Word: oles
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Every good ole Texas boy dreams of having cattle, money and power. As he sits in front of the stately stone main house on his 10,000-acre ranch, Picosa, near his birthplace, with cicadas chirping hi the spotlighted trees and the lush coastal Bermuda grass, the last of these desires seems to be the only one unfulfilled. Near by is a ring for his quarter horses and another ring for showing his cattle. "I think I've got the finest herd of young bulls hi the country," the master breeder proudly boasts of his shiny red Santa Gertrudis cattle...
...appealing as a man inescapably infected by the crudity of his team's raucous (and vividly rendered) behavior at work and play; he struggles to give Elliott an intelligence beyond the character's ability to articulate. The star is well supported by Mac Davis, as a smooth ole star quarterback who's learned to get ahead by going along, and by G.D. Spradlin as the head coach, Charles Durning as the assistant coach-enforcer, Steve Forrest as the owner and Bo Svenson as an animalistic lineman...
...that virtually every community and region in the nation remains convinced of its own distinctiveness and proud of what it considers its superiority in one respect or another. In short, local chauvinism is alive and well and residing-where else?-in every best damn state/city/town/county/region in the good ole...
NORTH DALLAS FORTY is one of the best non-documentary sports movies ever made, but professional sports--especially football--are not particularly intriguing subjects for existential speculation. The movie is more successful before it gets pretentious; in the early scenes it out-good-ole-boys the best good-ole-boy movies, with a refreshing Texas lunacy to wipe away memories of The Deer Hunter's plodding steelworkers. But it's all that physical agony that makes the film so dificult to watch for sensitive viewers; as the movie's particulars fade away, all you may remember...
Many of the family groups now assembled are three-generational, something you seldom see in urban America any more. Picnic lunches appear. But in an area heavy with fundamentalist United Methodists, Southern Baptists and Nazarenes, there is not one good ole boy guzzling beer or passing a bottle. Sarsaparilla is the champagne...