for instance, strike me as obsessively fussed-over anthologies of homage elements rather than movies that satisfy on their own sweet terms. If not for certain engaging performances (Burt Reynolds and Julianne Moore in , Dennis Quaid in ) they'd have put me to sleep; rather that sit through them again, I'd rather re-read Robert F. A Cinema of Loneliness , which is smarter than any one of these movies, and funnier, too.
(My favorite of this list is the widely maligned ; it's more openly sentimental than any of its subgenre compatriots, but much more visually and rhythmically imaginative; its Night of the Hunter -inspired, black-and-white-in-color photography and its thematically complex Jude Law subplot likening photography to spiritual murder are more striking than any of Paul Thomas Anderson's bumper-cars Steadicam shots.) Unfortunately, is the weakest entry yet in this burgeoning category. It fumbles and stumbles without finding an attitude, much less a sense of purpose, and it isn't cheeky, surprising or disturbing enough to repackage its deficiencies as conscious provocations (which would have made it into a punkish anti-movie -- the sort of film Alex Cox did so brilliantly in the 1980s).
Over the course of its mercifully brief running time, fragments itself into thirds, each one told from the point-of-view of Jake, Lena and Tully. This sounds intriguing, but because the movie never coalesces into a clear vision -- or even a smart riff on modern filmmaking's debt to, or repudiation of, old techniques -- the result is tedious and depressing, like watching a zeppelin deflate. Plus, visually it's a bust -- surprisingly so, given its advance press.
Exhibit A is the film's monochrome photography. It might seem impressive in a no-budget indie (like every Soderbergh film since , this one was shot by Soderbergh himself under the pseudonym Peter Andrews), but it doesn't get anywhere near the look of a '40s studio picture; it looks more like a contemporary riff on the idea of "old movies," as executed by film school students with more brass than money or experience. There's no subtlety in the gray scale, and the blacks and whites aren't sharply etched enough for Soderbergh to claim that he was aping German Expressionism or American film noir.
What's onscreen just looks poorly executed; the blacks are often crushed, killing detail within shadows, and in scenes juxtaposing foregrounded interiors against daylight exteriors glimpsed through windows and doors, the sunlit areas are blown out, in the manner of a TV series shot on Super 16mm (for example, FX's ) or a microbudget Mini-DV drama. These tells are acceptable as long as they jibe with the intent of the piece, but here, they just don't. (Perhaps the approach was too obvious to start with.
The gold standard for this sort of movie is , a film whose style pushed against its period story -- a slow-paced, down-and-dirty, overtly political noir, shot in color and anamorphic widescreen.) Considering Soderbergh's supposed fidelity to a particular filmmaking school, I'm disappointed that more critics haven't called him out for anachronisms and conceptual sloppiness. (Dargis, who has a good eye, is the highest-profile exception.
) Despite the film's rear projections, its Orson Welles/Carol Reed mouse-eye-view shots, Thomas Newman's intentionally overbearing score (like Max Steiner drunk on cough syrup) and other conspicuous elements, looks and feels more early '60s than mid '40s. That pretty much queers the idea of setting the film's visuals in direct opposition to the characters' language and behavior. Imagine a thinly imagined, R-rated tribute to or Carol Reed's , with jagged, slightly off-rhythm edits and truncated sequences that are meant to mimic the classic Hollywood, get-in-and-get-out approach, but which instead seem to have been impulsively aborted in mid-thought.
(An early driving-and-talking scene between Tully and Jake ends with a combination of a bad line, a lame double-take and a clumsily timed wipe that just about the most amateurish thing I've seen in a Hollywood movie this year.) Even the performances are a shade dull. Clooney is less reminiscent of Bogart or Clark Gable (who he sent up in ) than Rock Hudson or Victor Mature.
Blanchett so overdoes the brooding husky siren thing that at times she seems to have been secretly replaced by a female impersonator imitating Cate Blanchett imitating Marlene Dietrich. The only memorable performance comes from Tobey Maguire, who's been getting the worst reviews of the three stars. Aptly described by Lena as "a boy, not a man," his Tully is twerpy and obnoxious, a nerd who gets off on being bad, and Maguire uses his reedy voice and glassy-eyed stare for unnerving effects.
(He's like an elf gone to seed.) It's an in-your-face, heavily intellectualized character turn, but even if you hate it, you have to give Maguire credit: at least he has a vivid idea that he's pointedly trying to execute. That's more than you can say for his director.
Due to the obviously exhaustive research and planning that must have gone into it, could not possibly have been as tossed-off as Soderbergh's or the HBO series for instance, strike me as obsessively fussed-over anthologies of homage elements rather than movies that satisfy on their own sweet terms.
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