Scent of a Woman (1992): The Perfect Thanksgiving Movie

There is a disarming tenderness inside the miserable monster Al Pacino creates in Scent of a Woman.

Lt. Colonel Frank Slade elevates bitterness into a kind of sport. He yells, he scolds, he repels—he’s the human equivalent of a “Do Not Touch” sign with legs. And yet, maddeningly, you still want to hug him.

Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s curiosity. Or maybe it’s because Thomas Newman slips in that graceful oboe motif, a cue so gentle it feels like it wandered in from a different movie just to remind us that Colonel Slade has a soul worth digging for.

Pacino’s performance works because it is built on contradiction. He plays a man who simultaneously invites and rejects empathy. One minute he’s a drill sergeant unloading psychological buckshot; the next, he’s a fragile echo of a man he used to be. These dualities aren’t just acting fireworks. They are the engine of the film. Without them, the story collapses into a simple odd-couple weekend flick.

Enter Charlie (Chris O’Donnell), the lone moral compass with the unfortunate job of being both roommate and emotional punching bag. He is the Tiny Tim to Slade’s Scrooge. Their dynamic is the film’s lifeblood. And Director Martin Brest—whose best work always puts character above plot (Midnight Run)—lets their friction carry the momentum. The road trip, the moral quandaries, even the fancy school disciplinary hearing: they all orbit this reluctant companionship.

Brest anchors the film with three sequences that have graduated from scenes to cultural fixtures. First the tango—Slade and Donna (Gabrielle Anwar) gliding across the floor in moment that suspends the film’s cynicism and lets us believe Slade might still possess some of his old grace under the gruff. Then, the infamous Thanksgiving dinner: a slow-motion demolition of family dignity, with Pacino detonating every buried resentment. Along with Home for the Holidays (1995), this one clocks in as one of the most excruciatingly awkward Thanksgiving dinner scenes in film history.

And finally, the Ivy League showdown—Charlie on trial, Slade exploding with that righteous, profanity-laced monologue that has been quoted and misquoted before memes were ever a thing. As a kid, this scene was monumental to me. In my more cynical twenties, I found it over the top. Today, in my late forties, I find it absolutely necessary. Playing blind, bitter, and ready to explode, Pacino does so for the grand finale, and it wraps up nicely to Thomas Newman’s oboe motif.

These moments don’t just land; they imprint themselves as good movies should. They become reference points, the mental placeholders for what this film is really doing: letting a broken man roar until we see his cracks, and letting an idealistic kid discover that decency is sometimes a form of bravery.

“Hoo-ah,” indeed—but the quieter truths linger longer.

Aside from needing another visit to the editing room, Scent of a Woman still holds up today, and it was a delight to introduce it to my wife this Thanksgiving break. (She gave me a thumbs up at the credits.)