Two stars. Rating: PG-13, for profanity
By Derrick Bang
I cannot imagine why anybody ever
thought this thuddingly dull script could have made an interesting film.
 |
| When Rory (Bradley Cooper) finds a battered — but somehow dignified — old briefcase in a cluttered Parisian shop, his wife (Zoe Saldana, as Dora) insists that it's just the sort of thing that he needs to have. Rory is, after all, a would-be writer; surely a briefcase like this would be a good-luck charm? Alas ... maybe not. |
Writer/directors Brian Klugman
and Lee Sternthal have concocted the sort of pretentious twaddle that snooty
English department college professors publish for each other in stuffy academic
journals. The first miracle is that they secured the interest of a mid-size
film studio; the second miracle is the involvement of A-list actors such as
Jeremy Irons, Bradley Cooper and Dennis Quaid.
Utterly astonishing.
You’d think the result would be
worth viewing, with those folks on board. You’d be mistaken. This tedious study
of morality — as it pertains to literary cheating — keeps dangling the promise
of some “great revelation” in the final act, but the conclusion is frustrating,
anticlimactic and ambiguous to the point of inciting a riot among viewers.
The tone was quite evident among
the unhappy audience members at Tuesday evening’s preview screening: All that
purple prose and soap opera-style build-up ... for this?
Indeed.
The narrative occupies three
timelines, each with different sets of characters, all nested within themselves
like Russian dolls ... or, if you prefer cinematic comparisons, like the
layered dreams within Inception. We spend the most time with Rory Jansen
(Cooper), a young writer introduced on the eve of a posh awards reception for
his critically acclaimed first novel.
Rory and his wife, Dora (Zoe
Saldana), are very much in love. Rory seems overwhelmed by the suddenness with
which he has been thrust into the spotlight ... at least, that’s our
assumption. In truth, Rory’s emotions are a great deal more complicated.
We slide back five years, to the
moment when Rory and Dora, as a freshly minted couple, move into an impossibly
small New York studio apartment. He writes constantly, hoping to impress the
world with his narrative panache; we never get a sense of what Dora does
outside the apartment. Does she have a job? A career? Plans for same? Beats me.
But they adore each other, and
make do with occasional financial infusions from Rory’s father (J.K. Simmons,
obviously snagged for a single day’s worth of quick scenes).
Rory finally succumbs to
frustration and secures a menial job with a literary agency. He and Dora get
married, and somehow are able to afford a honeymoon in Paris (!). While
window-shopping, he finds a battered old briefcase; she buys it for him,
believing it’s the sort of accessory a writer should possess.
Later, back in New York, he finds
an old manuscript hidden within the case. He reads it and is overwhelmed by the
talent on display. As more of an exercise than anything else — to feel the flow
of such fine prose — Rory re-types the story into his laptop. Dora later reads
it, makes the mistaken assumption that it’s her husband’s work, and...
...he doesn’t disabuse her of
this notion.
She insists that he show it to an
agent. He does. The rest we can extrapolate.
As it happen, though, this entire
scenario — Rory and Dora, the book, the ethical dilemma — is just a story
itself: an excerpt from a novel titled The Words, being read aloud at a posh
literary event by author Clay Hammond (Quaid). This reception is being
presented in two parts; between “acts,” as Clay rests back stage, he’s
blatantly propositioned by a sexpot college student named Danielle (Olivia
Wilde).
Who is this mysterious young
woman? Why does she behave so oddly ... clearly guided by this film’s
co-directors to do so? What’s her part in all this?
Hammond resumes reading to his
audience; we return to Rory’s saga, just as he encounters an old man (Irons)
whom we know, right away, is the actual author of the book for which Rory has
taken credit. And so now we drift into this man’s past, in Paris during World
War II: an extended interior drama being told to Rory (and us), just as Rory’s
entire saga is being told to a different audience (and us) by Hammond.
The point of all this nonsense —
the “tantalizing” thread woven throughout all three timelines — is the thin
line that sometimes separates fiction from real life, and the importance of
remaining on the proper side of that divide. OK, fine; that’s a reasonably
intriguing philosophical topic for a cocktail party, but hardly enough of a hook
on which to hang this puffed-up movie.
Klugman and Sternthal go out of
their way to ensure that we perceive how wonderfully clever they are, and how
deliciously tricky their script is. Every line of dialogue is weighted with
“significance,” the camera frequently holding on somebody’s face for an
extended moment of silent anguish: inner turmoil that we simply can’t imagine,
y’know?
Stuff and nonsense. This emperor
has no clothes.
Irons, at least, is skilled
enough to deliver actual dramatic angst instead of the contrived emotions the
directors pull from everybody else. The film briefly comes alive as we watch
Irons’ old man ruminate on his past, and the fateful events that resulted in
his failure to seize his own artistic moment. Sadly, not even Irons’ talent is
enough to justify wasting a moment with this laughable drivel.
Cooper doesn’t (yet) possess the
acting chops to sell his character, which becomes a problem when Rory is forced
to confront the consequences of his actions. I also don’t believe the outcome
of Rory’s encounter with the old man; that’s the sort of enlightening “moral
lesson” that might make sense as an instructive classroom exercise, but things
would never, ever, ever go down that way in real life.
Wilde’s character, as already
mentioned, is far too artificially weird to be taken seriously; I suspect she
got this job solely because she co-starred in TRON: Legacy, the only previous
big-screen script to Klugman and Sternthal’s credit. (And how their experience
in that arena made them think they could pull off something like this, I’ll
never know.)
Quaid is acceptable, at first,
but he also winds up over-acting atrociously in the final act, in an effort to
bring sufficient weight to this story’s “big reveal.”
Michele Laliberte’s production
design is engaging and far more credible than this story’s characters; Rory and
Dora’s loft feels as claustrophobically authentic as the streets of WWII Paris.
Marcelos Zarvos contributes a subtle orchestral score that tries to influence
our emotional response to various scenes, but that’s a task the music can’t
possibly accomplish.
On a completely trivial note —
and I’m sure it’s coincidence — this is the second recent film to have
displayed its title, in an initial scene, in a quite inventive manner. Ruby Sparks could be read in the clouds above Paul Dano, as he walked his dog
toward the beginning of that film; this one identifies itself in the title of
the book being read by Hammond, which rests on a table until he picks it up and
heads into the auditorium.
Hardly enough incentive, however,
to plunk down your hard-earned cash for a ticket.
Economics will render the
appropriate verdict: This film is doomed to a quick box-office death, and it’ll
be equally ignored in video afterlife. Word of mouth is guaranteed to be
scathing ... except, perhaps, among pompous academics.
As for Klugman and Sternthal, I
can’t say I’m eager to experience whatever they unleash next.
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