“Once, long ago, a foolish man named Shelly Saltman wrote a book accusing Evel of being an abusive person. Around the time of the book’s release, both of Knievel’s arms were in medical casts (he had crashed while jumping over a tank of live sharks in Chicago). Yet these injuries did not stop Evel from heading for California and clubbing Saltman with a Louisville Slugger, shattering the writer’s left arm and right wrist. Just think about that: a man with two recently broken arms breaking another guy’s arm in the light of day on a studio lot in Los Angeles.”
—Chuck Klosterman, GQ Feb 2011, p. 58
“Outside the genre of sci-fi, I can’t think of any film less plausible than Road House. Every element of the story is preposterous: the idea of Swayze being a nationally famous bouncer (with a degree in philosophy), the concept of such a super-violent bar having such an attractive clientele, the likelihood of a tiny Kanas town having such a sophisticated hospital, the authenticity of ripping another man’s throat out, etc. etc. etc. Every single scene includes at least one detail that could never happen in real life. So does that make Road House bad? No. It makes Road House perfect.”
A lack of culture is not our problem. The problem is we’ve become too effective at distributing that culture – at the same time, in the same way, and with the same velocity. It all ends up feeling interchangeable, which makes it all marginally irrelevant.