I just lost a whole post about why I liked “Maverick” with Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster. I’m pissed. It was a good piece. I’m going to try to recreate, but it won’t be the same.
While at the cottage recently, we watched “Maverick”, with Mel Gibson, Jodie Foster and James Garner. It’s not a gritty, realistic western. I get enough gritty realism in real life. It’s a fluffy western comedy.
Remember Cat Ballou, with Nat King Cole wandering around as a Greek chorus, and Lee Marvin drunk and upside down on a horse? That’s my kind of western. Maverick is from a time when Mel Gibson was handsome and charming, and hadn’t yet come out as a mysogenistic racist. James Garner, although much older than Gibson, remains much more handsome and charming in my estimation. And Jodie Foster? Well, she is one of about five women in the world for whom I’d happily change teams. All three played beautifully off each other. They all have a natural comedic bent, and were just delightful.
One thing I loved about this movie is that my Dad would like it. I’m going to pass the DVD on to him next time I see him. Dad likes Gunsmoke, Bonanza and Zane Grey novels. I thought about him all the way through this, which was a nice comfortable feeling.
But the main attraction for me was the costumes. OMG, the costumes. That’s the theatre student in me coming out. Maverick’s dandified white shirts and brocade vests, Ms. Foster’s fantastical decolletage and lace parasols, riverboat gamblers and Russian counts; the costumes were sublime. Perhaps it isn’t a good sign for a movie when the costumes outshine all other elements.
You know, this is why I’m not a movie reviewer. The movies I like, I tend to like for odd reasons, and they’re certainly not everyone’s cup of tea. If I don’t like a movie, I’m not interested in talking about it, so every movie review I wrote would be a good review.