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But there is nothing like the sight of an amputated spirit. Their arms torn out, their legs ripped off. Frank Slade: FLAMETHROWER to this place! Out of order? Who the hell do ya think you're talking to? I've been around, ya know? There was a time I could see. If I were the man I was five years ago, I'd take a. I'd show you, but I'm too old, I'm too tired, I'm too fucking blind. I'll show YOU "out of order"! You don't know what "out of order" is, Mr. You know how I know? Someone here, and I'm not gonna say who, offered to buy it. What kind of a show you guys are putting on here today? I mean, the only class in this act is sitting next to me, and I'm here to tell ya this boy's soul is intact. A vessel for seagoing snitches, and if you think you're preparing these minnows for manhood, you better think again, because I say you are killing the very spirit this institution proclaims it instills. Their spirit is dead, if they ever had one. I don't know who went to this place, William Howard Taft, William Jennings Bryan, William Tell, whoever. Frank Slade: No, I'm just gettin' warmed up. And what are you doing? You're gonna reward George and destroy Charlie. Here's Charlie facing the fire and there's George hiding in Big Daddy's pocket. Anything short of that, we're gonna burn you at the stake"? Well, gentlemen, when the shit hits the fan, some guys run and some guys stay. What the hell is that? What is your motto here? "Boys, inform on your classmates, save your hide. He desn't need to labeled, "Still worthy of being a Baird man". Mr Simms, I will give you one last opportunity to speak up. You are in the Baird School, not a barracks. Frank Slade: This is such a crock of SHIT. Simms, you are a cover-up artist and you are a liar. I'm going to recommend to the disciplinary committee that you be expelled. He's the only party to this incident who is still worthy of calling himself a Baird man. Simms, because you know what I am going to do. Willis's testimony is not only vague, it is unsubstantiated. And it is one he does with such knowing relish that when he concludes a heartstring-tugging monologue with the aside "Was that cornball enough?" one has to applaud in enthusiastic agreement.Mr.

With its echoes of Rain Man and Poets (in the unnecessarily protracted schoolboys-and-honour guff), this is little more than an entertaining show-off routine for Pacino, with little apparent intervention from the director. Yet it doesn't take a genius to realise that when Charlie's employer innocently suggests "By Sunday night you'll be best friends," so they will. He even has a catchword - "Hoo-wah!" - to indicate pleasure, amazement or danger at regular intervals.īo Goldman's script is primarily notable for the relentless stream of poisonous, filthy, funny quips given to Pacino, most of them directed at O'Donnell’s nicely ingenuous straight man foil. As soon as the relations are out of the way, young Charlie finds himself Frank's captive sidekick, shanghaied for a wild fling in New York City, where Frank indulges his tastes for Jack Daniels, fragrant women, tango dancing and gallows humour. Frank for the long Thanksgiving holiday weekend. Sweet, sincere Chris O'Donnell is Charlie, a poor scholarship boy at a snooty New England prep school who nervously accepts the job of babysitting irascible, acid Col. Indeed, Pacino rampant is just about the whole show in this contrived, overlong, deceptively titled generation gap buddy picture. He is loud, crusty but lovable, wisecracking, physically-challenged and, in a denouement that crosses Dead Poets Society with courtroom drama, even affects a sudden, inexplicably Southern accent. Frank Slade, a lonely bitter soldier blinded - literally - by his own obnoxious foolishness, Al Pacino roars his way through a role that might have been generated by a Going For Oscar computer programme.