Overnight DVD Review:

“Overnight”: Snatching Defeat from the Jaws of Victory

Hollywood is full of rags to riches stories, both on screen and off. Seldom though has anyone risen so high and then fallen so low in such a short period as Troy Duffy, writer/director of the cult 1999 action film “Boondock Saints”. Thanks to friends and business partners Tony Montana and Mark Smith this crazy roller coaster ride has been captured in all its sordid glory in the documentary “Overnight.”

Sometimes when the story is good enough, all you have to do is sit back and get out of the way. Certainly “Overnight” makes little claim to fame itself. It packs precious little visual flair, and rarely solicits any outside perspective to elaborate on the show business machinations that are hinted at. Thus we’re left with a claustrophobic journey probably not unlike that experienced by Duffy. Regardless, the journey is fascinating for anyone interested in the workings of the film or even music industry. For all of Duffy’s tiresome bravado, he’s correct that it is most engrossing to watch ordinary shmucks manage to miraculously get that big break that so many dream of. Even more riveting though is the hideous train wreck that follows. The one enormous piece of this puzzle that I was quite disappointed to find left out is the filming of the entertaining “Saints” itself, which is glossed over in a couple of minutes. As wildly problematic as both pre-production and postproduction proved to be, one can only imagine the insanity that must have occurred on set.

“Overnight” opens with spring 1997 news footage announcing L.A. bartender Duffy’s deal with Miramax to direct his “Saints” script with a budget of $15 million. Miramax agreed to pay him $300,000 for the script and help him buy out the bar. The soundtrack was to be provided by Duffy’s band The Brood, managed by Montana and Smith, and the film produced by friend Chris Brinker, who had helped to get Troy’s script read in Hollywood. Together they form a film and music company called The Syndicate, hoping to work together for years. The Syndicate is on top of the world at this point, and they celebrate their sudden fame and fortune with not a little bit of cockiness. Duffy’s family is happy for him, but a little concerned he might get carried away with himself. And in fact his incredible ego has already begun to alienate brother and bandmate Taylor. The Syndicate keeps up a relentless drinking schedule as pre-production continues, shmoozing at the bar with various celebrities such as Patrick Swayze and Jeff Goldblum. We observe Duffy doing casting with a great lack of finesse, and beginning to believe The Brood is the second coming of the Beatles. Duffy’s comrades, having quit their day jobs, begin to gripe about the lack of income until he finally arranges a record deal. The ensuing celebration quickly ends however, when the film begins to drift into limbo. Casting is going nowhere, and to Duffy’s intense irritation Miramax seems to be losing interest. Eventually in fall ’97 the project is placed in turnaround. Soon after the record deal also falls through, and Duffy hits rock bottom. Eventually The Syndicate manages to overcome these reversals and complete the film and album, but in the end Duffy’s ego far outstrips his ability and success slips from his grasp.

The film truly is a textbook example of how not to rise to the top in show business. Duffy aggressively digs his own grave by treating everyone around him with contempt, and religiously subscribing to his own press. Which is quite ironic, given that it was Brinker’s personal connection in the business that got the ball rolling in the first place. The film says that fame doesn’t change people; rather it brings out their true selves. Of course, that makes Hollywood sound less like a wild party and more like an insane asylum.

Duffy is the focus of the film, and displays a desire to add acting to his writing and directing credentials by relentlessly upstaging everyone throughout. Admittedly he’s an easy target, filmed by friends steadily growing less and less fond of him, but it’s too tempting to pass up. Like an obnoxious used car salesman he rarely lets anyone get a word in edgewise, like a fundamentalist he is completely convinced of the superiority of his beliefs, and like a gangster he routinely deals out profanity laden abuse to friends and foes alike. To top it all off, most of his pompous proclamations are moronic gibberish, leading one to suspect that Miramax probably began to lose enthusiasm for Duffy as soon as they actually heard him speak. He crows again and again about showing America that the little guy can make it big, forgetting that in large part people like underdogs because they are humble. There’s no denying that in “Saints” Duffy put together a solid script and movie, but one gets the feeling it was in spite of himself. As a matter of fact, I’m starting to wonder whether it might have been ghostwritten.

All of which begs the question why anyone, even close friends and family, would tie their horses to this half-witted blowhard. “Overnight” suggests that his bandmates may have been dimmer still, as they sit quietly while Duffy spews out ludicrous assertions and insults. Surely Brinker, Montana, and Smith must be relatively sharp, although they also grin and bear it for most of the picture. Perhaps as Duffy claims they were all desperate to latch on to some sort of show business opportunity, even one so dubious as this. At any rate Duffy’s incessant babbling prevents us from getting to know any of them particularly well, other than that they all seem considerably more clearheaded and share a deep love of alcohol. Their close bonds of friendship would be touching were the situation not so often pathetic. Curiously we are never introduced to “Saints” co-star David Rocco, who reportedly was another friend of Duffy’s from the bar.

Perhaps the most entertaining aspect for the film is watching Duffy plunge to new lows of appalling unprofessionalism. One thinks he may have reached his limit with leaving a garbled and profane phone message for Kenneth Branagh, or bluntly telling the members of The Syndicate that they’re effectively worthless, or hysterically screaming at an agent on the phone, but he saves the best for last. Invited to speak at a film theory class at Boston University, Duffy does his best to contemptuously shoot down the hopes of admiring students seeking guidance. Also amusing, in a rare moment of someone other than Duffy speaking his or her mind, is “Saints” star Willem Dafoe’s response to how open Duffy has been as a director. He laughingly exclaims, “Too open! Troy, keep your mouth shut.”

The special features are minimal, but about what one would expect from a no budget documentary. There are two brief deleted scenes, one in which the band members rejoice over their newfound fame, and the other in which The Syndicate and actors read through the film’s script. Short text bios give a little more background on the main players, such as the unsurprising fact that Duffy was briefly married to a stripper. Finally Montana and Smith give a brief TV interview about “Overnight” with a seriously coked up reporter in which they basically reiterate what was in the film.

If like myself you were drawn to “Overnight” seeking further knowledge of “Boondock Saints,” then I’m afraid you’ll be let down, as the film is focused on the business of filmmaking rather than the craft. However, if you are intrigued by the magical behind the scenes process in which films suddenly materialize out of thin air and sometimes disappear just as quickly, then “Overnight” is a fascinating fly on the wall experience. The bitter, premature termination of Duffy’s career aside, the film lends hope to anyone chasing the show business dream. If a doofus like this can get in, how hard can it be?



Chris Wood