There are movies that grip you by the collar and drag you into the action. Then there’s Malone—a film that politely knocks on the door of your attention span, trips over the welcome mat, and collapses on the porch with a sigh. If you’ve ever wanted to watch Burt Reynolds do a slow-motion walking midlife crisis, this is your jam. For everyone else, it’s cinematic NyQuil with a shotgun.
The Premise: Shane Called. It Wants Its Plot Back.
Malone is basically Shane in a flannel shirt with a mustache and a vague CIA backstory nobody asked for. Burt Reynolds plays Malone, a mysterious ex-operative who’s burned out from assassinating people on behalf of Uncle Sam. Naturally, his vintage Ford Mustang breaks down in the Pacific Northwest and he ends up in a sleepy mountain town full of friendly yokels and one rich nutjob trying to buy the whole county like it’s a game of MAGA Monopoly.
Cue the local mechanic’s daughter who looks at Malone like he’s the Marlboro Man dipped in Old Spice and regret. Cue the townsfolk who just want peace and quiet. Cue the bad guys who wear tweed, talk about “the cause,” and wouldn’t know subtlety if it smacked them with a Constitution. It’s small-town tyranny, and only one mustachioed relic of the Cold War can stop it—with squints, silences, and the occasional gunshot.
Burt Reynolds: More Sighs Than Bullets
Burt Reynolds spends 80% of the film looking like he’s waiting for someone to hand him a coffee and explain what scene he’s in. The man is sleepwalking through this movie like he’s trying to collect a paycheck without moving his upper lip. He delivers his lines like he’s dictating a grocery list to his therapist.
There’s supposed to be some dark, tragic past weighing him down. You know, tortured assassin turned reluctant hero. But Reynolds doesn’t sell “haunted.” He sells “hungover and done with your nonsense.”
The Villain: Mr. Rogers With a Militia
Cliff Robertson plays Charles Delaney, a wealthy right-wing land baron who’s quietly building a fascist compound in the woods. He wears cardigans, talks like your uncle at Thanksgiving, and somehow wants to take over the country with a handful of dudes in camo and outdated shotguns. He’s like if Ned Flanders joined a white supremacist book club.
His evil plan? Vaguely hinted at. Something about a “new order.” Probably involves AM radio, bad haircuts, and a lot of canned goods. But don’t worry—none of it makes enough sense to matter. His henchmen are about as threatening as a pack of substitute teachers on detention duty.
The Action: Taken From the Dollar Bin of Excitement
You’d think a movie starring Burt Reynolds, gunplay, and a secret agent past would have at least some exciting set pieces. But nope. The action in Malone is so low-energy it might have been choreographed by your grandfather after two martinis and a knee replacement.
There’s one scene where Malone shoots up a gas station and then just… drives away. No urgency. No dramatic music. It’s like he forgot to tip and came back with a shotgun. The climactic assault on Delaney’s militia compound looks like it was staged during a lunch break on a local hunting range.
The Romance: If You Can Call It That
There’s a half-hearted attempt at a “romance” between Malone and the mechanic’s teenage daughter, who clearly has a thing for men twice her age and half-as-interested. It’s not just awkward—it’s skin-crawling. Burt looks at her like she’s a particularly persistent telemarketer, and she looks at him like he’s the last decent-smelling flannel in the Pacific Northwest.
It’s less “chemistry” and more “court-mandated distance.”
The Pacing: Like Watching Paint Dry… in Real Time
Every scene feels like it was directed by someone whose only note was “slower, but make it duller.” The movie crawls, gasps, and trips over itself trying to get to the big showdown. When it finally does, it’s over in about six bullets and one slow-motion shuffle.
It’s like they ran out of budget, ideas, and interest—all at once.
Final Thoughts: When Action Stars Phone It In
Malone is what happens when a movie wants to be a thoughtful thriller but forgets to include the “thoughtful” or the “thriller” part. It’s a relic of the Reagan-era fantasy that one strong man with a furrowed brow could save the world from vague evil. Except here, that strong man looks like he’d rather be golfing.
It’s not terrible enough to be so-bad-it’s-good. It’s just tired. Confused. Like your dad when he tries to work the DVR.
Final Score: 1.5 out of 5 Flannel Shirts of Disappointment
Watch it only if you’re doing a Reynolds retrospective and already finished all the fun stuff. Or if you want to nap with occasional gunfire in the background.
