Sporting a title that steals its geographic location+number syntax from indies of higher pedigree (Buffalo ‘66, Downtown 81) and a drifter-chic aesthetic that cribs from everything Midnight Cowboy onward, Scott Caan’s directorial debut certainly aims to tribute. A seductive credit sequence introduces Dallas (Caan) and Rusty (Shawn Hatosy), two collectors for a small-time bookie who share the conundrum of getting into two bar fights per week. Best friends since post-puberty, Dallas and Rusty play out a borderline homoerotic companionship, sharing an apartment and spurring each other on to more outlandish feats of stupidity. (Think Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau with a cowboy fetish.) Rusty soon realizes that his dependence on Dallas is a weakening crutch, and he enlists the help of his mother Mary’s (Kelly Lynch) boyfriend, a shrink named Bob (Jeff Goldblum) with an affinity for pot and watching movies about getting sent to jail for pot (Midnight Express anyone?). Goldblum performs with an unusual relish, but Bob and Mary’s relationship is rarely believable. “It’s a whole thing,” Dallas offers as a constant justification for everything and nothing, and Caan might offer the same defense for this mostly insipid exercise in making himself look cool. The film is being described as semi-autobiographical, which might make sense if Caan didn’t grow up with a wealthy Hollywood pedigree. In the end, Dallas 362 plays like a vanity project from a rich kid who never got to do his share of macho posturing.
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