Ah, Houseguest, a film that lives in the sacred vaults of my 90s nostalgia, like a hidden gem waiting to be rediscovered by a generation starved of true comedic brilliance. Let me first shout from the rooftops about Sinbad, the man, the myth, the absolutely unparalleled imposter of Derek the Dentist. I tell you, no one, and I mean NO ONE, could have so effortlessly slipped into the shoes of a man he clearly knew nothing about with such audacious, almost reckless confidence!
Sinbad, in this film, is like a gleeful fox in the henhouse of suburban bliss, wreaking joyous havoc on the Young family. His portrayal of Kevin Franklin, a man on the run, who through a series of sheer lunatic happenstance finds himself posing as a long-lost family friend—a dentist, no less—is nothing short of cinematic gold. Watching Sinbad bluff his way through dental jargon and root canal consultations had me in stitches, practically rolling on the floor, begging for more of his comic insanity. How does he pull it off? How does he walk into this family’s life, this perfect picture of upper-middle-class Americana, and convince them he’s a mild-mannered man of medicine with nothing but charm and sheer audacity? It’s a masterclass in comedic deception!
But oh, let us not forget the shining beacon that was Phil Hartman. The man was a veritable comedy deity, and in Houseguest, he graced us with a performance that was at once delightfully naive and profoundly lovable. As Gary, the overly enthusiastic suburban dad, Hartman played the perfect foil to Sinbad’s outrageous charade. And when the two finally come together in that rapturous, utterly unexpected sing-along near the film’s climax—oh, what joy! What unbridled, soul-warming joy! The sight of Hartman, singing his heart out, so utterly immersed in the camaraderie of this absurd situation, it was pure, unadulterated happiness captured on celluloid.
But alas, my heart aches with the knowledge of what could have been. The tragic, untimely loss of Phil Hartman, at the hands of his own wife in a drug-fueled haze, ripped away from us a comedic genius whose best days were still ahead of him. Oh, the characters he would have crafted, the joy he would have continued to spread! We were robbed, I tell you—robbed of countless moments of brilliance that we’ll never get to witness. The sorrow of his passing casts a shadow over the joy of Houseguest, a reminder of the cruel hand of fate that took him from us far too soon.
But let us not wallow in what could have been. Instead, let us celebrate what we have—a film where Sinbad, the glorious imposter, and Hartman, the heart and soul of suburban America, collided in a whirlwind of comedic perfection. Houseguest is more than just a movie; it’s a testament to the magic that happens when two comedic forces come together to create something timeless, something joyous, something truly unforgettable.
So, if you haven't yet experienced the madcap wonder of Sinbad as Derek the Dentist, do yourself a favor and dive into this chaotic slice of 90s perfection. Laugh, sing, and revel in the absurdity, and remember the brilliance of Phil Hartman—a man who, in his short time with us, left a mark on comedy that will never fade.
Also...the world needs more SPEED GOLF!