Guilty Pleasure: The Bodyguard (1992)

Uninspired clichés, bad montages, and equally bad acting does not keep me from enjoying The Bodyguard. As Frank Farmer—a former Secret Service agent who’s lost his mojo—Kevin Costner gives a bad impression of Clint Eastwood. Sullen, direct, no-nonsense, Frank spars with his new assignment: spoiled pop diva Rachel Marron (Whitney Houston). Houston can’t act, but she could sing. Her incredible vocals are showcased here alongside some really bad costume choices.

The effort to create tension between Farmer and Marron is gravely apparent. Let’s face it. Costner and Houston have about as much chemistry at Bert and Ernie. It’s a valiant, but laughable effort. True to his professional duties, he saves the day by taking the gunshot intended for his client. In a panic, she confesses her feelings. But alas, it is not to be. Stoic as ever, Frank leaves Rachel on the tarmac for the Pope. Fade to black.

The Bodyguard is rife with goofs and continuity mistakes further cementing itself as a guilty pleasure. Boom mikes pop-up everywhere. Cigarettes and dolls disappear and magically reappear. The plastic katana sword that Marron uses in the bedroom kills me. The soundtrack is all this film has going for it but in spite of it all, The Bodyguard works.