The best thing that can be said about Blow is that Johnny Depp is present in virtually every frame once a childhood vignette is over. Ted Demme does a fine job of conveying the feel of the 70s and 80s both visually and aurally, but the film itself isn't meaty enough to sustain much dramatic intensity, and his fondness for montages doesn't do much to further the plot.
Depp gives a restrained yet moving performance as George Jung, whose claim to infamy is having turned on a generation, easily overshadowing the other actors with the luminosity of his presence. Perhaps some of this can be attributed to the one dimensional rendering of the supporting cast: the saintly father, the perfect, but doomed, first love, the money-grubbing, castrating bitch duo of wife and mother, the thuggish drug lords; but as the NYT reviewer noted, it's difficult to pay much attention to anyone else when Depp is onscreen.
Ray Liotta is effective and charming as George's long-suffering father and Paul Reubens as a campy hairdresser is a hoot, but the rest of the cast fails to make much impression. Rachel Griffiths and Penelope Cruz as George's mother and wife, respectively, are shrill and unsympathetic, while Franke Potente's character (George's first girlfriend) is never developed.
Blow had the potential to be a much better film; Demme's breezy style does it a disservice.
