THE CREW

by Peter Keough

Since the passing of Walter Matthau, Hollywood's consummate grumpy old man, there's been no shortage of actors trying to take his place. First there was the quartet of aging astronauts in Space Cowboys; now we have the geriatric goombahs in The Crew. Director Michael Dinner, though, is no Clint Eastwood, so what The Crew lacks in wit and subtlety it makes up for in vulgarity and offensiveness.

Richard Dreyfuss as Bobby, the brains of the outfit, and Burt Reynolds as Bats, the muscle, see their careers go into the toilets in this one -- headfirst and literally. Dan Hedaya as the dumb Brick and Seymour Cassel as the mute Mouth get off easier for good behavior. Long past their '60s heyday, the four hole up in a retirement hotel in Miami, a Dantesque purgatory where they are punished for their previous vices: the horny Mouth has a prostate condition, the short-tempered Bats has a pacemaker, etc. It's hell for the viewer, too. The Crew doesn't start cooking until it abandons all semblance of taste and Reynolds farts or the four quail at the prospect of shooting a corpse because it looks even older than themselves. The latter is a ploy to scare their landlord into extending their lease, and the inadvertent results include a gang war, a kidnapping, gratuitous parodies of Scorsese, Coppola, and De Palma, and, for the warmhearted, a father-and-child reunion. A guilty pleasure, The Crew makes a strong case for second childhood. At Cinema World, Framingham, Framingham Premium, the Hoyt Westborough, and the Solomon Pond Hoyt.