Pirates (1986)

Pirates is the kind of lavish, salt-sprayed adventure comedy they rarely mount anymore: a big, physical movie where the jokes come from human greed, bad luck, and the sheer indignity of life at sea. Roman Polanski frames the mayhem with an almost classical elegance, but he fills that beauty with gloriously grimy pirate textures—rotting wood, crowded decks, candlelit holds—so the spectacle feels lived-in rather than postcard-pretty. Walter Matthau is wonderfully game as Captain Red, a rascal with the timing of a vaudevillian and the stubbornness of a true scoundrel, and the film’s momentum is carried by chases, betrayals, and swashbuckling set pieces that look expensive because they are. It’s not for viewers who want their pirate tales squeaky-clean or their comedy purely light (there’s a brief, unpleasant assault attempt among the rougher moments), but if you’re on the fence and crave old-school craftsmanship with a mischievous, raucous vibe, this one’s an under-seen treasure.

Pirates is clearly aiming for a big, old-school swashbuckler with slapstick comedy and a grubby, lived-in pirate world, and on paper that’s a fun mix—especially with Walter Matthau chewing scenery as Captain Red. The problem is it often feels oddly sluggish and emotionally distant, with set pieces that look expensive but don’t consistently land as either exciting adventure or genuinely funny farce. If you’re hoping for brisk momentum, sharp jokes, or rousing pirate thrills, this can play more like a drawn-out series of scuffles and schemes than a crowd-pleaser. Still, if you’re tolerant of rambling pacing and want a handsomely mounted, slightly off-kilter pirate romp carried by production design and Matthau’s presence, you may get some mileage out of it.