His struggle to make himself a physical presence, through force of will, manifests the loss of identity that death incarnates in unexpected ways. Turning Patrick Swayze into a man without a body is just fucking brilliant. Only Ghost harnessed Swayze’s ecstatic physicality to a greater purpose. The story makes no sense, and the script is unreadable, but as a man living the paradox of ending violence with violence, Swayze’s body gets to tell 100 stories about loss and pride. So captivating, in fact, that he turns Roadhouse into an eminently watchable film. And when he gets to do something, Swayze’s captivating. Whether he’s fighting or refusing to fight, screwing or refusing to screw, dancing or dancing more (Patrick Swayze never refuses to dance), he’s always doing something. Yet, Johnny’s the most powerful character in the film, because Swayze never stops moving. While most of the characters in Dirty Dancing are given unsentimental and natural dialogue, Johnny Castle is constructed through the gaze of Baby, and as such, talks like he’s in a romance novel. When instinct towards force escapes faster than he can pull back-as in The Outsiders, when Darrel, frustrated by his own fear and powerlessness knocks Ponyboy down-it sets tragedy into motion. With his eyes expressing a mix of contempt and mercy, and his body quivering to stillness as he recoils from his own dangerous emotions, Swayze’s presence is always powerful and incalculably consequential. “You’re not worth it, man,” he spits, “you’re not worth it.” Staring down a likely victim and backing off just before the fatal blow lands or shot is fired was Swayze’s signature. Reprising a similar line in Dirty Dancing, Swayze pulls his fist back just before breaking the nose of Robbie, a sleazy yet inconsequential villain. Even in the 1984 hockey film Youngblood, he manages to convey good-natured lessons about responsibility to family, team, and the sport itself, telling the rookie Rob Lowe not to bother kicking the ass of the opposing player who sent Swayze to the hospital with possible brain injuries. In Red Dawn, Swayze trains, leads, and dies for a guerrilla resistance to a Communist invasion of Colorado-it doesn’t get more serious than that. In The Outsiders, he plays Darrel, Ponyboy’s oldest brother and guardian, who is determined to rescue Ponyboy from the cycle of juvenile delinquency that was consuming their family. Still, the casting choice made sense in that Swayze always projected the morally serious earnestness that the true-life story of poverty and triumph in Calcutta would require.ĭespite getting his first breaks in teen films of the 80s, Swayze played characters with adult responsibilities. The fondly remembered “No one puts Baby in a corner,” would have landed on a cutting room floor coming out of anyone else’s mouth and Roadhouse remains a cult favorite largely based on three words: “pain don’t hurt.” It’s no surprise Swayze made his Calcutta doctor sound ready for a shoot-out against evil monks. Swayze throws the pamphlets he got during his stay at an ashram into the trash, hissing with resignation: “Meditate on this.” Swayze was incredible at one-liners. Ten minutes into the film, he unpacks his bags in an Indian hotel room. He could not shed his unguardedly enthusiastic style to convincingly play a spiritually wayward doctor who finds purpose working in Calcutta. Swayze’s turn at socially relevant drama-1992’s City of Joy-just didn’t work. Swayze’s ability to command his body was a rare gift that’s difficult to write about, or to make proper use of, as witnessed by his vastly uneven career. Not with his People’s Sexiest Man Alive musculature-’nuff said-but through his virtuosic control of his physical self. He brought film back in touch with the male form. If that were all he had done, it would have been enough for us. Kenny Ortega, who choreographed Dirty Dancing and directs the High School Musical franchise, said that Swayze “did as much for dancing as any man of our generation.” As we say at Passover, Dayenu. Because Swayze, it seemed, could overcome the limits of the human body. As much as anyone, I’d fallen in line with the myth that sheer geniality and stubborn will would keep Swayze alive even after his health had failed him. He sat with Barbara Walters and talked about dying with as much charm as he’d ever done anything, and all of a sudden there wasn’t a dog in Hollywood mean enough to bite him. Even before his death on September 14th, a mood of tribute surrounded Patrick Swayze.
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