After getting kicked out of college — again! — for his dorm mates burning his snake (not a frat ritual), judge’s son Artie Logan (Police Academy: Mission to Moscow’s Charlie Schlatter, the welfare Matthew Broderick) is sent to a university named Fairfield. Sporting a beret, jean jacket and cigarette, Artie gets all JD Brando on his old man: “Don’t lay this on me!”
Seemingly seconds after arriving on the Fairfield campus, however, Artie’s tune changes because he’s fucking the dean’s wife (Joanna Cassidy, Blade Runner). Even more promising (and age-appropriate) is the Prettiest Girl in School, Tally (Josie Bissett, Hitcher in the Dark), takes a liking to Artie’s lecherous stalker moves.
Young love — ain’t it grand? As long as one doesn’t burn to a crisp in a mysterious sorority-house fire? And as long as the other one isn’t wrongly pegged by the police as the prime suspect? This is where Artie should have saved his “Don’t lay this on me!” line.
Not only is hotshot detective P.J. Decker assigned to the case, but incredulously agrees to give Artie 24 hours to prove his innocence! That’s not so easy to do, what with extra corpses running parallel to his every move — and in such gruesome, slasher-plucked exits: a drilled forehead o’er here, a grenade down the gym pants o’er there.
Until recently discovered by the viral corners of the internet, All-American Murder was known primarily for being the first (and only) not-made-for-TV feature film directed by Anson Williams, aka Potsie from the long-running sitcom Happy Days. Now it’s known for its rightful place in history: giving us one of the most memorable, calling-all-kooks performances by Christopher Walken. The Oscar winner walks into the flick like a stone-cold stud, taking charge of a megaphone to diffuse a hostage situation by taunting the gunman about boning his wife: “I love that little mole on her butt, don’t you? And how about that sensitive left nipple?”
This character intro is so great, you’ll not only long for Walken to take the story’s focus away from Schlatter, but for his own police procedural series on CBS. (At least that would give me and Mom something to discuss.) Later scenes double-down on Walken’s oddness, with a running joke (?) of Decker sharing an anecdote about “popping the cherry” of a hooker’s badge-fetishizing, 18-year-old sister.
More on the subject of jokes: Schlatter delivers his share as if he’s still stuck in George Burns’ withered turtle body from 18 Again!; Artie’s told, “I’d like to chop your balls off with a pick ax!” and he replies, “I respect your honesty” in such a way that you’re half-looking for the cigar. For some reason, many of Artie’s quips are food-based, e.g., “Thanks … for the whole salami,” “(He’s) one sick peanut!” and “Of course it’s my knife, you sausage!”
Schlatter tries to be funny, yet isn’t; Walken doesn’t try to be funny, yet is. The jury’s still out whether the tonally confused All-American Murder is the movie Williams intended to make, but because it’s progressively off-kilter, it’s never dull.
And hey, how about that sensitive left nipple? —Rod Lott