1998’s “Holy Man” is less divine intervention, more cinematic punishment
Preaching to the Conned
There’s a scene in Holy Man where Eddie Murphy, dressed in flowing white, wanders barefoot into a television studio and proceeds to spout pseudo-spiritual nonsense to a crowd of mall-walking zombies. And in that moment, something clicks—not in the movie, but in your soul. You realize you’ve just paid money (or time, which is worse) to watch a film about late-night infomercials starring a once-great comedic genius reduced to the cinematic equivalent of a QVC pitchman having a midlife crisis.
In a decade filled with flops, Holy Man still stands out as one of the most mystifying wastes of talent, celluloid, and audience goodwill. It’s not just a bad movie. It’s the kind of movie that makes you question whether anyone involved has ever met a real human being.
The Gospel According to Garbage
Jeff Goldblum plays Ricky, a stressed-out executive for the Good Buy Shopping Network—which is basically the Home Shopping Network if you sucked out all the joy and replaced it with sweaty desperation. His life is an endless cycle of bottom lines and fake smiles until he literally hits a wandering holy man (Murphy) with his car.
Enter “G,” a spiritual drifter who seems to have a direct line to some metaphysical call center, yet somehow spends the entire movie saying absolutely nothing. He spouts vague platitudes like, “You gotta feel it, not sell it,” which might sound deep if you’re trapped in a deprivation tank on mushrooms, but here just feels like something a high school guidance counselor would put on a sticky note.
Murphy’s character is supposed to be a spiritual guru, but he has all the depth of a bath bomb. He’s not Gandhi. He’s not even Patch Adams. He’s more like a guy who cornered you in a Whole Foods parking lot and won’t stop talking about chakras while asking for gas money.
A Flop of Biblical Proportions
There are moments in Holy Man that feel like unintentional horror. You watch in quiet dread as talented actors deliver dialogue that sounds like it was scraped off a self-help pamphlet during a garage sale. You wait for a punchline that never comes. You hope for character growth, but you’d settle for a pulse.
Jeff Goldblum, God bless him, tries to act his way out of the script like a cat trapped in a cardboard box. He twitches. He pleads. He emotes. But the box is sealed shut with studio notes and spiritual buzzwords. Kelly Preston plays the love interest, but her chemistry with Goldblum has all the heat of two mannequins sharing a glance at an HR seminar.
And then there’s Eddie Murphy, who drifts through this thing like he’s trying to fulfill a community service sentence without making eye contact. This is not Beverly Hills Cop Murphy. It’s not even Dr. Dolittle Murphy. This is Eddie Murphy in full, post-Nutty Professor existential crisis mode—phoning in his lines from some lonely mountaintop where laughter goes to die.
Holy Cow, This Is Bad
The movie wants to be a spiritual satire, a takedown of materialism, a story of inner peace triumphing over corporate greed. What it ends up being is a 113-minute infomercial for forced enlightenment. It tries to sell sincerity the same way it sells mood rings and miracle wrinkle cream. And in doing so, it exposes its own fraudulence.
This isn’t a holy man. It’s a hokey man. A fraud wrapped in a bathrobe, sprinkled with glitter, and marketed as a family comedy. If this is what the afterlife looks like, I’ll take my chances with the fire.
Final Judgment
Holy Man is the cinematic equivalent of a meditation retreat hosted in a strip mall. It’s slow, phony, awkwardly lit, and tries way too hard to be both meaningful and funny—succeeding at neither. Watching it is like being stuck in an elevator with a motivational speaker who just discovered incense.
If you’re looking for a spiritual awakening, go read a fortune cookie. It’s more insightful and, blessedly, over in ten seconds.
Rating: 1 out of 5 blessed QVC blenders
(For the accidental joy of watching Jeff Goldblum try to act his way out of an existential pothole)
