IS AMERICA READY FOR A NUT WHO'S A GENIUS?

By David Elliott

From The San Diego Union-Tribune, 07.18.1985

Pee-wee's Big Adventure must be the goofiest movie since Million Dollar Legs, a 1932 aberration starring W.C. Fields as the potted president of Klopstokia. I can imagine Fields taking a look at Pee-wee Herman and reaching for a final, killing shot of booze--Pee-wee is his nightmare of the ultimate kid, the one you can't get rid of.

I am among the multitude that hasn't exactly been yearning for Pee-wee's debut as a movie star. Fifteen minutes of him on David Letterman's show, with his cartoon moves, Geeks-R-Us patter and constipated wimp's voice, seemed to be the full serving of his talent. But lo and behold, Pee-wee (and the savvy actor inside him, Paul Reubens) is the gas and motor of a delightful comedy. For those who can get into the right warp, this may be the funniest movie of the year.

As Pee-wee works himself in and out of jams while trying to find his lost, dearly beloved bicycle--that's the whole premise of his big adventure--one recalls the immortal words of conductor George Szell about pianist Glenn Gould: "That nut's a genius." Or maybe Pee-wee's only a nut. But like Gould, he's salted with inspiration.

Pee-wee lives in a world unlike mine or yours. His house is a kind of toy store kleptomaniac's paradise, crammed with beautifully inane appliances and gag-shop gewgaws. His yard is stocked with giant fake animals and one real one, a pee-wee mutt named Speck. It's a world of primary colors, baby wit ("That's my name--don't wear it out!") and perfectly moronic pleasures, like putting Scotch tape on your face and gleefully ripping it off.

Pee-wee adores his bright red '50s dream-bike, and when the fat, rich, greedy Francis (Mark Holton) steals it, he flips into an infantile rage. But for an obsessional nerd, he's also a cool guy--he always has a comeback line, a fast-stepping strategy, and the plucky verve of a born adventurer. (In spirit, he's a throwback to the great silent film comedians.) I can't do the comedy justice. You really have to be there. When Pee-wee, cornered by a biker gang, saves himself with a hip dude's dance to "Tequila," and when he makes innocently lewd remarks to a waitress inside the mouth of a giant ceramic dinosaur at a truck stop, and when he takes a tour of the Alamo conducted by the pertest, twangiest little gal in Texas, this comedy is like no other. I don't know if it will be a hit, but this fruitcake must be the surest cult movie ever made.

Director Tim Burton has a light, sure knack for visual wit, and his compositions trigger the fun in situations. The surreal episodes spring at us like pages in a pop-up book, full of twinkly colors and oddball dream touches. And composer Danny Elfman also rises to the occasion, in a score that neatly mimics the jaunty tunes of Nino Rota for Fellini films and Bernard Herrmann's tense music for Hitchcock.

There are a few dead spots, including some in the film's audience. This type of off-the-wall humor leaves some viewers in a permafrost of indifference. or even hostile. But more than movie lovers should relish the weird surprises and the whopper ending, when Pee-wee mounts his bike and tears around the Warner Bros. studio (shades of Blazing Saddles). The place is humming, cranking out '60s beach comedies, Japanese monster movies and Tarzan pictures.

The key to this hip kids' party (opening in theaters tomorrow) is, of course, the ineffable Pee-wee Herman. Is America ready for a movie star who is like a mad mix of Harry Langdon, Pinky Lee, Wally Cox and wiseguy Groucho Marx? If we're not, it's our loss.