Cinema: A Texas Tall Tale for Two

GOIN' SOUTH Directed by Jack Nicholson

Screenplay by John Herman Shaner, Al Ramrus, Charles Shyer, Alan Mandel

Jack Nicholson, like most big stars, can make almost any movie he wants. He can requisition any Hollywood blockbuster that captures his fancy; he can fly off to Europe and make metaphysical thrillers with Antonioni. This time around he has rejected both of these traditional options, choosing instead to direct himself in a comic western romance called Goin' South. It is a peculiar choice. Goin' South is not likely to be a commercial smash, but neither is it artistically ambitious. The film is just a small inconsequential frolic: always eccentric, sometimes wonderful, and never pretentious. It works—but only if one doesn't insist that every Jack Nicholson film be an Event.

The actor's motive for making this movie is not impossible to figure out. Goin' South does provide him with the funniest —and possibly the most enjoyable—role he's ever had. Henry Moon, the film's Texas outlaw hero, can take his place alongside Lee Marvin in Cat Ballou, John Wayne in True Grit and Jason Robards in The Ballad of Cable Hogue. A good-hearted rogue with slovenly personal habits, Moon is the essence of frontier vulgarity. He gobbles meals in a single bite, guzzles booze as if it were mother's milk and addresses women with a courtliness so exaggerated that it comes out obscene. Nicholson's repertoire of dumb grins and crazed laughs is as amusing as ever, but what makes the characterization take off is his monomaniacal concentration. Nicholson understands that ridiculous characters are hilarious only if they take themselves completely seriously.

Goin' South's script, set just after the Civil War, is essentially an extended two-character sketch. The other role is Julia Tate (Mary Steenburgen), a frigid young spinster whose odd habits include hanging up chairs on wall hooks. Julia weds Moon in a marriage of convenience: she needs someone to work her unsuccessful gold mine, while he needs a respectable wife to shield him from the law. The thin story traces the predictable warming up of their relationship. Pretty soon the film becomes a string of uneven set pieces, the best of which suggest Nichols and May as rewritten by Mark Twain.

A previously unknown actress, Steenburgen accomplishes the impressive feat of holding her own with Nicholson: she tosses off cool sallies to counter his lunatic riffs. When they finally fall in love, the couple make a surprisingly tender pair. In much smaller parts, John Belushi, Christopher Lloyd and Jeff Morris have splendid moments as varmints who give new life to the word mangy. Nicholson never lets anyone in the cast, him self included, go overboard.