Who’s the bigger jerk? The guy openly exploiting a vulnerable person for profit? Or the domineering lonely guy who doesn’t respect boundaries?
In the astonishingly dull My Giant, Billy Crystal fits the first description, a desperate Hollywood agent. He’s supposed to be so good at manipulation that he can even talk a rabbi into eating pork. (Is that something to be proud of, though?) “Just give me five minutes,” he says like a mantra.
However, his track record is suspect. The best he can do for nostalgic act Jay & The Americans is to book them for a wedding. Not a good sign when you have to follow the limbo contest. And yeah, Liza Minnelli’s daughter isn’t going anywhere. Get real.
Self-absorbed to the point of alienating his hot wife (Kathleen Quinlan), a struggling actress, into a trial separation and rarely at home to bond with his young son (Zane Carney) who has to resort to reading the trades to find something for them to talk about, he finally hits pay dirt with Ryder Strong, some snotty little shit he luckily discovered by accident.
However, while visiting him on-set in Romania where he’s shooting a clearly low-budget swords-and-sandals epic (we don’t even know what it’s called), Strong gives a stunned Crystal the heave-ho. But the agent is undeterred. Ill-tempered director Jere Burns (remember Kirk from Dear John?) isn’t happy with the old men playing the villains. Not scary enough, he complains. So Crystal hops in his car hoping to find a replacement.
While trying to avoid a herd of sheep on the road, he crashes into a lake and is rescued not by a merciful God like he thinks but by an enormous man named Max (former NBA star Gheorghe Muresan). Living alone in a monastery where the only other person who talks around here is preacher Joss Aklund (who shows up for one scene and then disappears), Max is a voracious reader who can quote Shakespeare. He can also speak multiple languages including English. What he doesn’t have is courage or high self-esteem.
Crystal is of course a diminutive fellow literally half the size of his skyscraping co-star. Even when he’s seated, Max is still a head taller than him. The movie thinks this visual alone is hilarious and therefore, it is repeated constantly with very little variation. If you remember Mean Gene Okerlund interviewing Andre The Giant back in the day (the film is dedicated to him), this is nothing new. Andre had a better sense of humour, anyway.
It takes a bit of time for Crystal to see dollar signs and it takes a bit longer for him to convince his new “friend” to go along with his scheme. Thinking Max can do a one-line scene in that crappy historical action film, it’s only after he takes him to see a dubbed version of Dirty Harry in an abandoned theatre that he finally signs on.
But Max is too nervous for his sinchy cameo so he’s plied with too much booze. He also has to be harnessed and lifted into the air because he can’t mount a horse on his own due to his extraordinarily large legs. Instead of shouting, “Vanquish thine enemies!”, he drunkenly recites a passage from Henry V. It’s only after Crystal reminds him of their arrangement that he finally says the line. Oh, and he barfs all over poor Ryder which somehow ends up in the final cut. Welcome to showbiz, kid.
As they get to know each other, Crystal learns that the giant is lonely. His parents dropped him off at the monastery when he was young and he’s never forgiven them for it, even though they do try to visit him all the time. (He refuses to see them.) Back in the day, he had a fateful kiss with a cute dame when they were teens. He’s been writing to her ever since.
But there’s a big problem. She never writes back. For 22 years, he’s been declaring his undying love for her but as Crystal eventually finds out, she does not share his feelings at all. In fact, she stopped accepting his mail ages ago. Crystal finds bundles of it still in one of Max’s drawers.
The only reason the giant goes along with Crystal’s doomed plan for him to become a movie star is because he’s convinced that this will finally get him to reconnect with her. When Crystal calls his son, he learns that Steven Seagal is making a movie in Las Vegas. (Nothing more humbling than talking to the kid on the phone, especially when he doesn’t even recognize your famous voice. And he’s a fan?) Joanna Pacula, the woman Max wants to see again, lives in nearby New Mexico.
As Max continually pesters Crystal about his end of the deal, the agent relents by acquiring her phone number. But the second he mentions who he’s calling for, click. A follow-up attempt ends the same way. Much like his stubborn protégé, the persistent Crystal has to resort to stalking the woman, first at her residence, then at a restaurant in her state. He ultimately startles her when he rushes to get her attention as she leaves. Out comes the pepper spray. Avoiding temporary blindness, Crystal goes through his usual routine and the movie makes us think he has finally worn her down.
What actually happens next is, I have to say, rather mean. To show up with an imposter who I guess sort of looks like Pacula, maybe, just to cover your own ass so you won’t feel guilty about traipsing a sheltered, unhealthy giant around the world in order to avoid declaring personal bankruptcy is also beyond pathetic. Crystal believes in his new charge so much he’s willing to pawn family heirlooms just to get to Vegas. He needs to second guess himself more often.
Crystal’s own love life may improve as a result of this charade, but how does this benefit the giant in any way? Coming all this way from the other side of the world just to be fooled into thinking you’ve never had a shot with someone who isn’t even your actual ex? You really think a one-time phony kiss from a stranger he’s just met makes up for all of this? Clearly expecting more than pity, what is he supposed to do now?
I’d like to say the movie’s sudden melodramatic shift drains out all the comedic energy firmly established at the start but there isn’t any to be sacrificed since no laughs have been forthcoming by this point and none will arrive by the end. It is exceedingly rare for me not to break at a Billy Crystal joke even in his worst movies like Father’s Day and Analyze That which had their moments. This is the first time for me he’s completely bombed. Mr. Saturday Night was brilliant. This is horrible.
On the road to Vegas, the shady Crystal books Max for a low-rent pro wrestling show, a humiliating gig he initially turns down. He has to work with seven little people including future Mini-Me Verne Troyer. Max isn’t a fighter so his opponents do their worst. And he’s overly sensitive to being referred to as a devil, his character gimmick, which results in a freak-out. It’s why he stays at the monastery most of the time. People aren’t kind.
And yet, when a guilt-ridden Crystal pulls him out of there before the match ends (Max abandons him at one point) and gets attacked by the two thugs who made this booking possible, there’s a suddenly returning Max hurling one of them from over his head and bouncing him off the top of a parked car. Forget this movie star nonsense, pair him with The Big Show.
A late medical diagnosis (Max needs to be insured so he can work the Seagal movie) is another shift away from the non-existent humour. Maybe because it’s too late, but at no time is there any discussion about having surgery on Max’s brain. Those who suffer from giantism experience excessive activity in their pituitary gland. An operation on it can considerably slow down the effects of rapid growing. Max is only 36. Shouldn’t have preemptive steps been taken to prevent the enlargement of his heart in the first place?
As a result of all this, we appear headed for tragedy. But the movie doesn’t want to end unhappily, even though it takes on a more resigned tone. I find it hard to believe that a relentless man in urgent need of a cash insurgence would suddenly develop a conscience and sacrifice future financial stability, albeit temporarily, for someone who won’t last a year. Why go to all that trouble just to piss it all away for a short friendship of convenience?
And God knows he doesn’t need the giant to repair his marriage. He just needs to be home more.
Living a lie from the very beginning (that fancy sports car he crashes is a rental), for the most part, Crystal overcompensates constantly for a lack of results until his break with Strong and when he gets lucky with Seagal whose producer continually ups his offer for higher pay and more steady work extending into Television. But that’s all thrown away with no plan B (or is it C at this point?).
His father was right. Time to punch out for good. You ain’t cut out for this, bud.
My Giant tanked during its theatrical run in 1998 and now I see why. It’s dreadfully unfunny, its forced bittersweet sentimentally totally unearned and its two leads not very sympathetic. Max can’t take no for an answer and neither can Crystal. If a woman you’ve long had a thing for doesn’t respond to your first message, don’t send her a second one. And if the best your agent can do is get you a three-picture deal with creepy Steven Seagal, follow Ryder Strong’s lead. Seek representation elsewhere.
Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Friday, July 15, 2022
12:42 a.m.
THE WRITINGS OF DENNIS EARL 