Four stars. Rated PG-13, for brief profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.16.16
Ten minutes into this film, giddy
with excitement, I couldn’t wait to see it again.
Ninety minutes in ... the
enthusiasm had waned.
 |
| When Mia (Emma Stone) insists that she doesn't care for jazz, Sebastian (Ryan Gosling) takes her to his favorite club, in order to demonstrate why true jazz can't just be heard, but must be seen emanating from those who perform it. |
At its best, La La Land sparkles with true magic. Writer/director Damien
Chazelle’s romantic, music-laden fantasy is a true “sense of wonder” movie akin
to Moulin Rouge! or Hugo: a dazzling tour de force that
takes full advantage of the medium’s many elements.
It’s also an exhilarating throwback
to classic American and French movie musicals, particularly Gene Kelly’s
athletically graceful dance spectaculars: Singing
in the Rain, An American in Paris,
The Band Wagon and (most
particularly) the sort of terpsichorean legerdemain he wove into a creaking
floorboard and a stray section of newspaper, in Summer Stock.
Coupled with the luxuriously
romantic atmosphere of Jacques Demy’s The
Umbrellas of Cherbourg.
Chazelle obviously loves all of
these classics, just as he includes more than a few nods to Bob Fosse’s
aggressively gymnastic choreography. Chazelle also understands music’s ability
to transport us to ethereal elsewheres, and he lives and breathes the
toe-tapping, finger-snapping intensity of jazz; he demonstrated that with his
mesmerizing directorial breakout, in 2014’s Whiplash.
That film was a grinding
endurance test for its young protagonist, as he clashed with a brutal mentor en
route to becoming a master drummer. La La
Land is a much gentler saga of dreams and dreamers: of young people drawn
to Southern California in pursuit of fame and/or artistic satisfaction (not necessarily
in that order).
The simple core story is told
with the heady, tongue-tickling sparkle and fizz of expensive champagne,
Chazelle masterminding a squadron of associates who operate on full throttle:
from Linus Sandgren’s opulent cinematography to David Wasco’s enchanting
production design, from Tom Cross’ whip-cracking editing to Mary Zophres’
retro-stylish costume design, and Mandy Moore’s breathtaking choreography.
This boy-meets-girl fantasy
begins during a Los Angeles freeway traffic jam, and a fleetingly chance
encounter between Mia (Emma Stone) and Sebastian (Ryan Gosling). She’s an
aspiring actress who can’t get past cattle-call casting sessions, who makes
ends meet as a barista and shares a crowded apartment with three other young
women. He’s a jazz pianist: a purist who can’t get people to care about real jazz in the 21st century.
Mia’s situation is familiar for
its frustration, particularly since she isn’t even granted the courtesy of an
uninterrupted audition. Sebastian’s plight is more artistically heartbreaking,
because he’s an angrily stubborn holdout in an era when traditional jazz is
being buried beneath glitz, glitter and thumping electronic back-beats.
Back in the day, mainstream music
fans insisted that they “didn’t like jazz” because it was too dynamic,
challenging their notion of melodic convention. These days, that same complaint
is directed at the puerile “smooth jazz” that has been flensed of all soul, and
turned into 21st century elevator music. Sebastian bleeds over this, Gosling
delivering all the angst and frustrated passion of every musician who grieves
over how jazz has sold out.
Stone, in turn, radiates equal
measures of hope and forlorn disappointment. She naturally twinkles anyway, and
it’s a hoot to watch her — so persuasively — play a character who doesn’t quite
know how to act yet. Stone always radiates charisma, but she mutes it to
reflect Mia’s forlorn self-doubt, exhibited during an audition montage that
brings back delightful memories of Dustin Hoffman’s similar plight, in the
first act of Tootsie.
Mia and Sebastian eventually
connect, their mutual chemistry igniting after a party, while seeking their
cars on a quiet street with a killer view of the entire Los Angeles basin. Just
as Jean-Pierre Jeunet gave us a Paris that was so much bigger than itself, in Amélie, Chazelle concocts an idealized
La La Land that seems composed of sound stages akin to those found on movie studio
back lots.
The storyline is constructed in
four acts that follow the seasons of a single year, starting with winter and
progressing through autumn (this sequence being quite deliberate). A concluding
fifth act takes place during a second winter.
Mia and Sebastian fall in love,
each becoming the other’s staunchest supporter. Sebastian knows that, eventually, Mia will nail an audition and become a
star. She similarly encourages his desire to open a jazz club that caters to
like-minded purists ... while insisting that calling it “Seb’s” would be smarter
than his first-choice “Chicken on a Stick,” after Charlie Parker’s favorite
meal.
Their courtship blossoms against song-and-dance
interludes that don’t so much interrupt the narrative flow, as become part of
it, as was the case with Moulin Rouge!
At times, Chazelle’s film veers toward light opera, with even casual dialog
given a melodic cadence.
The songs themselves are
deceptive and clever. Justin Horwitz’s orchestral score has the lavish melodic
intensity of classic 1950s musicals, but lyricists Benj Pasek and Justin Paul —
both Broadway veterans — bring considerable bite to these collaborations. When
a dejected Mia returns to her apartment after another failure, too depressed to
join her roommates at a party, her angst is given words during a perceptive
tune titled “Someone in the Crowd.”
Similarly, as Mia and Sebastian
connect on that aforementioned quiet street, their sparring unfolds against a
song titled “A Lovely Night,” with lyrics that deftly convey the scene’s flirty
intensity. Genius stuff.
Nor can mere words describe the
film’s dazzling opening scene, with scores of dejected drivers stuck in yet
another traffic jam ... until they emerge from their vehicles and break into an
ambitious production number, set against a vibrant belter titled “Another Day
of Sun.” It’s a jaw-dropping sequence that just gets better ... and better ...
and better ... until it literally
explodes off the screen.
At some point, you realize that
the entire number is unfolding in a single, mind-blowing camera take: a feat of
staggering directorial and cinematographic accomplishment.
And therein lies the problem.
This freeway prologue is by far
the film’s best, strongest and most dynamic sequence. While it’s an impressively
mind-boggling way to open his film, Chazelle never comes close to matching it.
To be sure, there’s plenty of charm in subsequent numbers, but none achieves
that level of cinematic intensity. Yes, Chazelle’s fifth and final act — the
second “winter” — features a colorfully thrilling “stage sequence” production
number that rivals Gene Kelly’s “Gotta Dance” montage, in Singing in the Rain ... but even it can’t match the opening scene.
By then, as well, Chazelle’s
overall pacing has flagged, “Summer” and “Autumn” having nowhere near the ecstatic
shimmer of the first “Winter” and “Spring.”
More critically, Gosling can’t
sing. And his dancing also leaves something to be desired.
His dramatic moments are
note-perfect, his depiction of Sebastian’s artistic angst never short of
tragic. Nothing is more painful than seeing this dynamic jazz keyboardist
reduced to playing electronic chords behind an upscale garage band, just to pay
the rent; Gosling’s expressions of silent misery are heartbreaking.
Stone can sing, after a fashion;
her dancing also looks and feels reasonably sure-footed. But Gosling’s
limitations in those areas — rather key, in such a project — are distracting.
He never achieves the joyously vibrant vocal intensity that made Ewan McGregor
such an engaging protagonist, in Moulin
Rouge! Gosling too frequently looks and sounds uncomfortable — and not for
reasons relating to character — and this stiff contrast, against Stone’s
relaxed grace, is quite noticeable.
The underdeveloped character
roster doesn’t help. Mia and Sebastian dominate the entire film, interacting
with almost nobody else. Mia’s roommates vanish after their one production
number, never to be seen again. Sebastian has a sister, Laura (Rosemarie
DeWitt), who gets one scene with him — giving voice to the futility of his
refusal to compromise artistically — and then similarly vanishes.
J.K. Simmons, who earned an
Academy Award for his galvanic role in Whiplash,
pops up as the manager of an upscale restaurant, who fires Sebastian when the
latter refuses to stick to the bland playlist. But Simmons, too, never is seen
again after this one encounter.
Celebrated singer/songwriter John
Legend fares better as Keith, a successful musician who persuades Sebastian to
play keyboards in his rapidly rising band, The Messengers. Legend radiates plenty of “cool” on camera, and he
deftly handles the complexities of Keith’s prickly relationship with Sebastian,
while arguing that there’s no point in inflexible artistic purity, if nobody is
listening.
Here again, Gosling’s reaction —
during Sebastian’s first rehearsal with Keith’s band — is priceless: a
precisely timed, raised-eyebrow double-take, as the full impact of The
Messengers’ “sound” sinks in.
There’s so much to love about La La
Land — so much to be dazzled by — that it seems churlish to grumble about
its shortcomings. At the same time, I can’t help being frustrated by a film
that fails to live up to its electrifying first act. That’s rather ironic, since
Chazelle also successfully imitates one of the failings of classic musicals, many of which suffer from a similar
second-half slump.
So close, Damien. So close.
Next
time, let a better writer polish the script.
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