On The Nickel pays homage to the cameraderie and last-ditch decency among the dying in this case, late-stage alcoholics. Eking out a life of sorts on Los Angeles' Skid Row, the characters, for the most part, are not only chemically dependent but also homeless and, often, mentally ill. They also constitute one of the many sub-groups of society which the dominant culture prefers to keep invisible; the movie shows them as human beings with personalities and passions, and their own codes of honor. That's its principal strength but also its weakness it comes close to sentimentalizing what is, when all is said and done, a devastating disease.
Donald Moffat, an ex-habitué of the Row now in grumpy sobriety for 18 months, is lured out of his spartan room by rumors that an old drinking buddy (Ralph Waite, who directed) may be in trouble, or dead. With another sober but troubled pal (Hal Williams), he starts scouring his old haunts the missions that try, or just purport, to help drunks and the city parks, beseiged by cops, where the drunks pass out for the night. He finds his friend, but the rumors were premature; Waite dies the following day. The movie ends with his ashes being liberated from a city crematorium (we're told that alcoholics burn swiftly and with a `bright blue flame') and given a boisterous send-off , for some unexplained reason to the haunting Australian anthem `Waltzing Matilda.'
A low-budget production, On The Nickel sometimes lapses into amateurish improvisation of the cinema-verité style; it's also episodic, with long stretches full of raffish or poignant atmosphere when the forward momentum the narrative stalls. But these are forgivable flaws in an honorable and, at times, memorable glimpse into the bung of the bottle.
Donald Moffat, an ex-habitué of the Row now in grumpy sobriety for 18 months, is lured out of his spartan room by rumors that an old drinking buddy (Ralph Waite, who directed) may be in trouble, or dead. With another sober but troubled pal (Hal Williams), he starts scouring his old haunts the missions that try, or just purport, to help drunks and the city parks, beseiged by cops, where the drunks pass out for the night. He finds his friend, but the rumors were premature; Waite dies the following day. The movie ends with his ashes being liberated from a city crematorium (we're told that alcoholics burn swiftly and with a `bright blue flame') and given a boisterous send-off , for some unexplained reason to the haunting Australian anthem `Waltzing Matilda.'
A low-budget production, On The Nickel sometimes lapses into amateurish improvisation of the cinema-verité style; it's also episodic, with long stretches full of raffish or poignant atmosphere when the forward momentum the narrative stalls. But these are forgivable flaws in an honorable and, at times, memorable glimpse into the bung of the bottle.
