Setting aside, for now, the significance of that seemingly absurd title, it's simply a promising opening, establishing a struggle of mind and body, sacredness and profanity, sophistication and shit-kickingness that sustains the movie through its hackneyed romantic arc. A player in an environment seemingly devoid of player-haters, Dex is John Candy as a dubious Lothario, a former college party boy and Brainiac in a loud, obscenely stuffed shirt. (Asked if he's gained a few pounds since graduation, he replies, "Yeah, one or two . . . hundred.") He's at once calm and crass, innocently rapping theology with a priest in a toilet stall or luring a cute, inept bartender (Dana Goodman) to his Zen den for a bit of improvisational meditation. "The better to seduce you with," he mumbles when she marvels at his library, quickly altering the line to "The better to deduce the truth with" when she overhears him. Ah, to be a scheming, libidinous fat guy.
Although he squeaks by as a part-time kindergarten teacher (and a spiteful one, at that -- Robin Williams, please take note: This is how one plays "cute" without costing us our lunches), Dex is hampered by his beloved bong, his slacker ideals ("Doing stuff is overrated," he explains. "Hitler did a lot of stuff, but don't we wish he would have just stayed home and gotten stoned?"), and his motorcycle, which conks out, forcing him to share a truck with Syd (co-writer Greer Goodman), a spunky set designer who's seemingly immune to his increasingly heartfelt advances. Visiting from New York to work on an opera, Syd quickly reveals herself to be everything Dex's trystmates are not: a creative adult who knows how to kick pretense (drumming to the song "You're So 1988"), think deep thoughts (ruminating, knowingly, upon Don Giovanni), and simply play outside (camping with her hosts, played by David Aaron Baker and Nina Jaroslaw). Almost by accident, she becomes the catalyst of Dex's faith, prompting him into a literal exploration of Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance, and affording him a shot at transformation.
Fortunately for us, it's not as easy as that, for not only is Dex caught in his own rut, his rutting with Beth provokes her to ask if he'd still want her if she weren't married. Not a situation to be proud of, especially when one is falling in love with an inspiring fourth party. And then there's his small group of disciples, obsessing over his wisdom as they while away the hours in bullish sessions of poker and Frisbee golf. In their company, the movie explains its title, as Lao Tzu is retooled via Steve McQueen to offer adages of wisdom -- The Tao of Steve -- for slow learners like the goofball Dave (Kimo Wills). To clear up any confusion, being a "Steve" does not mean escaping a gelatinous creature from space or driving really fast through San Francisco; it's simply being . . . er . . . studly.
Since the narrative's destination is awkwardly obvious, and the tone occasionally melts into a sticky-sweet mess like cotton candy in the sun, the movie is most often saved by its generous helpings of clever dialogue. Imagine a focused version of Richard Linklater's Slacker, in which all the amusing rambling of confused, overeducated people actually leads to emotional stimulation. (Prompting one of the movie's several guffaws, Dex implores Syd: "Am I supposed to remain celibate while I bask in the warming glow of your annihilating contempt?") As the credits reveal, the movie is "based on a story by Duncan North; based on an idea by Duncan North; based on Duncan North"; perhaps the third screenwriter's personal investment gives the relationships their unlikely veracity.
Although everyone here is game to play (sometimes pushing the Gen-X trivia beyond good taste), the movie is mostly Logue's. Burly, bearded, and secretly sullen, like Jeremy Green in director Scott Bagley's elegant Pool, his Dex is a strangely likable leading man, and, while the romance begs suspension of disbelief, it's satisfying to observe the evolution of his Tao. Now let's see what Jenniphr Goodman offers as a follow-up . . . perhaps The Te of Raquel?
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