Movies I Love, Part XIV: Scarface
Brian De Palma directed this masterpiece of kitsch. Ollie Stone, bless his overbearing heart, wrote the bloated screenplay.
It is the story, as if you didn’t already know, of Cuban immigrants who murder and extort their way into the 70s cocaine trade in Miami. Steven Bauer is excellent as the second banana. Michelle Pfeiffer is pitch perfect as the blonde coke-addled trophy wife. Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio as the gorgeous sister, whose brother secretly covets her.
Murder. Violence. Disco dancing. Shirts opened to the waist. Horrid Hispanic accents. Crime bosses. Lots of drugs. Girls in bikinis. This movie has it all.
But the film belongs solely to Al Pacino as Tony Montana. This actor was born to chew scenery and here the screenwriter gives him the dialog and the director gives him the latitude and Pacino gnaws it to a pulp.
Anyway, it all boils down to one of the great lines in the history of cinema, which, thanks to the gloriosity of the internet, I now provide you:
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