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As a young man in rural Mississippi, Robert Johnson took his guitar to the crossroads near Dockery Plantation, where he struck a Faustian deal with the Devil to become the greatest blues guitarist who ever lived, at the price of his soul and a life that ended at 27. What possible follow-up to that sentence could ever lead to any sort of involvement from Ralph Macchio? Laugh if you must, but even though the 1986 film Crossroads should by all rights be a walking joke, it actually works, gods help me. No, let me amend that: it's good until the ending, which cranks it up from "good" to "standing-on-the-seats fist-pumping" with a guitar duel that kicks all other presumptive Battles of the Bands to the floor and grinds them beneath its heels:
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Macchio plays Eugene Martone, a gifted classical guitarist studying at the Juilliard School for the Performing Arts. His real passion/obsession, however, is for the blues, and he digs up harmonica player Willie Brown (Joe Seneca) from a nursing home in the hopes of learning a legendary "lost song" from the aforementioned Robert Johnson. Willie agrees, on the condition that Eugene takes him to rural Mississippi to settle an old score. The "old score," we learn, is with the Devil himself—Brown, it seems, made the same deal that Johnson did, but without winning the same fame and glory. He wants to annul the contract over that breach, but old Scratch doesn't budge. He does, however, make an offer of a wager, double or nothing: a guitar battle between young Eugene and a similarly Satanically-enhanced heavy metal guitarist played with evil glee by none other than Steve Vai, with both Willie's and Eugene's souls at stake. Eugene, clearly not able to recognize when he's up to his neck, accepts the challenge, before finding himself and his friend instantly teleported to a juke joint in the middle of who knows where. With the sinking realization of just how much he's bitten off, the game is on.
Then it's hold onto your hair, kids. There's a traditional arc to this sort of melodramatic boss battle (Good Guy appears to be on the brink of defeat, then in the last moments finally prevails over the Bad Guy, preferably using some lesson learned along the way), and Crossroads doesn't go out of its way to break with that particular tradition. It doesn't matter how many have come first, however, as long as it's done right this time around. Director Walter Hill pulls a magnificently subtle coup by filming a scene with next to no dialogue, leaving all communication in the hands of the music and the actors. The back-and-forth music, brilliantly conceived by Ry Cooder, serves as dialogue more eloquent than a lot of spoken parts, managing to convey challenge, trash talk, menace, even grudging respect in places, all with perfect dramatic timing and all sweetened by the actors' performances. Macchio is understated, even though his job may be the most Herculean (he needed months of lessons just to fake virtuoso guitar work that well), but it works beautifully in that moment when everyone's convinced he's lost except him. It's Vai, though, who's the scene's real secret weapon; with no lines and no prior character development, he's called upon to communicate with his eyes every dare, every flash of arrogance, and, toward the end, every twitch of fear. He even gives a little nod for the band to come in, a small verité touch to a scene whose premise is as far from verité as it gets.
All of this adds up to that awe-inspiring fist-pumping moment I alluded to earlier, one that is so cliché that its whiskers have whiskers, and yet it's hard not to let your breath catch in your throat when it hits: our heavy metal adversary lets rip with an over-the-top-and-back-again screamer of a solo that's clearly meant and interpreted by nearly everyone in the room as a death blow, the crowd is on its feet, the Devil is laughing, Willie's head is sunk low, and Eugene is fixing him with a stare that's all to easy to interpret as resignation, until out of nowhere comes that one repeating riff announcing that our hero isn't done yet. That shocked head-whip from Vai, that awed silence from everyone else, and then the greatest stunner of all: an electric and electrifying rendition of Nicolo Paganini's Caprice No. 5 (an ironic choice in itself—Paganini's career was also dogged by rumors of a soul sold down below). It's that true rarity, the cliché you don't see coming. It's part of a long tradition of winning by meeting the enemy on your own turf, but it's such a jaw-dropping blindside that we're hardly able to recover any better than Vai can. He makes a valiant effort to answer the dare, after a long, long moment—have you ever heard such a loud silence before?—but catch that look he flashes Eugene as he struggles. He knows it's over and it terrifies him, because when you work for the Devil, failure is hardly an option.
It's an option he learns, however. In spades.
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Macchio plays Eugene Martone, a gifted classical guitarist studying at the Juilliard School for the Performing Arts. His real passion/obsession, however, is for the blues, and he digs up harmonica player Willie Brown (Joe Seneca) from a nursing home in the hopes of learning a legendary "lost song" from the aforementioned Robert Johnson. Willie agrees, on the condition that Eugene takes him to rural Mississippi to settle an old score. The "old score," we learn, is with the Devil himself—Brown, it seems, made the same deal that Johnson did, but without winning the same fame and glory. He wants to annul the contract over that breach, but old Scratch doesn't budge. He does, however, make an offer of a wager, double or nothing: a guitar battle between young Eugene and a similarly Satanically-enhanced heavy metal guitarist played with evil glee by none other than Steve Vai, with both Willie's and Eugene's souls at stake. Eugene, clearly not able to recognize when he's up to his neck, accepts the challenge, before finding himself and his friend instantly teleported to a juke joint in the middle of who knows where. With the sinking realization of just how much he's bitten off, the game is on.
Then it's hold onto your hair, kids. There's a traditional arc to this sort of melodramatic boss battle (Good Guy appears to be on the brink of defeat, then in the last moments finally prevails over the Bad Guy, preferably using some lesson learned along the way), and Crossroads doesn't go out of its way to break with that particular tradition. It doesn't matter how many have come first, however, as long as it's done right this time around. Director Walter Hill pulls a magnificently subtle coup by filming a scene with next to no dialogue, leaving all communication in the hands of the music and the actors. The back-and-forth music, brilliantly conceived by Ry Cooder, serves as dialogue more eloquent than a lot of spoken parts, managing to convey challenge, trash talk, menace, even grudging respect in places, all with perfect dramatic timing and all sweetened by the actors' performances. Macchio is understated, even though his job may be the most Herculean (he needed months of lessons just to fake virtuoso guitar work that well), but it works beautifully in that moment when everyone's convinced he's lost except him. It's Vai, though, who's the scene's real secret weapon; with no lines and no prior character development, he's called upon to communicate with his eyes every dare, every flash of arrogance, and, toward the end, every twitch of fear. He even gives a little nod for the band to come in, a small verité touch to a scene whose premise is as far from verité as it gets.
All of this adds up to that awe-inspiring fist-pumping moment I alluded to earlier, one that is so cliché that its whiskers have whiskers, and yet it's hard not to let your breath catch in your throat when it hits: our heavy metal adversary lets rip with an over-the-top-and-back-again screamer of a solo that's clearly meant and interpreted by nearly everyone in the room as a death blow, the crowd is on its feet, the Devil is laughing, Willie's head is sunk low, and Eugene is fixing him with a stare that's all to easy to interpret as resignation, until out of nowhere comes that one repeating riff announcing that our hero isn't done yet. That shocked head-whip from Vai, that awed silence from everyone else, and then the greatest stunner of all: an electric and electrifying rendition of Nicolo Paganini's Caprice No. 5 (an ironic choice in itself—Paganini's career was also dogged by rumors of a soul sold down below). It's that true rarity, the cliché you don't see coming. It's part of a long tradition of winning by meeting the enemy on your own turf, but it's such a jaw-dropping blindside that we're hardly able to recover any better than Vai can. He makes a valiant effort to answer the dare, after a long, long moment—have you ever heard such a loud silence before?—but catch that look he flashes Eugene as he struggles. He knows it's over and it terrifies him, because when you work for the Devil, failure is hardly an option.
It's an option he learns, however. In spades.
