A Star Is Born: Loses some sparkle

A Star Is Born (2018) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity, sexuality and nudity, and substance abuse
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.5.18

This saga is as sure-fire as The Three Musketeers, and it has been brought to the big screen almost as many times.

Jackson (Bradley Cooper) is at his best when he stops drinking long enough to noodle
a new song on the piano. Unfortunately, as Ally (Lady Gaga) soon discovers, such
moments are becoming increasingly rare.

The original William A. Wellman/Robert Carson story set the template back in 1937, with Janet Gaynor and Fredric March starring in the alternately exhilarating and melancholy tale of a wannabe actress’ chance encounter with a sympathetic veteran: her star on the rise, and his on the wane. Ships passing in the night from opposite directions, their encounter incandescent and mutually beneficial … but all too brief.

Shifting the narrative to the music industry was a brilliant touch, as took place in subsequent remakes of this rock-solid story. That solidified the formula, because there’s always a new diva-to-be waiting in the wings, as musical taste evolves.

So yes, this 2018 edition of A Star Is Born has much to recommend it: most notably an impressive big-screen dramatic debut by Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, better known as Lady Gaga.

Definitely a (dare I say it?) star-making performance.

She’s a standout during this film’s first act, as her character reels from wary vulnerability to giddy enthusiasm, not quite willing to believe the opportunity that has dropped into her lap. She’s touching, bubbly, feisty and wholly convincing as a nervous neophyte singer/songwriter who’s terrified of exposing herself to public censure: quite remarkable, for somebody with Lady Gaga’s actual performance chops.

You’ll detect a definite echo of 1968’s Funny Girl, where — in its first act — the already quite accomplished Barbra Streisand similarly conveyed the panic of inexperience. (In a droll touch, Lady Gaga’s Ally also is self-conscious about the size of her nose.)

It’s difficult to ascertain if Lady Gaga’s acting ability is instinctive, or whether first-time director and co-star Bradley Cooper coaxed something magical from her; we won’t know until she has more film work under her belt. But there’s no denying the result: She’s equally powerful whether delivering a song, or during a particularly heartbreaking dramatic moment.

Too bad Cooper didn’t trust her more.

He makes several mistakes, as a first-time triple-threat hyphenate (also co-credited for scripting, alongside Eric Roth and Will Fetters, with a nod toward Wellman and Carson). The screenplay isn’t deep enough — sidebar characters are shamefully underused — to justify a running time of 135 minutes. He should have let editor Jay Cassidy do his job. 

(In fairness, the 1954 Judy Garland version is even longer, at 154 minutes.)

Cooper also is too self-indulgent. He favors slow reaction shots, particularly with his own character; it often feels like he’s struggling to remember his lines. And yes: Even for a quasi-musical, and even given the strength and appeal of the original songs by Lukas Nelson, Jason Isbell, Mark Ronson and Lady Gaga herself, there are too many of them. This is supposed to be a melodrama, not a concert documentary.

Mostly, though, Cooper makes the mistake favored by many first-time directors: He bludgeons us with tight-tight-tight close-ups. So many, so frequently, that they become insufferably distracting. That’s the insecure hallmark of a director who wants to be sure we viewers get it. 

Like I said, he should have trusted his star more; she could sell a scene from across a crowded room. She doesn’t need cinematographer Matthew Libatique’s lens rammed up her nostrils.

Anyway…

Jackson Maine (Cooper) is a seasoned rock ’n’ roll star beloved for his exciting, packed-to-the-gills, stadium-size concerts. He puts on a terrific show, but offstage he’s a mess: an alcoholic and drug abuser who’d never make it from one gig to the next, without the assistance of his chauffeur (Greg Grunberg, a colleague from their earlier days on television’s Alias) and older brother Bobby (Sam Elliott). The latter functions as handler, counselor, manager and surrogate father.

Ally endures a boorish boss while working as a waitress in an upscale hotel; off-hours, she hides behind a fabricated persona while sliding into a slinky slip dress for occasional performances as a nearby drag club. The “gals” tolerate this odd duck because they adore her. And because she can command the room, as demonstrated by her knockout delivery of “La Vie en Rose.”

A post-concert Jackson is present by chance, having wandered into what he assumes is a regular bar, in search of a drink (the full bottle in his limo having been insufficient). He’s transfixed; she’s overwhelmed, once she realizes who he is. 

By any chance do you also write songs, he asks. Yes, she replies shyly, but I never could share those. 

But of course she does, before much more time passes.

This early exchange is quite sweet: an adorable meet-cute moment given an undercurrent of tension by Jackson’s degree of inebriation (a disturbing indication of things to come). But his encouraging words ring true, and she can sense their sincerity.

Still, Ally wasn’t born yesterday, and she gently disengages when morning dawns after this mind-boggling late-night encounter. But she fails to gauge Jackson’s unwillingness to abandon the pursuit.

Ally is a simple, sensible woman, far more comfortable with her two surrogate families: the “gals” at the drag club; and the three geezer employees who hang around with her father (Andrew Dice Clay), a limousine driver who operates his business from their humble Angelino Heights/Echo Park home.

Both these groups are endearing — and quite funny — and it’s a shame we don’t spend more time with them. For that matter, Dave Chappelle is criminally wasted in a single third-act scene, as Noodles, a former musician who wisely got off the merry-go-round in order to settle down and have a family. Chappelle puts heart and soul into the come-to-Jesus advice that Noodles gives to Jackson, when the latter spirals out of control.

Then there’s the matter of Ramon (Anthony Ramos), Ally’s best friend, staunchest supporter and (initially) hotel co-worker, who pops in and out of this film, seemingly at random. One gets the impression that some of Ramos’ scenes wound up on the cutting-room floor, in favor of retaining those tight close-ups of Cooper and Lady Gaga. Poor choice.

Elliott delivers another of his signature gruff, no-nonsense, been-there-and-know-better survivors of a messy life. The edgy dynamic between Jackson and Bobby is well played; their history is revealed slowly and subtly as the film progresses. It gradually becomes clear that Bobby has abandoned many (most? all?) of his own hopes and dreams, in order to watch over his baby brother. Who has deteriorated past the point of being able to recognize this sacrifice, let alone appreciate it.

Elliott’s eyes reveal this pain and disappointment. And sense of betrayal.

Rafi Gavron puts an unsettling spin on Rez, the insufficiently defined manager who attaches himself to Ally, once the candle of her career begins to flame. He definitely knows the biz, but we’re never quite sure we trust him. In another bit of mildly clumsy scripting, the level of control he exerts over her seems to wax and wane, as a given scene demands.

Cooper’s performance is painfully raw. Jackson is pathetic and contemptible; it’s extremely difficult to watch him repeatedly live down to everybody’s worst expectations. This story doesn’t offer enough “good” moments — such as that initial meeting between Jackson and Ally, or their intimate collaboration at a piano, toward the film’s conclusion — to offset all the bad behavior. Particularly not when he bottoms out.

Although Lady Gaga persuasively sells the tragedy of Ally’s frequent heartbreak — and her efforts to bring control to Jackson’s life — it becomes difficult to understand why a (mostly) sensible woman would become intimate with such a train wreck. I had the same reaction to 2009’s Crazy Heart, where it was impossible to believe that Maggie Gyllenhaal’s practical Jean would similarly surrender herself to Jeff Bridges’ unacceptably flawed Bad Blake. 

Love may be blind and stupid, but — if suspension of disbelief is to be maintained — it can’t be self-destructive.

Still, Lady Gaga puts so much emotional authenticity into Ally, that we ultimately forgive almost anything. And there’s no denying her authority behind a microphone, particularly when she gently coos the first verse or two of what seems a tender ballad, almost in a little-girl voice, and then shifts into a thunderous roar as the song abruptly transforms into a power anthem (a classic Lady Gaga maneuver). Gets us every time.

Such a shame, then, that Cooper wore at least one hat too many. This film’s highlights notwithstanding, it needed more discipline from a director with a much better sense of pacing.