11/7/15: Doc Sportello and the Manic Mutton Chops

Tags

auteur theory, based on a book, Benicio del Toro, caper films, Chinatown, Christopher Allen Nelson, cinema, crime film, dark comedies, Eric Roberts, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Hong Chau, Jena Malone, Joanna Newsom, Joaquin Phoenix, Jonny Greenwood, Josh Brolin, Katherine Waterston, Keith Jardine, Leslie Jones, literary adaptation, Los Angeles, Martin Donovan, Martin Short, Maya Rudolph, Michael Kenneth Williams, Movies, Owen Wilson, P.T. Anderson, Paul Thomas Anderson, private detective, Reese Witherspoon, Robert Elswit, Serena Scott Thomas, set in Los Angeles, set in the 1970s, Southern California, The Long Goodbye, Thomas Pynchon, voice-over narration, writer-director

Say what you will about writer-director Paul Thomas Anderson, love him or hate him, it’s impossible to deny his status as one of the pivotal filmmakers of the past two decades. Ever since exploding into the public conscience with surprise hit Boogie Nights (1997), Anderson hasn’t crafted “films” so much as he’s created “events”: his fussy, overly-complex character studies have marked him as the modern-day Robert Altman and his relatively small output (seven full-lengths in 19 years) insures that a hungry public is always ready for the next course.

When Anderson’s films click with the zeitgeist, they go over like gangbusters: Boogie Nights, Punch-Drunk Love (2002) and There Will Be Blood (2007) all made their fair share of coin at the box office, without bending one inch towards anything approaching easy conformity. They also managed to enter into the pop culture vernacular, which may just be the greatest measure of a film’s indelible mark (for better or worse). When Anderson’s films don’t click with the general public, such as Magnolia (1999) or The Master (2012), they’re still afforded the respect due previous generations of auteurs like Coppola, Scorsese or Altman. Again, love him or hate him, any new Paul Thomas Anderson film is a big deal, precisely because he’s yet to turn in anything compromised, easily digested or disposable.

This, of course, brings us to Anderson’s newest film, a cinematic adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s acid-etched love letter to ’70s-era Los Angeles, Inherent Vice (2015). On the outside, Pynchon and Anderson seem to be as natural fits as a hand in a glove: after all, who better to bring Pynchon’s notoriously thorny prose, subtle satirical edge and often outrageous characters to the big screen than the filmmaker who made Dirk Diggler and Daniel Plainview household names? With his ability to expertly balance the dark and light sides of characters, to find the comedy in the tragedy and vice versa, who better to bring the misadventures of Doc Sportello to the eager masses?

Our erstwhile protagonist and guide through the neon-lit proceedings is Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix, re-teaming with Anderson after The Master), the perpetually confused, constantly pot-befogged private detective who seems to float, unscathed, through one potentially lethal situation after another, a literal babe in the woods whose inherent naivety just may be his greatest weapon. After old flame, Shasta Fay Hepworth (Katherine Waterston), pops back up in his life with a plea for help, Doc is thrust into the shadowy underworld of ultra-hip 1970s L.A., rubbing shoulders with shady dentists, dangerous foreign drug traffickers, corrupt cops, sinister New Age healing centers and white supremacists.

As Doc tries to figure out just what the hell is really going on, he runs afoul of his former partner from his days on the police force, Lt. Det. Christian “Bigfoot” Bjornsen (Josh Brolin), a genuinely strange individual who believes Doc to be part of some sort of Manson-esque cult, even as he seems to know more about Doc’s situation than he lets on. With new factions and players being revealed at seemingly every turn, it’s up to Doc to (somehow) blunder into the truth, unraveling the overly complex machinations to reveal the surprisingly simple core.

From the jump, one thing is plain and clear about Inherent Vice: it’s easily Anderson’s lightest, funnest and funniest film since Boogie Nights. Brisk, colorful, full of quirky, memorable dialogue and equally memorable characters, Inherent Vice is the epitome of a cinematic “good time,” a film that’s as eager to please as a friendly puppy. In many ways, Inherent Vice is more The Long Goodbye (1973) than Chinatown (1974), a cheerful, slighty hazy, shaggy-dog story that never feels oppressive, despite its film noir trappings.

Like most of Anderson’s films, Inherent Vice features a cast that’s almost an embarrassment of riches. There’s Phoenix, of course, doing his dependable best (more on that later) but he wouldn’t have nearly the impact without the rest of the exceedingly game cast. First and foremost, Brolin is an absolute blast as Bigfoot, providing the film with many of its most explicitly funny scenes/moments (the scene in the sushi restaurant is a comic masterpiece, with Brolin’s shouted “Molto panacayku!” being the brilliant cherry on top). The interaction between Brolin and Phoenix is endlessly fascinating, a giddy mixture of absurd violence, mopey nostalgia and genuine insanity that powers the film like a generator, along with providing just the right amount of emotional gravitas (when needed). Always a dependable actor, Brolin has rarely been more fun than this.

Waterston is great as Doc’s one-true-love, bringing just the right amount of angelic etheriality and earthy sexuality to the role: it’s easy to see why Doc is so obsessed with her (always a key element to this kind of thing) and their scenes together perfectly play up their largely unspoken past. As somehow who usually finds cinematic sex scenes to be largely unnecessary and…well…largely unsexy…I also must admit that the scene where Waterston graphically describes her sexual adventures before Phoenix spanks her (among other things) absolutely smolders. I’ll stand corrected: sex scenes can be sexy, after all.

Really, though, the role call of great performances could continue for some time: Owen Wilson is perfect as poor Coy Harlingen; Benecio del Toro pretty much reprises his role from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) and the second time is just as much a charm; Martin Short is ruthlessly smarmy as the Golden Fang’s “legitimate” business front; Reese Witherspoon gets to play against type as Doc’s growly D.A. girlfriend; singer Joanna Newsom has fun as the film’s narrator/Doc’s imaginary muse; and Hong Chau is pure nitro as diminutive masseuse/Golden Fang employee, Jade.

Above and beyond it all, however, slouches the inimitable shadow of Phoenix’s Doc Sportello. For all intents and purposes, Phoenix doesn’t play Sportello: he BECOMES Doc, slipping into his amiable, doped-out shoes with such ease that it’s less acting than channeling a past life. Similar to Elliot Gould’s unflappable, off-the-cuff take on Philip Marlowe, Phoenix’s Doc is the living embodiment of “the reed bends so that it doesn’t break.” Regardless of the situation, whether faced with a loaded firearm, a skinhead with a lethal dose of heroin or the sudden reappearance of his dream girl, Doc (and Phoenix) approach it all with the same sense of wide-eyed, innocent befuddlement. It’s an approach that could have come across as needlessly comedic, in the wrong hands (I shudder to imagine what Johnny Depp might have done here, for example), but works like a charm here. Phoenix is one of the era’s most esteemed actors for precisely this reason: his ability to imbue the material with the proper amount of weight, regardless of how lightweight it might (or might not) be is virtually unparalleled.

From a filmcraft perspective, Inherent Vice is undeniably lovely, featuring a burnished, warm tone that befits the era (cinematographer Robert Elswit has shot all of Anderson’s films, with the exception of The Master) and another one of those chock-a-block musical scores that are so emblematic of Anderson’s films (Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood does the honors here, just like he did for There Will Be Blood and The Master). The film’s neon-and-pastel aesthetic perfectly fits the slightly goofy material, culminating in a neon-bedecked credit sequence that just might be my favorite way to end a film in years.

After all of that’s said and done, however, one question still remains: how does Inherent Vice stack up against the rest of Anderson’s formidable filmography? Despite how much I, personally, enjoyed the film (it’s easily my second favorite Anderson movie, after Boogie Nights), I won’t deny that it’s also a surprisingly slight offering. Despite the overly complex nature of the plot and the endless ways in which the large cast maneuver in and around each other, the resolution is surprisingly, almost smugly simple: it’s the machinations of Chinatown minus any of the actual import.

Not to say that this doesn’t dovetail neatly with Pynchon’s source material (the “so convoluted it’s simple” structure is one of the novel’s best jokes, along with the patently ridiculous character names like Doc Sportello, Bigfoot Bjornsen, Michael Wolfmann, Sauncho Smilax and Rudy Blatnoyd) but it also makes for a film that’s the equivalent of a heaping helping of cotton candy: colorful, fun and capable of giving a mighty sugar rush but patently devoid of any nutritional value. Unlike the angle Anderson took with Boogie Nights, there’s precious little in the way of genuine emotional weight here and the whole thing feels relatively low stakes. We never really fear for Doc since he’s such a charmed idiot, similar to how no one ever really worried that Buster Keaton was going to blunder into actual physical danger.

Ultimately, however, these are probably more the quibbles of an ultra-fan than any damning criticism: regardless of how lightweight or disposable the film often feels, it’s still a Paul Thomas Anderson flick through and through and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Sort of a spiritual little brother to the Coens’ immortal The Big Lebowski (1998) (if you cross your eyes just right, you can see a lot of The Dude in Phoenix’s bewildered performance), Inherent Vice is an utterly alive, cheeky and cheerful good time. Smart, groovy and as breezy as a warm, tropical day, Inherent Vice may be one of Anderson’s least thorny creations but I doubt you’ll be thinking about that much once you get caught up in the insanity.

As Doc’s muse notes, at one point: “Doc may not be a ‘do-gooder’ but he’s done good.” To piggyback on that sentiment: Inherent Vice may not be perfect but it’s pretty damn good, nonetheless.

2/11/15: Our Hero

Tags

American Dream, anti-hero, Best of 2014, Bill Paxton, capitalism, character dramas, cinema, City of Angels, crime journalism, Dan Gilroy, dark films, directorial debut, dramas, ethics, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Jake Gyllenhaal, James Newton Howard, journalistic ethics, Kevin Rahm, L.A., Los Angeles, Louis Bloom, Michael Hyatt, misanthropes, Movies, Nightcrawler, Price Carson, Rene Russo, Riz Ahmed, Robert Elswit, set in Los Angeles, snubb, sociopath, tabloid journalism, Taxi Driver, the American Dream, Travis Bickle, writer-director

If it’s true that we get the heroes that we deserve, then Louis Bloom may just be the quintessential hero for our modern era. Consider this: he’s fearless, driven and in a constant quest to improve his standing in life. He’s a go-getter who pulls himself up by his bootstraps, sets his sights on a goal and, through hard work and perseverance, achieves just what he sets out to do. A fierce believer in the “American Dream,” Louis is also proof-positive that said dream can, in fact, be achieved: work as hard as he does and the world is your oyster. That Louis is also an unrepentant misanthrope with such a cold, reptilian disdain for his fellow humans that he cheerfully lies, cheats and extorts them to further his own ends is of little concern: at the end of the day, the guy gets the job done, right? Isn’t that really all that matters?

Louis Bloom, as played by the increasingly impressive Jake Gyllenhaal, is the very heart and center of Dan Gilroy’s quietly stunning Nightcrawler (2014), a nocturnal trudge through the muck of Los Angeles that manages to serve as both a spiritual and logical successor to Scorsese’s untouchable Taxi Driver (1976). Part twisted love letter to the City of Angels, ala Drive (2011), part depraved character study and completely focused on the myth of the American Dream, Nightcrawler is a stunning piece of filmcraft. Decidedly old-fashioned yet never anything less than “of the moment,” Gilroy’s film holds a mirror up to modern society and asks the all-important question: “Do you like what you see?” That some folks might answer in the affirmative makes Louis Bloom as necessary today as Travis Bickle was in the ’70s.

Quite simply, Nightcrawler is the story of one man’s quest to make something of himself, by hook or by crook. We first meet Bloom as a petty thief, albeit a particularly motor-mouthed, self-assured and ruthless one. In no time, however, Louis has set his sights on a slightly more “respectable” line of work: amateur crime journalism. After getting the gist of the job from grizzled veteran Joe Loder (Bill Paxton), Bloom is up and running on his own, attracting the attention of Nina (Rene Russo), news director for a Z-grade local station. He’s so successful that even hires an assistant, Rick (Riz Ahmed), although the poor guy is more of a meagerly-paid intern than an equal partner. As Louis continues to claw his way to the top of the heap, making himself a complete gadfly to the police, his rival photographers and everyone he comes into contact with, his ambitions get bigger and bigger. When the opportunity comes up for Louis to, literally, “create” the biggest story of his nascent career, our humble “hero” dives in headfirst: he’s going to be the best in the biz, regardless of who has to suffer or die in the process. After all, what’s survival of the fittest without a little collateral damage, eh?

In every way, Nightcrawler is an amazing film, as streamlined and driven as the antihero who pulls all the onscreen strings like a malevolent puppet master. It’s almost impossible for me to believe that this is actually Dan Gilroy’s debut film: prior to this, he served as screenwriter for films like Freejack (1992) (a childhood favorite), Tarsem’s quirky The Fall (2006) and The Bourne Legacy (2012). Gilroy also wrote the script, which is full of so many incredibly subtle little touches that it’s impossible to list all of the highlights. There’s a premium put on character development here, which lends a nice sense of three-dimensionality to the film: while the film’s themes and basic set-up echoes Taxi Driver in some fairly significant ways, it’s this attention to character detail that really reminds me of Scorsese’s classic.

Robert Elswit, who serves as P.T. Anderson’s resident director of photography, produces some undeniably beautiful images here: in many ways, Nightcrawler is as much about the heart and soul of Los Angeles as it is about Louis Bloom and Elswit’s gorgeous photography really drives this home. From twinkling night-time cityscapes to iconic landmarks like Laurel Canyon, L.A. has rarely looked this inviting, neon-lit pretty poison for its clusters of residents. There’s also a nicely atmospheric, subtle score by composer James Newton Howard that helps to envelop the audience in the city’s smoky mystique: everything about Nightcrawler is a fully immersive experience.

Gilroy gets some exceptionally strong performances from a very solid supporting cast, something which definitely reminded me of Taxi Driver. Riz Ahmed, who was quite good in Four Lions (2010), is equally strong here as Louis’ surrogate conscience: his character has a nicely tragic arc that serves as perfect complement to Bloom, as does his nervous, fidgety performance. Bill Paxton is pretty great as Loder: there’s nothing phoned-in about his performance and the scene where he calls Bloom a “twerp” is a particular highlight, as is the haunting bit where his staring eyes provide the loudest condemnation possible. Rene Russo, returning to dramatic roles for the first time in a decade (not counting her appearances in the Thor franchise), is quite amazing here: she really brings the character of Nina to life and her inevitable “corruption” is as painful to watch as it is foregone. Special mention must also be made of Kevin Rahm, who brings an unusual degree of nuance and depth to the character of Nina’s editor, Frank. Frank serves as the film’s sober voice of reason, standing aghast at Bloom’s increasing sociopathic tendencies, even as Nina and the others bend over backwards to accommodate him. It’s a thankless role, in many ways, but Rahm brings such a sense of nobility and moral integrity to the character that he proves integral to the film’s final destination.

As great as the rest of the cast is, however, all pale in comparison to Gyllenhaal’s stunning portrayal of the ultimate creepazoid. From his constantly shifting eyes, to his hunched body language, to the eerie half-smile that always ghosting across his lips, Louis Bloom is a thoroughly unforgettable character, brought to vibrant, unsettling life by Gyllenhaal. Similar to DeNiro’s performance as Travis Bickle, Gyllenhaal is all-in: there’s nothing about this that feels like acting…everything about Bloom feels completely, uncomfortably and terrifyingly real. Aside from one notable exception, everything about Louis Bloom is strangely serene and placid, still waters that conceal ravenous sharks. It’s an amazing performance and, quite frankly, one of the very best of the entire year. While Nightcrawler’s complete absence from the upcoming Academy Awards is a crime, Gyllenhaal’s absence from the Best Actor category is totally unfathomable: for the second time in the same year (Enemy was the first), Gyllenhaal has been snubbed. While I’ve found Gyllenhaal to be a sturdy actor ever since Donnie Darko (2001), his career choices in the 2010s have been nothing short of revelatory: at this rate, he’s going to be one of the greatest living actors in a few short years, a statement which is not hyperbolic in the slightest. If anyone still has doubts about his abilities (which no one should), his portrayal of Louis Bloom should put them to rest: his work here is just as impressive as DeNiro’s in Taxi Driver, which is certainly no small praise.

At one point in Nightcrawler, Nina tries to get Louis an entry-level job at the news station, only for him to handily turn her down: “I wanna be the guy that owns the station that owns the camera,” he tells her and it’s a sentiment that should be familiar to lots of people. After all, who among us would rather continue to run in the rat-race if we got the opportunity to call the shots? Nightcrawler is such a powerful film precisely because of the inherent dichotomy of the “American Dream”: you step on plenty of people on the way to the top of the heap, all of whom have their own needs, wants and desires. As Gilroy gradually ratchets up the tension and Louis slowly journeys from “casual observer” to “active participant,” it’s easy to get swept up in his success. After all, isn’t this what everyone really wants: to be successful at whatever they happen to be doing? By the time Louis’ actions move from “questionable” to “downright scary,” we’re already so far down the rabbit-hole that it no longer really matters: in an era where mega-corporations and the wealthy control every aspect of society, the deck is already stacked…who are we to complain when someone finds a way to win a rigged game?

One of the more interesting criticisms I’ve heard leveled at Nightcrawler is that the film refuses to take a stand on Louis Bloom: his actions are presented without condemnation or qualification, not portrayed as the true acts of evil that they really are. I would counter this by saying that, as a mirror, Nightcrawler reflects back the image of whoever happens to be watching: plenty of folks will watch Bloom’s actions and be righteously offended, recognizing him as the dangerous sociopath that he really is. For many people, there is nothing justified or good about a system that prizes naked ambition and drive over any other considerations: building your fortune on the back of your fellow-man is not only immoral but bad for humanity, in general. By his very actions, Bloom is shown to be the antithesis of community and society: if anything, he’s but one small step removed from a complete psycho like Patrick Bateman.

Some people, however, will undoubtedly watch Nightcrawler and come away with an altogether different point of view. For these people, they might recognize Bloom as the very poster child for the American Dream: here, after all, is a guy who started with nothing and ended up with everything that he wanted. He achieved these goals not through handouts or outside assistance but through his own hard work and tenacity: he earned his “degree” on the streets, not in the hallowed halls of academia. The positioning of Bloom as a fledgling small business owner, at the end, is subtle but important: for many people, this is the culmination of a dream, making Bloom something of an inspiration.

In a world where we increasingly tell ourselves that the ends do, in fact, justify the means, Dan Gilroy’s instantly classic debut stands as bracing testimonial to the dangers of said belief. We might not like what Nightcrawler has to say but we would be absolute fools to ignore it.