Review - Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

SHE SAID:

This new film from veteran director Sidney Lumet opens with a man and his wife having  sex in a hotel in Rio. This should be hot, but what actually transpires is sweaty, graphic, and colorless self-gratification.

The camera lingers on the scene as Andy (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) screws Gina (Marisa Tomei) while gazing at himself in the wall-to-wall mirrors. The rest of the flick unfolds accordingly, with the audience gazing helplessly as Hoffman shows off his oh-so-powerful acting finesse for all to see.

The movie skips back and forward in a cute Tarantino-pastiche as it pastes together a story of two lost sons who embark on “the perfect crime”: the robbery of their own parents’ jewelry store. It couldn’t be easier – they know the layout; they’re aware of the safe combination; they’re apprised of the staffing schedule.

But of course it doesn’t work that way. And when things go wrong, they go really, really wrong. There’s a reason these wayward men choose to rob their own family and that is: They’re fuck ups. Rich Andy is the “mastermind.” He convinces poor Hank (Ethan Hawke) to join the caper. Then he delegates the task to Hank. Hasn’t Andy learned anything from a childhood with this sap?

Hawke’s Hank is, at first, the one likeable Joe in this paper doll line-up. He adores his young daughter. He’s in trouble financially because of wanting her to go to the best school. He attends her softball games and cheers gustily. But once convinced to rob his ma and pa, he taps the wrong guy to help, and on it goes from there.

I didn’t like this film. A few A-list stars do not an A-movie make. Everything about the on-screen product screams low budget: Limp cinematography; sketchily composed characters; ripped-off writing. It’s a shame, too. There should have been something dark and foreboding here, as this family tears itself apart.

“Do you realize that I’ve been having an affair?” one character says at one point. “What’s that supposed to mean?” the other responds testily. Even the characters don’t believe what’s going on. In the cheapest last ditch effort, Marisa Tomei’s tits are paraded across the scene a grand total of – I believe – four  times. This might offer sustenance to some members of the audience, but it reeks of desperation.

There was one bright performance in the film. Albert Finney’s open-mouthed, pouchy-eyed countenance perfectly captures an aging blow-hard father whose spouse has so unexpectedly been wiped out.

When the core message of the film comes sliding across the counter, few are going to miss it. Lumet has practically flashed letters on the screen, spelling “note this.” Finney’s character shares a flinty moment with an old diamond-seller he detests. The man growls, “The world is an evil place… and some people get destroyed in it.” That may be, but just don’t let it happen while we’re stuck in front of such a lousy  movie. MM

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HE SAID:

Once there was a time you could go to the movies and, given a modicum of knowledge about your own tastes, combined with the reviews of a few trusted critics, feel reasonably assured you were in for an original and well-crafted film made by a director who had some real axe to grind besides engaging in a cinematic arms race to create the most realistic giant ape or loudest space alien, or who could quick-cut  the most times without the audience vometing up the large bucketful of popcorn it paid $7.00 for because the teenager manning the concession stand had robotically spit out “This is a small,” arched eyebrows and all, implying only an idiot would place such a meager order when the large cost only .75 cents more. Such films were backed by studio executives who kept a watchful eye on the bottom line but  seemed to also moonlight as people who actually liked movies. That is, they viewed the product they were peddling with some degree of appreciation outside its value as a generator of profits. Their credo, perhaps: Half flim-flam, half film-fan.

As has been well-documented, this process produced, if not actual art, then at least a well-stocked menu of food for thought. And these weren’t independent movies – they were the main releases with the big production and marketing budgets and the biggest stars. My particular faves: The Conversation, Taxi Driver, Annie Hall, Deliverance, Raging Bull, Carnal Knowledge, Days of Heaven, Dog Day Afternoon, Cool Hand Luke, Five Easy Pieces, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Exorcist, The Heartbreak Kid,  The Last Detail, MASH, McCabe and Mrs Miller, and- oh why go on. You’ve seen 'em all. Good stuff, eh?

What passes for thought-provoking fodder from Hollywood these days? The Brave One –  the first film I actually walked out on in 17 years. I don’t usually begrudge anyone their opinions on movies, music, computer operating systems, cable channels – anything, really, exclusive of admiration for the Bush Administration – but anyone who liked The Brave One should really take a vow of mental silence and cease all brain wave output immediately; it can only help.

Anyhoo, regarding Before the Devil Knows Your Dead: It reminded me a little of some of those good 60s and 70s films in which pyrotechnics and plot had to wait their turn while character development and performance took center stage. Plus it's plenty dark. At one point, Philip Seymour Hoffman's character complains to his drug dealer (played with chilling indifference by Blaine Horton) that his mother's dying. "Bummer," the dealer says. Then, without missing a beat: "Next time, make an appointment." 

Sidney Lumet, who made some very decent films during the aforementioned era, directed this one at the age of 83, so one can only assume he stripped Marisa Tomei of blouse and bra in so many scenes not out of personal prurience but maybe just on principle. Gratuitous toplessness aside, he guides us through a pretty riveting trip to hell. The plot concerns an intra-family jewel heist gone awry, but the weak mechanics of all that (including some post-Pulp Fiction or maybe Mystery Train temporal hocus pocus) fail to derail the central attraction of Hoffman as a drug-addicted real estate executive coming apart at the seams. While the merits of PSH’s acting ability have been described ad nauseum, I haven't  -- since his truly awesome  10 or so minutes as the knuckle-biting gay production assistant in Boogie Nights -- been  convinced. But reputation and performance here are as one. Stanislavski lives! while watching Hoffman convey different emotional states scene-to-scene. Inveigling his brother (Ethan Hawke) into a life of crime; registering shock and delighted surprise at a rare sexual romp with his wife (Tomei); breaking down in an orgy of self-pity after a confrontation with his father (Albert Finney) -- Hoffman hits contrapuntal notes that never fall outside a logical whole. And while Hawke, the other marquee star, doesn't have the same acting chops, he offers up some good moments as the bewildered baby of the family who has never overcome his early designation as weakling.

This is a brutal portrait of a family degenerating from crisis to point of no return. Go see it. JB   

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Linkateria:

• More Devil reviews
• The Many Faces of Philip Seymour Hoffman (John Anderson, Newsday)
• Q & A with Sidney Lumet (New York Magazine)

Comments

[Jenny]

I'm not sure whether it was great or not, but I didn't like it.

[Tessa]

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