There are certain films that exist like fragments of a larger dream—half historical docudrama, half fever dream, and completely immersed in a singular mood. Ruby, the 1992 film directed by John Mackenzie, is one of those odd, uneven, yet strangely compelling entries. It’s a movie that reaches for meaning amid the madness of American conspiracy, focusing on one of the most enigmatic footnotes in history: Jack Ruby, the man who murdered Lee Harvey Oswald.
Anchored by a heavy and often melancholic performance from Danny Aiello as the titular Ruby, and elevated immeasurably by Sherilyn Fenn’s magnetic turn as a troubled dancer, Ruby attempts to explore the dark underbelly of 1960s America—not through the lens of Presidents and assassins, but through gangsters, girls, and ghosts of the Cold War. It doesn’t always succeed. The pacing is inconsistent, the plot occasionally incoherent, and the conspiracy-soaked tone walks a precarious line between pulpy and profound. But when the film works, it does so on the strength of its atmosphere and the committed performances of its two leads—Aiello and especially Fenn, who adds an aching vulnerability to a film steeped in male paranoia and violence.
The Premise: Dancing with History
Ruby isn’t a straightforward biopic. It’s a dramatized, speculative plunge into the mind and milieu of Jack Ruby, portrayed here as a nightclub owner with mafia ties, deep insecurities, and a complex moral compass. He’s a man who wants respect but lives in the shadows—bribing cops, dodging gangsters, and putting on a glitzy front in his Dallas nightclub while slowly coming undone beneath the pressure of larger forces moving in.
The film’s narrative doesn’t so much follow a linear plot as it weaves together Ruby’s paranoia, his desperation to matter, and the lingering suspicion that he was a pawn in a much larger game. That game, of course, is the conspiracy surrounding the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The film’s speculative elements introduce connections between Ruby and CIA operatives, mob bosses, anti-Castro extremists, and double-dealing government men.
But Ruby isn’t really about the Kennedy assassination. It’s about the idea of Ruby. The man. The myth. The contradiction. A man who loved America but played dirty in the corners of it. A man who shot Oswald not out of patriotism, the film suggests, but out of confusion, fear, and perhaps a manipulated sense of loyalty. At the heart of the film is a question not of guilt, but of identity.
Danny Aiello: A Broken Man in a Bent World
Danny Aiello, known for his explosive performances in films like Do the Right Thing and Moonstruck, takes a more introspective approach here. His Ruby is a deeply insecure man—tough on the outside, but filled with self-loathing and a desire for significance. Aiello plays him not as a cold-blooded killer, but as a tragic figure, slowly crumbling under the weight of his own aspirations and the guilt that creeps in through the cracks.
There’s something operatic about Aiello’s Ruby. He walks through the film like a man already dead, trying to cling to meaning in a world that’s constantly moving past him. He’s loyal, sentimental, and emotionally unstable. He talks to cops like they’re his buddies, tries to control his dancers like they’re his daughters, and rages at the television when the news doesn’t make sense. Aiello gives the role a kind of twitchy dignity—pathetic and endearing in equal measure.
Still, Aiello’s performance, while heartfelt, occasionally feels too theatrical for the material. There are moments when he seems to be acting for the back row in a stage production, rather than for the camera. But when he softens—particularly in his scenes with Sherilyn Fenn—he becomes much more than a historical caricature. He becomes painfully human.
Sherilyn Fenn: The Soul in a Cynical Story
If Aiello is the motor of the film, Sherilyn Fenn is its soul.
Fenn plays Candy Cane, a dancer at Ruby’s nightclub, and while her role could easily have been reduced to a background archetype—the damaged girl with a heart of gold—Fenn refuses to let Candy be anything less than real. She infuses the character with heartbreak, resilience, and grace, portraying her as a woman trying to reclaim her self-worth in a world that sees her as disposable.
From her first appearance—bathed in stage lights and shimmering in sequins—Fenn commands attention. But it’s in her quieter moments that she truly shines. Her scenes with Aiello are where the film finds its emotional heartbeat. Candy and Ruby are not lovers, not really. Their relationship is stranger and more intimate than that: a protector and a survivor, a patron and a lost girl, two people clinging to each other for warmth in a cold world.
Fenn plays Candy as someone who’s been through hell but refuses to stop dreaming. She’s fragile but never weak. Her vulnerability is underlined by moments of startling honesty, as when she quietly confronts Ruby about his failures to protect her, or when she performs in front of leering men and you can see the shame in her eyes barely hidden behind a forced smile.
There’s one particularly powerful scene—easily the best in the film—where Candy tells Ruby what it’s like to be looked at but never seen, to dance not for fun but survival. Fenn delivers it with such wounded precision that it stings. You don’t just understand her pain—you feel it. And for that moment, the film transcends its conspiracy trappings and becomes something much more profound: a story about being used, ignored, and left behind.
Fenn elevates Ruby in a way few actresses could have. She turns a minor supporting role into a central emotional pillar. And while the film is ostensibly about the man who shot Oswald, it’s Candy who leaves the deeper impression. She is, in many ways, the only character with any real clarity—because she knows exactly what the world thinks of her and fights to keep her soul intact anyway.
Style and Substance: A Mixed Bag of Noir and Newsreels
Visually, Ruby tries to capture the mood of late-‘50s/early-‘60s noir, but it does so with mixed results. The nightclub scenes have an appropriate haze of smoke and sweat. The streets of Dallas are shot with a muted palette that suggests encroaching doom. There are bursts of stylistic flair—montage sequences, flashbacks, surreal camera angles—that attempt to evoke the unstable mental state of its protagonist. But these touches are inconsistent, sometimes feeling inspired and sometimes feeling like direct-to-video experimentation.
The use of archival footage is both a strength and a weakness. Spliced throughout the film are real news clips, images of JFK, Oswald, and Ruby. These moments ground the film in historical reality but occasionally feel jarring—reminding the viewer of the real tragedy and making the fictionalized narrative feel like it’s leaning too heavily on myth.
The score, by Johnny Harris, oscillates between jazzy lounge numbers and somber orchestral cues, which reinforces the film’s identity crisis: part mob movie, part political thriller, part character study. And yet, despite its tonal confusion, there’s something oddly compelling about the way Ruby drifts through genres, trying to locate its heart amid so many stylistic flourishes.
Historical Accuracy vs. Speculative Fiction
Like Oliver Stone’s JFK—which came out just a year prior—Ruby traffics in speculation. It doesn’t pretend to be a documentary, but it also doesn’t fully commit to its own mythmaking. There’s a strange hesitance in the screenplay, as if the film wants to say something damning about American corruption and conspiracy, but isn’t quite sure how far to push it.
The mafia connections, CIA collusion, and anti-Castro insurgents are all touched upon but never explored in depth. Characters come and go like whispers in a storm, hinting at grand narratives but never fully spelling them out. As a result, Ruby often feels more like a mood piece than a coherent story. It’s not about what happened—it’s about what could have happened. And while that may frustrate viewers looking for answers, it also suits the fog of uncertainty that still surrounds the Kennedy assassination.
If the film has a message, it’s that history is not made by heroes and villains, but by broken people in the wrong place at the wrong time, pushed by forces they barely understand.
Final Thoughts: Imperfect, But Worth Watching
Ruby is not a perfect film. Its direction is uneven, its narrative unfocused, and its historical ambition often undermined by budget limitations and script hesitancy. But it’s also a film with a beating heart, anchored by two emotionally rich performances that make you care even when the story meanders.
Danny Aiello brings tragic heft to a figure often reduced to a footnote. But it’s Sherilyn Fenn who truly elevates the film. She brings warmth, pathos, and a kind of bruised dignity that lingers long after the credits roll. In a film about a man who committed one of the most shocking acts of the 20th century, it’s a woman with a bruised smile and dancing shoes who ends up telling the real story—about power, loneliness, and the cost of being forgotten.
Ruby may not unlock the secrets of the Kennedy assassination, but it offers a mournful, moody look at the people swept up in its aftermath. And for that, for Sherilyn Fenn’s haunting performance alone, it deserves to be remembered.
Final Grade: B
While it falters in pacing and cohesion, Ruby remains a compelling curiosity, bolstered by strong performances and moments of unexpected emotional depth. Sherilyn Fenn, in particular, gives a performance that turns a hazy conspiracy thriller into something deeply human.
