moral dissonance of hearing Henry explain mob protection as a neighborhood service while he's on screen pouring gasoline over a parking lot full of cars. Nic is fascinated by the bust-out of the Bamboo Lounge and the matter-of-fact cruelty of "f**k you, pay me," a phrase both dads recognize has outlived the movie entirely. Joe Pesci's Tommy DeVito dominates the episode. The "funny how" scene — largely improvised, Nic notes — gets the reverence it deserves, but it's the smaller Tommy moments that really get the dads going: shooting Spider in the foot and then yelling at him not to make a big deal out of it, the christening joke after smashing a champagne bottle over a guy's head, and the gut-punch of his almost-making ceremony, where Pesci's quiet "oh no" in the empty room earns comparisons to the best practical effect in the film. Nic awards the ice pick murder of Maury a perfect 10 from the Lithuanian judge for its no-splash precision. Both dads marvel at the Copacabana tracking shot, the Billy Batts scene and the midnight visit to Tommy's mom for a shovel and a knife, and the way Scorsese's mother plays the old nonna so perfectly you almost forget there's a body in the trunk. Nic calls out De Niro's ketchup bottle technique — rolling it sideways in his palm — as something he and his friends adopted permanently. The May 11th, 1980 sequence gets flagged as one of the tensest stretches in the film, with Henry juggling guns, drugs, dinner sauce, a helicopter, and a woman who won't fly without her lucky Paddington hat. Lorraine Bracco's Karen gets the spotlight she deserves, and both dads are baffled she didn't win the Supporting Actress Oscar. The silent choking sob after Henry takes the gun from her, the scene at Janice's buzzer with two kids and a pacifier, and the voiceover about not letting someone else win — Steve calls it heartbreaking, and Nic doesn't argue. Steve says there's no fat on the bone even at two and a half hours. Nic says nothing about it will ever look off. The only quibble is the final shot of Tommy firing at the camera and the Sid Vicious version of "My Way," which Steve would've swapped for Frank Sinatra or, ideally, just Henny Youngman telling jokes over the credits. A small complaint for a flawless film — and one that, as both dads note, makes everything else in the genre better just for existing.

    1h 35m
  7. Road House (1989)

    APR 8

    Road House (1989)

    Nic brought the pleated-linen-pants-and-mullet energy this week with Road House (1989), a movie both dads discovered in their late teens and have been unironically-slash-ironically in love with ever since. Steve first caught it during a freshman year hangout in a dorm room with a big TV and a bigger DVD collection. Nic remembers it as the ultimate bro night movie — rewatchable, quotable, and conveniently unappealing to any women who might've been around. Not that there were options. Patrick Swayze stars as Dalton, a legendary "cooler" — a job title neither dad has ever encountered in real life despite a combined several decades of barroom experience. Dalton is recruited to clean up the Double Deuce, a honky-tonk in Jasper, Missouri, where the nightly routine includes sweeping up eyeballs, throwing bottles through chicken wire, and negotiating breast access for cash. The town has maybe 5,000 people, one stoplight, and inexplicably more LA-caliber women than a casting call. Nic notes they all look like Larry and Balki's girlfriends from Perfect Strangers, which is an observation that shouldn't work as well as it does. Dalton lays down three rules — never underestimate your opponent, take it outside, and be nice — and Steve connects his philosophy to, of all things, Schitt's Creek. Meanwhile, Ben Gazzara's Brad Wesley runs the town through a protection racket and a JCPenney, and the dads cannot get over the fact that this man's big power move is bragging about bringing a mid-tier department store to rural Missouri. His introduction across three scenes amounts to: helicopter, pool party, reckless driving. "Hell of a guy," Nic deadpans. Sam Elliott shows up looking cooler than he's ever looked, Keith David shows up long enough to say they're out of whiskey, and Nic mourns the movie they could've had if the long humping scene had been replaced with more of either. The throat rip is everything it's remembered to be. The doctor's moral outrage about it is baffling to both dads. And Dalton's body count goes from zero to roughly eight in about fifteen minutes, which feels like poor pacing or exceptional restraint, depending on your perspective. Road House wraps up the '80s leg of 2 Dads 2 Decades, and the dads send the decade off with a movie that's half popcorn classic, half beautiful disaster. The premise doesn't make sense, the plot has more holes than Emmett's house has walls, and Dalton may have technically been the worst thing to ever happen to Jasper. But God, is it fun.

    1h 17m
  8. Beetlejuice (1988)

    APR 1

    Beetlejuice (1988)

    Beetlejuice (1988) is one of those movies where everybody thinks they've seen it more times than they actually have, and both dads discovered exactly that when they sat down with Tim Burton's PG-rated fever dream about dead suburbanites, haunted real estate, and a bio-exorcist with boundary issues. Steve picked this one, and it's personal. He was 8 when his parents took him and his brother to see it in theaters, and he credits Beetlejuice and Gremlins as the one-two punch that turned him into a horror kid. Nic's relationship with the film is fuzzier. He saw it young but suspects the Saturday morning cartoon warped his memories, much the way the Ghostbusters cartoon convinced a generation that Slimer was a main character. Revisiting Tim Burton after covering Pee-wee's Big Adventure earlier in the run, both dads are struck by what a bigger budget ($15 million, same as Wall Street) let Burton do with practical effects, puppetry, and that unmistakable Danny Elfman score. Nic pauses to note that Danny Elfman is the most perfectly named man in show business. If his name were Craig Winchester, none of this works. The conversation lingers on Michael Keaton, and rightly so. The makeup was largely his idea. A huge chunk of his lines were improvised. Nic calls the performance a cross between Freddy Krueger, the Heath Ledger Joker, and Ace Ventura, and honestly that tracks. There's a loving sidebar about the single PG-rated F-bomb (and accompanying crotch honk), which Nic reports his 5-year-old niece has faithfully committed to memory and recited back to her father in full. The MPAA giveth, and children taketh away. Both dads light up over the Banana Boat Song dinner party sequence and the way it builds from confusion to pure joy, only to completely backfire as a scare tactic. Steve confesses an early crush on Winona Ryder's goth Lydia that he traces directly to the first girl he dated in high school. And a brief, pointed observation about Jeffrey Jones lands with the kind of silence that says more than the joke did. Catherine O'Hara, meanwhile, gets nothing but love. Her "indoor outhouse" line, the Deo dinner party kickoff, and the immortal "they're dead, it's a little late to be neurotic" all get their flowers. Not everything holds up under the magnifying glass. The pacing drags in stretches. The shrunken head effect at the end is the weakest in the movie. The extras at Miss Shannon's School for Girls are, by both dads' estimation, not a single one of them under 45. But the stuff that works still works beautifully, and as Steve puts it, this is one of those movies that sticks with you so indelibly that it's just always there in the back of your mind. Six-and-a-half out of ten from the dads, and a reminder that there's still no better entry-level horror than the movies that started it all.

    1 hr
5
out of 5
20 Ratings

About

A podcast where two middle-aged dads sit around and shoot the shit about the movies of the '80s and '90s. One each episode.

You Might Also Like