Overnight

He should have been the new Tarantino; instead he’s the Iain Duncan Smith of Hollywood. In 1997, a bolshy 26-year old barfly named Troy Duffy sold his screenplay to Harvey Weinstein’s Miramax for a seven-figure sum. He would both direct this testosterone explosion for the screen and supply the soundtrack through Madonna’s Maverick label. Meanwhile, his mates Mark Brian Smith and Tony Montana were on hand to film the ensuing Troy-mania. They, along with everyone else on the ride, got more than they bargained for.
With a personality combining the less charming attributes of Basil Fawlty and riled cobra, Mr Duffy’s swaggering self-regard soon won him enemies in high places (“Who’s that idiot?” he spits and points as Jerry Bruckheimer strolls by) including his would-be benefactor, Weinstein. At a stroke, Duffy was in free-fall.
Though few could watch Overnight and mistake it for the work of Errol Morris, as a right-place, right-time documentary, it’s impeccable – a brilliantly trashy cautionary tale. Whatever else may be said of Troy Duffy, he’s a hell of a subject – grimly compelling, tyrannical and endlessly in your face.
When it’s all gone pear-shaped, he keeps on keeping-on with paranoid fantasies; The Boondock Saints has failed because “Harvey is afraid of me”. Okay, so it’s not because the movie proved as much use as a beach-ball in Dr. Kervorkian’s waiting room. Got that?