Once every century or so arises a work that offers a broad cross-section of humanity an all-encompassing text from which an entire worldview can be derived—one that allows a dizzying multiplicity of consumers to project themselves into its framework, and its teachings onto their lives. Works such as Tao Te Ching, Bhagavad-Gita, the Bible, and Dianetics have all spawned sturdy religious movements, and, 37 years after its release, the cult of ROAD HOUSE seems similarly destined to endure over the coming millennia. 

On one level it's a formulaic "hero's journey," recognizable as a mid-budget martial arts affair. Swayze's mononymous Dalton, accepting a gig to clean up a road house in Jasper, Missouri, instead encounters the fight of his life, defending the town's long-suffering innocents against a reign of terror imposed by oligarchic madman Brad Wesley (Ben Gazzarra). There are, of course, interludes: incendiary romance with a "sexy but smart" (she wears glasses!) ER doctor played by Kelly Lynch, and contentious bromantic dalliances with Dalton's lapsed mentor/sensei (Sam Elliott, never better).  

Throughout the movie, there's a kind of secret sauce uplifting the raw material, a sense of wonder that patiently and reliably turns casual viewers into zealots. Cult movies are often described as "quotable" or "so bad it's good," and ROAD HOUSE both exemplifies and transcends these clichés. The ROAD HOUSE convert is left pleasantly empty-headed, uttering phrases like "you just have to see it" . . . and although that's not a very fresh thought, it's possibly the only eternal truth about this film. – Gabriel Wallace