User Reviews

This guy (Mike Boland) is an alcoholic? REALLY? I was waiting for a drinking binge or something, but all "Bobby" did was stare lethargically at bottles of whiskey, or sometimes at his own reflection, consuming whole cupcakes in one horrific mouthful. The description of this movie is pretty much indicative of the only things that go on in it. You can bet that all discussions between characters will either be about a) being an alcoholic, b) starting a hot dog stand c) shooting marshmallows. The film does, however, use complex metaphors such as the high-concept idea that sand is money. I suddenly understood the multitude of seemingly "pointless" beach scenes with greater appreciation- Bobby was garnering love, which is a currency in some lowbrow establishments. I found fault with the inclusion of Pepe, a vagrant who consumes almost the entire stock of hot dogs, and is never chastised. Another weak point is the antagonist of the film- a Patrick Swayze lookalike who is, of all things, a candy and soda vendor with a set of hard and fast rules. As a Connecticut resident, I can attest to the locations of a Costco and a BJ's, both with discount-priced foodstuffs, without the greasy-haired threats. Finally, how is one "good at cooking hot dogs"? All the guy does is heat up hot dogs. I can do that. Anyone can. He does, however, make the relish. We never see it come into play in an actual hot dog sale. This makes sense, though, considering his business style, which is to set up shop in foggy parks that seem devoid of life (besides the rare bum). The only other customer he is able to attract is love interest Jen Shea, a cyclist whom he chases in his hot dog truck under the pretense of "returning her poster". When the lovely and talented Jen politely informs Bobby that she doesn't like hot dogs, he coerces her into becoming a daily customer, even attempting to retain the poster as collateral. Just like the marshmallows that Pepe continually shoots with deadly accuracy, this movie often degenerates into fluff. And not the good kind of fluff- the kind that stings you in the eye, making you cry strange white marshmallow-dust tears, without even the satisfaction of consuming a mini marshmallow. Besides the obvious failed subplots like Jen's alcoholic father and Bobby's hallucinogenic flashbacks, I can say that this movie has about achieved what it set out to do: make an inspiring, gentle, and ultimately redemptive meditation on hot dog as art.