Big Shots is one of those films that comes along only once, a rare few. What's so surprising in a film with an almost complete cast of unknowns, save for a few mains, and bit performers, the film is written by a guy who went onto pen some sleazy addictive sex thrillers, where this was one of his early efforts. The film which had a brief showing, a movie with morals, and is so more deserved of much better recognition, starts off with one of the most beautifully written scenes, between father and son, that's always stayed with me, so much more dramatic, as a family tragedy ensues shortly after. The unlikely duo of Obie and the black kid, Henry, I think it was, becomes a friendship like no other, as the pair run afoul of mobsters, police chases, a cigar chomping geezer who won't return a special watch, and other stuff that make's Elizabeth' Shue's Night on the town, seem small fry. Robert Joy is unforgettably funny as the clutz mobster, before becoming a raping mutant, 20 years later. He stays with me. It's the hairstyle. Big Shots is something different that becomes a real adventure, when an ending as warm as it's beginning. It doesn't pretend to be something fancy, or bigger than it is, and that's what I really liked about it. A solid well acted comedy drama, and sadly of 87's most neglected films. Paul's Winfield's small number of scenes, are worth the great performers attention.
