Archive for October 20, 2000

Bedazzled (2000)

October 20, 2000

A movie actor as ridiculously perfect-looking as Brendan Fraser might be easy for male critics to resent if not for two things: He’s genuinely smart (any interview with him reveals his articulate intelligence), and he’s willing and eager to make himself look like a complete nerd. Fraser has a healthy sense of humor about himself, as he demonstrated in Dudley Do-Right and 1999’s flashy remake of The Mummy, and in another remake — Bedazzled, starring Fraser as a dork who sells his soul to the devil — he pulls out all the stops.

Fraser begins as the hapless Elliott Richards, a desperately lonely cubicle drone whose hearty stabs at connecting with anyone usually get the opposite result. Elliott’s dream is to win the heart of beautiful coworker Allison (Frances O’Connor), who knows he exists when he’s standing in front of her, but then quickly forgets afterward. Elliott makes the mistake of muttering that he’d give anything to have her love; immediately, announced by Tone-Loc’s “Wild Thing,” a helpful figure enters Elliott’s life — Satan herself, in the form of Elizabeth Hurley.

Satan offers Elliott seven wishes in exchange for his soul (“You’ll never miss it,” she insists). Unsurprisingly, the fair Allison figures prominently in all of Elliott’s wishes, which usually backfire because Elliott’s requests leave a lot of margin for Satanic embellishment. When Elliott asks to be rich and powerful, he finds himself retooled as a Colombian drug dealer (“I can speak Spanish!” says Elliott gleefully, in Spanish). When that doesn’t work out, Elliott asks to be the world’s most sensitive man, or a really big and athletic man, or a really sophisticated and witty man, or the President — all with farcical results that never achieve the basic goal (Allison).

Bedazzled was directed by Harold Ramis (Multiplicity, Analyze This) from a script he worked on with Larry Gelbart and Peter Tolan; it’s a glancing remake of the Dudley Moore/Peter Cook cult comedy from 1967. In and of itself, this Bedazzled is decent enough entertainment as written, though many will regret the movie’s eleventh-hour detour into pieties; it turns out, naturally, that Elliott must learn to be himself if he hopes to find love. (It’s a bit more complex than that, as Ramis knew when he made Groundhog Day.)

Brendan Fraser, though, redeems just about everything. My favorite of his creations here was the over-sensitive Elliott, who can’t stop weeping at the beauty of a sunset (“When is that sun going to set?” he finally wails). Second place goes to Elliott the sweaty, IQ-challenged basketball star, who’s challenged in other areas as well (the screenwriters have given him pitch-perfect sports clichés to spout to the cameras after a triumph on the courts). I also enjoyed Elliott as an urban sophisto, though this segment ends on a somewhat homophobic note. Others may object to Elliott as a Latino drug lord, though Fraser plays it with such exuberance that it comes across as more an homage than a stereotype — he reminded me of Alfonso Arau as the cheerful paperback-romance fan in Romancing the Stone.

As for Elizabeth Hurley, she’s not quite an actress; her diabolical shtick, at best, is a notch or two below Elvira, and without Cassandra Petersen’s self-aware, self-satirizing pulchritude. She gets a gently teasing rapport going with Fraser, though; late in the game, when he refers to her as his “best friend,” it doesn’t sound totally stupid. Hurley keeps herself amused throughout — she seems to be tickling her dialogue on its tummy. Bedazzled lacks the comic ingenuity of Harold Ramis’ best previous comedies, but it’s good fluff. You won’t be dazzled, but you’ll be entertained.

Bamboozled

October 20, 2000

For about the first hour of Spike Lee’s ballsy satire Bamboozled, I couldn’t understand why so many critics had slammed it. It seemed fresh and biting — maybe too fresh and biting for some people? Somewhat smugly, I decided that the majority of critics just didn’t get it, couldn’t deal with it, whatever. Then, around the 90-minute mark, the movie started to go bad. And that isn’t even the bad news. The bad news is that there’s another 46 minutes to go — plenty of time for it to get even worse. Which it does.

In Bamboozled, Spike Lee falls into the same trap that Oliver Stone did with Natural Born Killers: he makes a hammer-headed media satire, wielding a baseball bat where a scalpel would do more damage, and reiterates the same unsurprising points over and over. Like Stone, Lee falls on his ass when he tries to be funny. He’s not a natural at comedy, even though many of his films do have hilarious moments; his humor tends to arise organically out of characters, particularly in the blinkered or self-righteous ways they express themselves, and there is some riotous character comedy in Bamboozled. Yet it all eventually gets buried under Lee’s ambitions and preaching: This is an important movie, and around about that 90-minute equator you can just about feel the click as Lee shifts into important-movie mode. What should have been a fast, scalding hour and a half sprawls out to two hours and sixteen minutes, becoming, by the end, a flabby and melodramatic morality play.

Lee is annoyed (and saddened) that the only black-themed shows on television are crude comedies — the millennial equivalents of minstrel shows. Bamboozled has flowered out of his anger, yet it feels less angry than, well, amateurish — a Saturday Night Live sketch done at laborious length. Lee’s premise glistens with possibility. Self-hating TV writer Pierre Delacroix (Damon Wayans) can’t get any of his pilots produced on his network, CNS. His boss, the loutish Dunwitty (Michael Rapaport), browbeats Pierre for not “keeping it real” — for not writing “black” enough. Rapaport, easily the funniest thing in the movie, plays this obnoxious clown so exuberantly — pumping his fist in appreciation of his own tastelessness — that he single-handedly achieves Lee’s stated goal of comedy that you know you shouldn’t laugh at but can’t help laughing at. In his early scenes, at least, Rapaport takes a standard Spike Lee stereotype (the clueless white guy marooned in ignorance) and blasts it through the roof. (It’s a pretty good joke that Rapaport is one of the “great Negroe actors” listed on the movie’s poster.)

Racking his brain to devise a hip, cutting-edge show, Pierre finally hits upon the perfect idea. He’s looking to get fired anyway, so he develops the idea of a new, real minstrel show — Mantan: The New Millennium Minstrel Show, which will star two homeless guys of his acquaintance, talented dancer Manray (played by noted dancer/choreographer Savion Glover) and sidekick Womack (Tommy Davidson). Renamed Mantan and Sleep ‘n’ Eat, respectively, the pair are hired for the show by an enthusiastic Dunwitty, who eagerly buys Pierre’s pitch. Dunwitty doesn’t realize, of course, that Pierre intends the show as an ironic commentary on racist stereotypes, a show so blatantly offensive that it functions as a challenge to the network; Pierre tosses in everything from watermelons to blackface, and Dunwitty and the network eat it up.

Soon, so does America. After a bizarre first performance that plays to a sea of befuddled faces in a silent studio audience, Mantan eventually catches on; people start wearing blackface and identifying themselves as “n—–s.” In other words, the show Pierre has ironically created out of contempt for popular taste backfires on him, and he has to watch as it snowballs into a huge success, and then live it down. Lee makes incisive points about the price of selling out, the appropriation of black culture, the way popular media turns everything into fodder. For a while, the movie seems to be playing in the same ballpark as Network. Pierre has an assistant, Sloane (Jada Pinkett Smith), whose clownish brother Big Black Africa (Mos Def) hangs with a faux-militant posse calling themselves the Mau Maus; they, too, want to get on television. But as Mantan picks up steam, they look on in disgust, not really recognizing that they, with their gangsta pose and Black Panther Lite pretensions, embody stereotypes almost as grotesque as the blackface Mantan and Sleep ‘n’ Eat.

For a long while, Lee has fun tossing darts; you can feel him working out some of his frustration over the crap you used to see on UPN. But then, rather abruptly, the movie goes to hell. It begins by turning moralistic. Pierre starts suffering and even hallucinating (maybe) because his guilt and shame over his success are rotting him inside. Damon Wayans, who brings a clipped sense of play to his early scenes as the pompous Pierre with his piss-elegant accent and fake name, starts to falter in his later scenes of anguish. Pointlessly, the question of whether Sloane slept with Pierre to get her job becomes an issue because Manray, just as pointlessly, has developed feelings for her. Manray and Womack have a falling out, as do Pierre and Sloane in the first of many awful scenes. Even Dunwitty stops being funny and becomes a braying annoyance. Meanwhile, the Mau Maus — who had seemed like harmless goofballs — start plotting to kidnap Manray and murder him on a live cybercast. What? Where’d that come from?

It was a mistake, I think, for Lee to take such a sharp left turn into melodrama. Bamboozled ends up feeling just as conventional as any Hollywood drama made for grandmothers. The satire becomes less and less focused; when Pierre accepts an award for the show from presenter Matthew Modine, he first compliments Modine on his fine work in Rumble Fish and Wild Things (confusing him with Matt Dillon, unhilariously), then attempts to give his award to Modine, á la Ving Rhames at the Emmys forcing Jack Lemmon to take his trophy. The scene isn’t funny, just mortifying (and will make no sense in twenty years — does anyone even remember the Ving Rhames incident now?). So is Mantan itself, though it seems meant to be funny in spite of itself — you’re supposed to thrill to Savion Glover’s moves and laugh at Tommy Davidson’s antics while at the same time being appalled at the context. It doesn’t work out that way; even Glover’s quicksilver tapping seems off, because at that point you’re watching Savion Glover, an artist in his own right, trapped in another artist’s off-kilter conception. It would be nice to say that Glover rises above his blackface and “coon” costumes and achieves dignity through dance, but the heaviness of the atmosphere drags him down.

Lee throws all this racist iconography — the cotton, the watermelons, the montages of old movie clips and cartoons and tar-baby toys and posters — onto the screen, but what’s his point? That we haven’t progressed much past the overt racism of the past? In Natural Born Killers, I didn’t buy the notion that America would idolize Mickey and Mallory (more likely, America would be scared shitless of them). Similarly, in Bamboozled I don’t really buy the idea that blackface and ancient racist stereotypes could become such a hit in America; even if Lee is using it as a reductio ad absurdum in theory, in practice and at such length it strains credibility (another reason why the movie needed to be shorter). And one could reasonably question why some of the black comedy shows deserve scorn; after all, comedy is comedy, not public relations, and who would argue that the white people in a Farrelly brothers movie or an Adam Sandler movie stand for all white people? True, most of the shuck and jive stuff of the past played a sizable role in dehumanizing blacks, but if a black performer today just wants to make people laugh, what’s he or she supposed to do? Check with Spike Lee first to make sure his or her act is sufficiently dignified? Such criticism of modern-day “minstrel shows,” while sometimes valid, sounds a little odd coming from Spike Lee, whose character Mars Blackmon in his debut feature She’s Gotta Have It (as well as in several Nike commercials) was, not to put too fine a point on it, pretty much a clown.

Bamboozled is a mess — or turns into a mess, anyway — and it’s a particularly painful mess, because it begins so well and has such promise. I didn’t hate it — it didn’t make me angry, as Lee’s Jungle Fever did — but I came away from it numbed into indifference, a fatal response to what aims so strenuously to be corrosive satire. Lee gets locked into a double-tragic finale, and it feels completely unearned and synthetic. Wouldn’t the satire be bolder if the show were a huge success and everyone involved were happy with it, and then, as always happens, Mantan started losing popularity and was eventually bumped aside in favor of an even more offensive show (possibly produced by the Mau Maus)? Instead, Pierre and Manray become martyrs for the entertainment of the masses and God knows what else. But really it’s the movie that gets martyred. Spike Lee may have gotten bamboozled by his own madly conflicting ambitions. As a presence and as a talent, he may be too intimidating; he needs, and sometimes sorely lacks, a few people in his circle who will be honest with him when his ideas just don’t cohere.

Pay It Forward

October 20, 2000

pay-it-forwardThe rules of Pay It Forward, the do-gooder plan outlined in the mawkish film of the same title, are simple: You do a big favor for someone, and that someone turns around and does favors for three other people, each of whom will do favors for three other people, and so on. I will now do you a big favor by telling you how lame Pay It Forward is. If you go forth and tell three other people how lame it is, my job will be done, and imagine how much better off the world will be.

Well, maybe not. But maybe if the word spreads and an anti-Pay It Forward movement starts up, movies like this won’t continue to be made. (Maybe.) The movie, directed by Mimi Leder (Deep Impact) from a script by Leslie Dixon, is certainly spring-loaded for Oscars: We have two-time Oscar winner Kevin Spacey, Oscar winner Helen Hunt, and Oscar nominee Haley Joel Osment (the haunted boy in The Sixth Sense), and boy, let me tell you, they just act their asses off; I mean, there’s some serious acting going on here. Everyone gets at least one Big Scene; Spacey and Hunt, by my count, get about four apiece, and little Haley isn’t far behind. How odd that all these Big Scenes should add up to such a paltry movie.

Seventh-grader Trevor McKinney (Osment) comes up with “Pay It Forward” in answer to a challenge by his social-studies teacher, Mr. Simonet (Spacey), to devise an idea that will change the world. Trevor is one of those noble suffering kids you only meet in movies; he has an alcoholic mom (Hunt) and an absent father (and, as played by the non-actor Jon Bon Jovi, he should’ve stayed absent). Regardless, Trevor is selfless enough to try to help others, including a homeless junkie (Jim Caviezel) as well as his mom and teacher, for whom he plays Cupid.

Trevor’s Twelve Stations of the Cross are interrupted every now and then so that we can follow a reporter (Jay Mohr, who belongs in sharper stuff than this) who’s trying to track down the origin of “Pay It Forward.” Trevor’s idea, you see, has become a movement — its fingers reach from Trevor’s Las Vegas home all the way to San Francisco. People have been paying it forward, one of whom, a bag lady living out of her car (Angie Dickinson!), turns out, in a nonsensical surprise, to be Hunt’s estranged mom. Hold on, back up. Trevor thinks nothing of inviting a homeless junkie into his house to eat Cap’n Crunch and sleep in the garage, but he doesn’t think to say “Hey Grandma, come home with me and have some cereal”?

Spacey manages to rescue some of his scenes, at least the ones that don’t force him to drop the Kevin Spacey cool we know and love; but what happened to Helen Hunt? She’s trying way too hard here to be the next Meryl Streep, always tensed up, and I was shocked to see this formerly subtle comedian chugging a bottle of whiskey during her relapse scenes as if acting in one of those Very Special TV movies she transcended 20 years ago. (Hell, she was better in the 1982 TV biopic Quarterback Princess than she is here. The only time she really relaxes here is when acting opposite Kathleen Wilhoite, who plays her friend in recovery — and who played her friend in Quarterback Princess. It’s a cool little reunion for those who saw the TV movie.) Osment is as appealing as he was in The Sixth Sense, and that’s the problem — he’s appealing in almost the same quiet, smart-little-kid way; the only scene I fully enjoyed involving all three fine actors was a quick scene in which teacher, mother, and excitable boy are sitting around (or, in Trevor’s case, jumping around) watching wrestling on TV.

In all, Pay It Forward is the stickiest pile of moosh since Patch Adams, and it has a comparable tragic ending that invalidates the film’s message. Someone attempts to carry out Trevor’s mission, and it backfires; we’re left thinking, “Okay, if that’s what happens when you try to help, why try to help?” Well, because if you fall in the line of charity, your face gets on TV, and lots of sobbing people congregate outside your house holding candles. The traffic of cars heading to the mass mourning seems to be backed up for miles; all I could think about during this allegedly heart-rending coda was how much it would suck if someone were having a heart attack or their house were on fire, and the ambulance or fire engine were stuck in that traffic. It’s a good thing I didn’t eat a big meal before seeing the movie, because the ending would’ve been enough to make me pay it forward.