Although Patrick Swayze has had the good fortune to be associated in the past with a couple of blockbusters (Dirty Dancing and Ghost), with Father Hood we can hardly say “ditto.” Acting has never been Swayze’s strong suit and when the material surrounding him is floundering out of control and he’s cast as the story’s sole center, he’s like a big fish out of water. Father Hood is a mess from beginning to end. Starting off at a screaming pitch, the volume simply escalates and crests about a quarter of the way in. The story itself is told ineffectively and that which we can grasp clearly, we almost wish we hadn’t. Director Roodt (Sarafina!) often leaves us wondering where a scene is taking place or exactly what is going on. Subplots are introduced and abandoned like yesterday’s Kleenex. This includes the storylines of Berry’s investigative reporter, Ladd’s con-woman/mom, and a convenient plot device involving child abuse and statutory rape that’s blithely discarded when it’s no longer of use. Furthermore, images are composed badly, with confiningly tight headshots predominating and clarifying establishing shots appearing rarely. That leaves us with the central characters of dad Swayze and his two escapee kids (Lloyd and Bonsall). As actors, the kids are okay but, really, there is very little for them to do but sustain love-and-hate shouting matches with their dad and be the gleeful, back-seat children of a petty and charismatic outlaw on the lam. I guess we’re supposed to like Swayze’s character because, at heart, he’s a good guy who only robs drug dealers and tells his kids to buckle up their seatbelts when he’s driving so as to elude police. All in all, he’s hardly a father and barely a hood. Sum total: hardly a movie.
This article appears in September 3 • 1993.
