As the live-wire, hot-headed Paulie, cousin of somewhat cooler-acting Charlie (Rourke), a then-28-years-old Roberts churns out a a character who can't control his reckless urges even when he's fully aware of just how badly he's fucking things up for both he and Charlie. The Pope of Greenwich Village is an under-hailed entry into the "down and out guys concocting an illegal get-rich scheme that goes to shit" subgenre of crime flicks, not unlike Dead Presidents or Stanley Kubrick's The Killing. What sets this one apart, though, is a natural comedic flair throughout, largely served up by Roberts. Which is driven home in the surprisingly "happy" final scene. His "Paulie" is the standard problem-starter alongside Rourke's straight man, and their scenes together exude "cool."
At this year's Independent Spirit Awards, Rourke began his acceptance speech by shouting Roberts out and challenging all talented, risky filmmakers to give Roberts a shot similar to the one Darren Aronofksy gave Rourke with The Wrestler. I second that notion, now having rewatched The Pope in Greenwich Village. The electric talent seen here is no doubt still within the guy; just watch The Dark Knight for the tenth time and pay close attention to his understated menace as crime boss "Maroni." Dude hasn't gone South skill-wise.
How about somebody out there scripts up a flick that follows the uphill climb of a former gangster trying to do right by his motherless teenage daughter. That's a role today's Roberts could blow a hole through, no question.
How about it? 2010, the year that Eric Roberts makes his triumphant comeback. Clock starts now.
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