The Worst People You Know Just Bought A House: A Review of 1990’s Pacific Heights
Tonight, I decided to pick a movie at random to watch, one I haven’t seen. I picked Pacific Heights, currently streaming on Tubi. It stars Michael Keaton, always a good time, as well as Melanie Griffith (consistently good) and Matthew Modine (he has been in some stuff, I guess), and is hailed as a “psychological thriller”. All signs point to me enjoying it.
Well, I did. I enjoyed it.
But please let me tell you, I did not enjoy it because it was good.
The plot is as follows: Modine and Griffith are Drake and Patty, a wealthy young couple of yuppies who open the film with their friend, a black banker (this is important, I promise), who advises them against buying their dream home and lists multiple reasons why it’s a bad idea. They promptly ignore him completely (I’ll get back to this, I promise) and buy it, figuring they can rent out the two rental units to pay for their mortgage. So to recap, these two idiots know this is a bad idea but do it anyway because hell, someone else’s money will take care of it for them.
So they rent one unit to a nice Japanese couple. Another man, also black, wants the second unit but Drake doesn’t trust that he’s not one of these “minority scam artists” who prey on the white guilt of yuppies like he and Patty in order to score cheap rent. See? I told you the race of their banker friend is important. Drake is a GIANT fucking racist. This is never addressed again in any fashion.
Let me get to the main plot. Michael Keaton as Carter Hayes arrives, and we already know he’s sketchy because the film opens with him getting got by some thugs and left in a heap. He has no proof of who he is or anything but Drake is super impressed by him and says “WELLLLLLLLLL I like the cut of your jib, the flim of your flam, the grill of your cheese” and tells him he can move in. Patty points out at least three lies in Carter’s story, but Drake insists that she stop using her womanly brain so much and to just let him worry about it. Oh yes, Drake SUUUUUCKS.
Anyway, Carter moves in and changes the locks and immediately becomes the tenant from Hell, breeding cockroaches and tearing the unit apart and, most importantly to Drake and to the film itself, not paying his rent. At this point, I need to point out that the movie takes the time to show a real homelessness problem throughout the city. Not because you’re supposed to feel sympathy for THEM. No, you’re supposed to worry about poor Patty (an out-of-work equestrian) and Drake (who runs a LITERAL SWEATSHOP) falling into financial ruin. If this thing weren’t from 1990, I’d assume some fucking landlord typed “write me a scary story with a landlord hero” into ChatGPT.
Now, Carter is a pretty scummy dude I guess. He is a con artist and he does kidnap their cat (takes good care of it, actually), and is by technical definition the villain of the movie. But good lord, at no point do I root for Patty (who at one point finds herself in possession of an envelope of cash, which she leaves for a particularly helpful maid…before returning to take the envelope and leave three bills instead for the poor working woman…WHY DID THEY WRITE HER THIS WAY?) or Drake, who in addition to being racist and pretty horrible to his wife, IMMEDIATELY just goes ballistic and acts way crazier than the so-called bad guy of the picture.
Every woman in the movie, and a couple of the men too, tell him to calm the fuck down and not do exactly what Carter wants him to do: lose his cool and throw a punch. Drake knows better, though, and begins screaming and waving his hands in the air, yelling at cops and eventually throwing Carter down a flight of stairs.
Oh, the cops. That’s the funniest part of this film: the police and the entire legal system in this movie exists in some magical wonderland where tenant’s rights are protected without question and the poor, rich, white landlords are shut down at every turn. They find themselves on the verge of losing everything while judges, detectives and lawyers all gush over the poor young man in their rental unit.
This would all be better if there was some satire involved, or at least a dark sense of humor. But it’s all played straight, even Drake’s frequent meltdowns that go so much bigger and harder than the movie ever calls for. It’s all absolutely hysterical and when it reaches its bloody but super fucking tame conclusion, complete with nonsensical tacked-on happy ending epilogue, you’re left wondering what the hell just happened.
But damn, I did enjoy myself, wondering what act of utter stupidity Drake would commit next, or how Patty might disrespect another minority, or maybe catch Michael Keaton staring evilly into space for the eleventh time. I can’t in good conscience recommend it to you, but if you’re a fan of a good trainwreck like I am, there are worse ways to spend an hour and 45 minutes.
** out of *****
