The Pope of Greewich Village Director: Stuart Rosenburg MGM 1984 From the damn cufflinks to the Marlboros, Rourke was a fucking god. I'll bet he got The Clap like 50 times between 1980 and 1990; nah, he probably only hit dime plus ninety nines.  Eric Roberts (and I know, this isn't The Coca Cola Kid but still...) is at the top of his game. He fucking walks arm-in-arm with Rourke for the whole flick with over-the-top guido jargon marbling out of his mouth like whiny teeth. He gets coffee for some old mob bastard better than Baryshnikov ever pirouetted - seriously flawless.  Coming off of this joint he could have run the same Pretty Woman scam his sister pulled, but he didn't, and trying to re-spark that guido gene in that lame band's video, well, yyydounayoujus slap Christ in the face Eric.     (Bi-way, Daryl Hannah is smoking, she "teaches" aerobics, leotards non- stop: damn!)  Everyone's been down the road that these two studs are on: Out of work, busted on the job for skimping, smiling and jesting, and on into petty crime. It's clean, filled with a bunch of 'ghetti faces you'll find in Goodfellas, Casino (fuck! those are the same movie) and "The Sopranos." You know what to expect, a bunch of fooks saying "manigott" instead of "manicotti" and "foogazi" or whatever the shitfuck Johnny Depp exercised his cheekbones for in Brasco .  The mob boss, yeah it's Paulie from Rocky solid as hell as Jell-O. It's like being in an ER waiting-room watching this and not wondering about miracles and tragedy: "How the hell did a man like Rourke manage to live as long as he has and what the hell happened to Eric Roberts?" Eh, Coca-Cola? You'll live for certain moments and die for others, The Pope keeps it popeye. (R.I.P. John Paul) - Barthariffic Back Next