What’s the Point of “The Beach Bum”?
Matthew McConaughey (at his most stoned) uncovers the abyss beneath movies’ illusory connections with the world
If you google “The Beach Bum” the first question on Google’s list of commonly asked questions is “What is the point of The Beach Bum?”, which is either proof positive that the movie succeeded or exhibit A for why it was a frivolous way to spend five million dollars, depending on who you are. The dividing line between the pro-Beach Bum camp and the anti-Beach Bum camp—not to make things unnecessarily divisive, or anything—is this question: Does a movie need to have a point?
And by “Does a movie need to have a point?” what’s really being asked is, “Does a movie need to have a point beyond entertaining the audience—which is ostensibly the point of every movie—to have value?” Does it need to address what some would call “topics of high seriousness”—fundamental conundrums of the human condition, weighty themes like morality, longstanding cultural sticking points, societal dilemmas? Or is serious high-ness enough?
In 95 minutes of oversized joints, canned beers, hobo parades, gratuitous breasts and petty crime, The Beach Bum answers that question. And it uses a heavy hitting lineup of comedy actors and celebrity appearances to do so.
Matthew McConaughey plays the lead character, Moondog, “Key West’s Most Prolific Poet”, a walking fruit leather with salt-caked, sun-bleached, shoulder-length hair, billowing tropical shirts, a phanny pack, flip-up sunglasses that when raised reveal a glassy, distant, inter-dimensional gaze, and a deranged smile hung loosely off cheekbones chiseled from laughter. It’s McConaughey at his stoner-est. Isla Fisher plays Moondog’s wealthy, mansion-dwelling, cocktail-dress-wearing, polyamorous wife and number one cheerleader. Snoop Dogg plays Lingerie, Moondog’s longtime amigo, successful marijuana connoisseur and leader of Jamaica’s friendliest gang of weed traffickers, i.e. basically himself. Jonah Hill plays Moondog’s literary agent, Lewis, who wears a panama hat and speaks in a southern drawl that sounds like he just watched Django and is slowly forgetting how to imitate DiCaprio’s character. Zac Efron plays ADHD incarnate—an anime-haircut-sporting, fast talking, golf-cart-stealing, vape-cloud-blowing delinquent named Flicker. Martin Lawrence plays Captain Wack, a dolphin-tour guide and owner of a coke-addicted parrot. Jimmy Buffet plays Jimmy Buffet.
All of these characters influence Moondog’s odyssey, but their patchwork of scenes create the effect of a sketch comedy show that feels somehow thin in the context of Moondog’s grand mission for literary resurrection and existential fulfillment.
McConaughey is the only one in the film who creates a character compelling enough to buy into—or at least interesting enough to have a hard time looking away from. He careens through life like a baby, perpetually about to topple over, making you want to reach through the screen and hold him upright. And, like a baby, you somehow want to forgive him for the horrible things he’s a party to. He doesn’t know any better, right? Every time you’re ready to chalk him up as a lowlife, a burnt out drifter wasting away in the sweaty gooch of America, he shines. In the soft pink of neon bar lights, with smoke drifting though the moist Keys air and bloated barflies marinating in the scent of spilled rum and expired tiki torches, he takes the stage, beckons the crowd closer and whispers profound nothings into the microphone like a bird of paradise in the heat of a Pabst-fueled mating ritual.
McConaughey’s ability to articulate Moondog’s uninhibited constitution is the rolling paper that holds this movie together. It’s a testament to the stoner-ness McConaughey has leaned into throughout his career. That same stoner-ness is the reason he’s one of Hollywood’s more polarizing figures. To some he’s a glassy-eyed messiah, bestowing wisdom and un-bunching the panties of an egocentric industry. To others he’s a glazed-over fool whose stoner schtick rings hollow. There’s not a lot of in-between.
The appearance of deep thoughts and a sense of secret wisdom is what gives McConaughey, Moondog and The Beach Bum a feeling of profoundness at times. But trying to tease apart any themes of real weight, philosophical underpinnings or cultural critiques from The Beach Bum is tricky once you get past the obvious overtones of hedonism. Of course, an arm chair philosopher could hyper-analyze The Beach Bum and write entire treatises on its societal ramifications. An arm chair philosopher could study a toaster oven and parse out foundational truths about humanity—think long enough about anything and its interconnectedness to the world becomes apparent. But sometimes it’s best to look at a toaster and go no further than to know that people like warm bread.
Toward the end of the movie Moondog is asked, “You’ve got an interesting life. How’d you pull it off?”
To which he replies:
“I mean look. I could tell you that I’m trying to uncover the abyss beneath my illusory connection with the world. I could tell you that it’s all written in the stars. I could tell you that I’m a reverse paranoiac—I’m quite certain that the world is conspiring to make me happy. All three of which are true but, it’s really a little simpler than that: I like to have fun, man. Fun’s the fucking gun, man.”
Therein lies the point of The Beach Bum: movies don’t need to have a point other than to entertain. Some just need a singular character and an actor uniquely qualified to play them. And if that actor, and all the cultural jetsam and flotsam that constitute their existence in your imagination, is your cup of tea, then a pointless movie can equate to a well-spent 95 minutes. Whether you like The Beach Bum comes down to the fundamental McConaughey-ness of the whole thing. You were either in or out from the start.
