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
Linkateria:
- More Devil reviews
- The Many Faces of Philip Seymour Hoffman (John Anderson, Newsday)
- Q & A with Sidney Lumet (New York Magazine)
I'm not sure whether it was great or not, but I didn't like it.
Posted by: Jenny | October 31, 2007 at 03:19 PM
Just found this about Justin.
http://www.freewebs.com/blainechorton/index.htm
Posted by: Tessa | November 14, 2007 at 04:46 PM