A movie about a songwriter who is too shy to sing, solved by putting her on a bar in wet jeans. Violet Sanford flees New Jersey for Manhattan with a demo tape and roughly nine dollars, gets robbed, gets hired at a saloon whose entire business model is "hydrate the patrons against their will," and discovers that the cure for stage fright is a crowd of drunk men chanting. Meanwhile her father drives down from the Garden State to yell about it, and Adam Garcia keeps showing up like a Australian golden retriever who learned to make omelets.
Bruckheimer looked at Flashdance, said "what if less plot and more hose," and cashed a check. We're here for the fire code violations, the LeAnn Rimes of it all, and the moment John Goodman quietly outacts the entire soundtrack. Also: nobody in this bar is ever served a drink. We counted.
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