There are dogs and there are dogs, but there’s only one Reuben. An Old English Sheepdog of the most supreme vintage, Reuben (of 1983’s Reuben, Reuben, in case you thought I had a stroke when typing that first line) trots to the front of the pack forevermore, leaving all pretenders in his drooling wake. Lassie? Sure, she rescued kids in wells and ran like the wind, but even she has to step aside. Benji? Please. That mutt isn’t fit to share the same doghouse, let alone the silver screen. Beethoven? Toto? Old Yeller? To hell with them all. Only Cujo dares enter the conversation at this point, for at least he had the good sense to scare the living shit out of a child.
But at the end of the day, there’s but a single dog who helped a man commit suicide. Some might say even encouraged it. But for this glorious pup, a man lives another day; breathing, eating, and seducing every last woman on the Eastern seaboard. Instead, dead as lunch meat. Strung up like the victim of a mob hit. The fulfillment of destiny, joining the likes of Dylan Thomas in the history books. Reuben, take your bow. The rest of us extend a hearty paw to you.
Reuben, Reuben is the sad, sordid tale of one Gowan McGland (Tom Conti), a drunken Scottish poet who hasn’t written a poem in years, which helps explain why he’s reduced to speaking in front of women’s groups at New England golf clubs. The crowds are pathetically in the dozens, but the modest revenue keeps the poor lad from starving, as does his tendency to frequent expensive restaurants and steal the tips from nearby tables. Everything is on someone else’s dime, of course, but he maintains an aura of brooding sexuality, which helps him sustain his popularity among aging mothers and disenchanted wives.
If he had to peddle his wares among the young and single, he’d be bereft. Among the married set, he’s the ultimate lothario. Because as we know, even the merest hint of fame is catnip to the ladies (especially for those running out of options), as is one’s status as a doomed romantic. At minimum, such a figure holds infinitely more appeal than the accountant you’re sharing a bed with. Or the dentist. The professional man drinks because he’s unhappy. Gowan, because he’s tortured. And only the latter buckles the knees with sufficient force. Pathetic means you get to play nursemaid.
Gowan’s adventures, such as they are, involve a great deal of self-pity, but he keeps the film alive by never overplaying his hand. Conti, far from the Dudley Moore/Arthur school of drunkenness, straddles that very delicate line between woeful and amusing, never insisting on one or the other. We can see he’s aware of his shortcomings, but he’s retained the unique ability to brush away pretense and get to the heart of any matter. There’s enough truth in his tongue to justify another day. And yes, he freely admits that poetry was his best way of avoiding actual work, and that faking it becomes much easier when no one can really lay claim to understanding your prose. It’s all about reputation. Once established, it’s nearly impossible to dislodge, and pretty much anything you offer up is lionized as worthy of the canon.
Still, because there’s still a bit of vibrant blood coursing through his veins, Gowan falls in love. Well, not love, per se, but as the object of his affection is a young idealistic college student, he can delude himself a bit longer that death is not around the corner. She gets a mentor, he gets firm flesh and the necessary push to keep writing. A wonderfully balanced trade, though looked upon with scorn by all those who believe that as we age, the only passion available to us should be partners in despair. If chicks can fuck a man solely because he’s famous, Christ Almighty, un-clutch the pearls when a man just wants to feel like his next step needn’t be shopping for coffins. Youth has always been more attractive, so stop trying to reverse our very nature.
As expected, the budding love affair is an exercise in futility, as youth must be allowed to flower, and alcoholism is rarely cured, even by good sex. She has a career to find, and he hasn’t been sufficiently inspired in a decade. While I don’t fault the old and dying another shot at lust, I do believe the best thing any of us can do is retreat at the right time. Know when to take leave. Admit that we’ve had our moment in the sun and give up before the rot sets in.
Not unexpectedly, Gowan’s love announces that she’s pregnant, but instead of the typical reaction, she’s ready to hit the abortionist that very night. Finally, someone who gets it. And yes, finally a woman who does so. The world is littered with wee ones who resulted from irrational couplings, and here, at last, is someone who says no. Not this time. A line must be drawn. That maybe, just maybe, having a child with a deadbeat is not, after all, a good idea. Or a road to happiness. The film deserves a Nobel Prive for that turn alone.
And so we arrive at Reuben. That long forgotten Sheepdog who emerges as perhaps cinema’s loveliest Deus ex machina since the invention of sound. Gowan, having been unceremoniously dumped by a woman who neither wanted his child, nor his sagging balls, has decided that enough is enough. He must die. Using his traction contraption to fashion a noose, he turns on his tape recorder for a final confession. Testimony to let the world know he just can’t fake it anymore. But in the midst of his farewell soliloquy, he changes his mind. Maybe there is more to give. Perhaps the words can flow once again. It’s not all black, is it? He wants to live! Reuben has other ideas. He runs in, sees his beloved neighbor, and leaps aboard the chair to lick and slobber and do all those things unique to the canine. For a second, it appears sentiment will carry the day.
Only Gowan is still strapped in, balancing precariously between renewed hope and rapid asphyxiation. The dog, full of love, knocks the chair out from under him. He falls. Death is swift, merciless. The only creature who gave an unconditional damn is the very creature who sends Gowan to his grave. Though unknowing, I’d like to think Reuben heard the rambling and knew what a mistake it would be for Gowan to keep going. After all, when sales are slow, the best thing for the bottom line is an unexpected exit. Reuben, by sheer force of will, may have secured the expired poet a long overdue Pulitzer. At the very least, a full house at the funeral. And the conferences! Packed houses, with enough applause to be heard from the other side. A legend who flamed out with allure and mystique, like the wordsmiths of old. He’s in the club at last, with more love than he could ever know.
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