Two stars. Rating: R, for pervasive profanity, considerable drug use, sexual candor and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.4.13
Viewers born after 1965, or
thereabouts, won’t have the faintest idea what writer/director David Chase is
trying to express in this film.
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| Expecting yet another generation gap-inspired lecture, Douglas (John Magaro, right) is surprised when his father (James Gandolfini) genuinely opens up to him. Enjoy this scene, as it's the only truly impressive display of acting, writing and directing in an otherwise inane and deadly dull drama. |
Heck, I lived through this
transitional period just like he did, and I barely followed this storyline.
Chase apparently assumes that the
1960s’ musical revolution, and all it involved, are somehow grafted into the brain
cells of every American, regardless of age. Granted, the obvious high points
have become (in)famous: the long hair, the mod clothes, the casual sex and even
more casual drug use, the ever-widening generation gap made worse by mounting
contempt for the violent quagmire in Vietnam.
But these are mere backdrop
elements, against which the main characters in Chase’s Not Fade Away play out
their restless angst ... and that’s where this film falls apart.
We’ve absolutely no sense of the
young people at the heart of this story: no concept of what they’re thinking
from one moment to the next, or why some of them are so rude and self-centered,
or why others are self-destructive. We get no back-stories, no insightful
clues, no confessional moments of lucidity. These characters speak in non-sequiturs
— when they speak at all — and free-associate stray thoughts with snarky
contempt, as if daring us to make sense of anything.
Chase apparently expects us to
read everybody’s mind, but that’s impossible; his stars haven’t the acting
chops to get anywhere near the level of introspective clarity we so desperately
need. And, as if aware of this problem, Chase and cinematographer Eigil Bryld
rely tediously, tiresomely on sulky, coldly aloof close-ups, as if searching for
significance in the pores of each face.
Where is the fire, the acting
gusto, that Chase brought to his work on HBO’s The Sopranos?
And slow? Oh, goodness; trends
could rise and fall during the time it takes this morose, 112-minute film to
drag to a conclusion.
The topper is an elliptical
“conclusion” that arrives several scenes after Chase blows an opportunity to
stop at a much more logical moment. Like several other recent films, Chase
hasn’t the slightest idea when to stop, and instead gives us several false
endings before settling on the least of the bunch.
I have learned, through long experience,
to be wary of intimate projects that are deeply personal to filmmakers; in most
cases, they can’t get out of their own way. The results are disappointing at
best, mawkish self-indulgent at worst. Not Fade Away most often leans toward
the latter.
Chase has explained, during
numerous recent interviews, that the 1960s represented a tipping point in his
younger life: the galvanic moment when, following the Beatles’ eruption on the
American scene, he (to quote liner notes) “served time as a drummer in an
obscure New Jersey band with bigger dreams than accomplishments.” Chase had the
wisdom to abandon this tantalizing fantasy for a career in film, although he
frequently has acknowledged these roots with a talent for marrying images with
iconic pop and rock anthems.
And, indeed, Chase layers this
film with brilliantly employed songs of the era; I’ll give him credit for
establishing a solid sense of time and place. Too bad he didn’t cast his film
with equal care, or give his characters any truly meaningful dialogue.
We meet the brooding,
fringe-dwelling Douglas (John Magaro) during his senior year in high school, as
he quietly envies the nascent band assembled by über-popular guitarist Eugene
(Jack Huston). Truth be told, Douglas knows the blues — and music in general — far
better than his peers, and is becoming reasonably adept on drums, but nobody
cares.
Worse yet, girls have eyes only
for Eugene, particularly the lovely but pouty Grace Dietz (Bella Heathcote).
Douglas’ working-class New Jersey
home life is no better. His father, Pat (James Gandolfini), smolders like a pot
set on perpetual simmer, his temper quick to flare over anything that crosses
his conservative, reflexively racist radar. Douglas’ cranky, eternally unhappy
mother, Antoinette (Molly Price), worries about money and chafes at how her
family’s modest means pale when compared to other relations. She’s more
caricature than character.
Younger sister Evelyn (Meg
Guzulescu) is an unexpected ray of sunshine: both because Evelyn is spunky
enough, and smart enough, to rise above her parents’ often toxic applications
of tough love, and because Guzulescu herself is effervescent, her wide eyes and
unabashed devotion to her brother winning our hearts.
Douglas gets his shot in Eugene’s
band when the regular drummer winds up in the army. (Pete Best, anyone?) Now in
a position to share his artistic respect for a music form — blues-tinged rock —
that evolves by the day, Douglas finds a kindred spirit in bandmate Wells (Will
Brill), a condescending fellow with a extremely high opinion of himself ... and
an apparent belief that everybody else should rise to his standards.
Summer passes; Douglas enters
college as a short-haired freshman who pleases his father with tentative
thoughts about joining the ROTC program. He returns home for Thanksgiving break
with long, frizzy hair and the early stages of a bohemian, peacenik attitude
that’ll only grow more strident and intolerant with time.
We’re obviously intended to like
Douglas, and sympathize with him, but that’s impossible; he is, throughout this
entire film, an unpleasant, self-centered jerk.
He then further damages the
family dynamic by dropping out of school, choosing instead to focus on the
band. Oddly, despite the way Pat has been portrayed up to this point, he
doesn’t toss his belligerent, ungrateful lout of a son out of the house;
instead, Pat simply ... simmers.
Unfortunately, tensions are
equally high within the band — now called the Twylight Zones — because Douglas
recognizes that he has a far better voice than Eugene, who until now has made
himself lead singer. Douglas also knows that they cannot make a name by merely
covering existing pop hits, as both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones did, early
in their careers; artistic recognition comes only with original material.
But here, too, Eugene prefers the
path he knows.
Elsewhere, Grace’s older sister Joy
(Dominique McElligott) has tuned in, turned on and dropped out big time. Joy
seems ordinary enough during our fleeting glimpse of her in the film’s high
school prologue, but by the time Douglas shares a weirdly uncomfortable moment
with her in the Dietz attic, the girl is full-blown bonkers. We’re left to
assume the influence of LSD or some similar mind-altering substance, but Chase
never clarifies this issue, just as he doesn’t explain much else.
Tempers flare; passions ignite;
the band changes its name to TBD. Raw talent and a mildly Dylanesque stage
presence turn Douglas into the group’s focus. He gets the girl, when Grace
insists that she “believes in him.” Or maybe he doesn’t get her; this couple’s
erratic behavior — and particularly Grace’s capricious nature — defy
resolution.
Chase lards his script with
tragedy. One character gets late-stage cancer: a certain death sentence.
Another is confined to a local loony bin. Another smashes into a tree during a
motorcycle mishap. Do we care? Not really; each is a fleeting misfortune,
unsupported by a cast incapable of bringing emotional depth to these incidents.
One scene stands out: indeed,
sparkles like a jewel in a bed of murk. Wanting to have a serious father/son
chat, Pat takes Douglas out for a restaurant dinner. Gandolfini owns this
moment, as the taciturn Pat opens up, choosing to share a confidence that he
never should have revealed, but of course it’s precisely the sort of thing such
a man would do. Magaro, as well, sheds most of his character’s aloof hostility.
It’s a brilliant moment, superbly
acted and scripted, with both men showing their vulnerable sides and trying to
connect. Alas, as happens in real life, they still talk past each other, even
as they desperately yearn for connection.
If Chase had assembled the rest
of his film with similar care, he’d have a memorable classic. Instead, this
tedious vanity endeavor is a dull, dreary slog that flops in the shadow of far
better rock ’n’ roll valentines such as American Graffiti, Almost Famous and That Thing You Do.
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