Terrible discovery
Overnight gives a blowhard filmmaker some unflattering name-face recognition.

By Cheryl Eddy

'I HOPE TO conquer the world," aspiring filmmaker-rock star-Hollywood playa-dictator Troy Duffy announces at the start of Overnight. And in early 1997, Duffy's success seemed almost certain. With a glowing, post-Pulp Fiction Miramax in his corner, the bartender landed a deal so alarmingly generous that one TV reporter giddily compared Duffy to Lana Turner, conservator of the silver screen's most storied "discovery" legend. Not only would the first-time director get to shoot (and cast and get final cut on) his hot-shit script, titled The Boondock Saints, but his band would also produce the soundtrack, and, for good measure, Miramax god-emperor Harvey Weinstein would buy the humble Los Angeles watering hole that had, until recently, employed the 25-year-old. World domination seemed likely, almost inevitable; in a blink the up-and-comer earned a reputation as the luckiest bastard in the history of lucky bastards.

Hovering in the background were plenty of characters eager to hitch their wagons to Duffy's rising star, among them his bandmates (including his younger brother, Taylor Duffy) and the band's comanagers, Mark Brian Smith and Tony Montana, who decided Duffy's astonishing tale would be worth immortalizing in documentary form. The end result, Overnight, is nothing less than a case study of the psychological effects of fame, not to mention a painfully detailed tutorial on the perils of showbiz.

First things first, and this isn't news to anyone who's ever spotted a copy of The Boondock Saints chillin' in the local video store bargain bin: Duffy's too-good-to-be-true coup went bust about, oh, six weeks after it was announced. But don't feel too sorry for Quentin Tarantino's would-be heir apparent. As Smith and Montana's ever present camera ably captures, Hollywood may be fickle, but there's no mistaking a huge contributing factor to Duffy's downfall: a more arrogant blowhard has rarely been captured in such full flower. With Miramax jingling in his pocket, Duffy makes grand declarations along the lines of "Everyone thinks we're fuck-ups, except the right people" and "I'm Hollywood's new hard-on!" He's also shown licking his chops over the "name-face recognition" that will soon be his, explaining the trajectory of his success, sans humility ("I went from a bartender, surpassed everyone, and went to the top"), and talking shit about Keanu Reeves and Ethan Hawke (while inexplicably palling around with Jake Busey and Jerry O'Connell).

When the terror of "turnaround" takes hold, no amount of kissing Weinstein's ass can recurry favor. "This ship is drifting away," Duffy's agent explains, with the air of a guy who's seen it happen a million times before. In Duffy's eyes, the blame lays squarely with film exec Meryl Poster. "That fuckin' cunt from Miramax doesn't like me," he observes. "She considers me a boozing asshole that never deserved this in the first place." The viewer can't help but agree with the second part of that statement; Duffy is so abrasive, even the anti-Miramax legions will have a hard time feeling sympathy for his struggle.

But Duffy remains determined, and Saints' agonizing journey toward completion (with less money, less distributing power, and the stigma of being a discarded "Harvey project") takes up a good portion of Overnight's run time. The other prong in Duffy's plan for world domination, his music career, also figures prominently, and it's this story line that really kills. His bandmates, who seem like a decent lot despite their staggering daily alcohol intake, are buoyed enough by his initial success to stick with him – though this loyalty seems ill-advised as events unfold and Duffy makes it known that the band would be nowhere without the benefit of his magical golden touch.

In the film's single instance of Duffy being called on his bullshit to his face, a broken-down Taylor Duffy musters the courage to air his frustrations. But there's no healing, or catharsis, in store; big bro's response to this emotional display is "Screw you – I don't give a flying fuck." At another strained summit, held after the group finally finds a label that will sign them, the only two members of Duffy's posse who aren't musicians – Overnight directors Smith and Montana – tentatively ask if they'll ever be compensated for their past work managing the band. "At this juncture, you don't deserve any money," Duffy cooly replies. "I don't care how you feel ... fuck you!"

This incident in particular calls into question Smith and Montana's motives for making Overnight, but in a recent phone interview, both filmmakers insist a revenge piece wasn't their intention. (Duffy has reportedly dubbed the doc "an 82-minute smear campaign.") Smith and Montana both participated in the making and marketing of The Boondock Saints and reveal that much of the material left on Overnight's cutting-room floor was overtly negative (DUIs, racist jokes – fun stuff like that). In other words, if there had been no scenes of Duffy getting ripped, insulting people, and imparting gems like "The line of ass-kissers gets longer every day," their movie would have topped out at about 15 minutes.

But total impartiality was never the goal. Overnight started out as an upbeat success story, starring a charismatic friend they hoped would make it big. Inspired at first by films like Hoop Dreams and Hearts of Darkness, the battle-scarred pair never intended to be shackled to the project for so many years. "We just followed the events as they happened," Montana says. "We became captors and hostages of the project when we realized what we were dealing with: a monster. We could not escape from [Duffy], because we had to finish the documentary."

Ultimately, Overnight is a cautionary – and educational – Tinseltown tale on many levels. "We were ridiculed by our friends for not signing a contract when we agreed to manage [Duffy's] band," Smith says, of the filmmaking duo's own naïveté. In Duffy's case, Smith and Montana believe he assumed he'd wind up so successful that his vile conduct would somehow be justified. But after his movie and record both bombed, he turned on his pals – no doubt realizing they had hours of Duffy-gone-wild footage at their disposal, not to mention the legal releases he'd signed when the doc began shooting. That's why Overnight doesn't feature any music from Duffy's band, or footage from the unremarkable Boondock Saints, or even a reflective final thought (or apology) from its subject.

Even if you can't get past the "smear campaign" charges, or you're left wondering exactly what happened between Duffy and Weinstein to sour the deal (Montana says the vagueness was intentional: "It spoke for itself, in terms of Troy's behavior"), Overnight remains a must-see for anyone who's ever entertained their own klieg-light dreams. Even if it gives you nightmares.

'Overnight' opens Fri/3, Lumiere Theatre, 1572 California, S.F. (415) 267-4893; and Act 1 and 2, 2128 Center, Berk. (510) 464-5980. See Movie Clock, in Film listings, for show times.