Eastwood report: Any Which Way You Can

Pauline Kael, in her 1974 review of The Godfather Part II, remarked that the only sequels that are better than the originals are Huckleberry Finn and the New Testament. Ms. Kael, in her youthful ignorance, had of course not yet seen Any Which Way You Can, the sequel to Every Which Way But Loose that towers above its predecessor as Everest towers over Kilimanjaro.

Philo Beddoe is back, because the audience demanded him. He’s no longer a short fuse and dumb as a post, instead he’s a kindly semi-retired gent who lives in a shed with his pet orangutan Clyde. He seems much happier in his ambling-around-town life than previously, and instead of seeming stupid he seems like a zen master, a man without ambition content to dismantle automobiles for his dim-bulb pal Orville, beat up the occasional guy for money, and laze about, gazing at all the toil and madness that swirls around him, content that somehow everything will work out okay.

The new Philo is clearly an improvement, not just to me but to all the other characters in the movie. Instead of being an inward misfit detested by everyone, Philo is now beloved by all and a cherished member of the community. He’s so beloved, his orangutan gets to hang out at the local country bar on his own,and woe betide the customer who complains. Philo is now so magnetic, Lynn, the two-bit chippie who bilked him for thousands in Every Which, now comes crawling back to him for forgiveness, which he easily grants. Obviously, the change in Philo is due to the unexpected massive success of Every Which: Eastwood has decided, well, if people like this guy, well then, let’s make him likable. The change radiates through the rest of the movie: nearly all the characters from the previous movie are back, but what was grating is now charming, what was shrill is now funny, and what was bleak is now honest.

Simply put, Any Which is the movie I thought Every Which was going to be: a genial, goofy, generous, warm-hearted hick comedy about taking life as it comes, the joys of slacking off and a wry reckoning with the diminishing returns of middle age. I actually laughed out loud several times during the movie, an extreme rarity when I watch a movie alone in the dark confines of my office. The script is freakin’ Some Like it Hot compared to Every Which Way But Loose, a marvel of clockwork precision and dovetail-joint plotting. The narrative no longer requires characters to haphazardly run into each other to keep the story moving and the second act, while still slack, is sweet instead of crass and unrushed instead of meandering. The physical comedy, which I found cringe-inducing in the earlier movie, is handled with comparative fluid grace and witty invention. The photography is substantially better, much closer to reflecting the love of light and faces I associate with Eastwood, and while the acting is still broad, it’s all of a piece now, and gets a much better comic head of steam going. I sense a much surer hand at the tiller of Any Which, and as the movie’s assemblage of wacky characters all make their way toward the third-act showdown between Philo and another fighter named Wilson, I actually found myself experiencing something like suspense and jollity.

Clyde, of course, is given much more to do. He is given supernatural strength and a romantic agenda, and the movie stops dead at the mid-point for an eight-way sexual encounter between Clyde, his date, Philo and Lynn, a pair of tourists from Iowa and a motel manager and Orville’s mother.