Hostiles

Scott Cooper’s “Hostiles” opens with a pack of Comanches murdering a white frontier family, save for the mom Rosalie (Rosamund Pike) who manages to escape. It is a scene reminiscent of classic westerns, one establishing the Indians as mere savages, irredeemable, and because the tone that “Hostiles” goes on to strike is very much in a revisionist vein, and because director Scott Cooper is determined to show the grisly violence born of Manifest Destiny was very much of a circular nature, blood just begetting more blood, one assumes that eventually the narrative will loop back around so that we can actually see this sequence, so to speak, from the Comanche point-of-view. But that never happens. For as outsized as “Hostiles” is, in length and in aesthetic, and for much as it labors under the delusion of pulling out the rug on how the west was really won, in the end, it simply re-employs the western as a means to extract redemption for a white man, which might be a punchline if this movie didn’t take itself so seriously.

The white man in this case is Army Major Captain Joseph Blocker (Christian Bale), ordered by his Fort Berringer superior to escort dying Cheyenne chief Yellowhawk (Wes Studi) from New Mexico to his ancestral homeland in Montana. Blocker initially refuses the order, until he is galled into it, since he possesses a deep-seated hatred of Yellowhawk, an old foe, and the Indian race in general. And just to ensure we are clear on this hatred, after distressingly agreeing to his orders, we see Blocker sink to his knees and scream at the heavens, a fairly stock moment of internal anguish. Then again, at least here Cooper employs a few jump cuts to speed us through the scene rather than forcing us to interminably linger which is his modus operandi pretty much everywhere else.

Indeed, “Hostiles” tries threading the nigh impossible needle between Clint Eastwood’s “Unforgiven” and Sergio Leone’s “Once Upon a Time in the West.” If the latter leaned hard into the myth of the old west by employing long stretches of silence and magnificent, mountainous music to evince an monumental theatricality, Cooper employs those same effects to demystify, implementing untold silences between spates of agonizingly serious passages of dialogue, painting us as so many churchgoers asked to sit there during untold mini-sermons to reflect upon all the moral exhortations. Both “Unforgiven” and “Once Upon a Time in the West” allowed themselves flights of fancy, comic or otherwise, but Cooper drains so much life from the proceedings that watching “Hostiles” feels less like watching a movie than a funeral march, mistaking mere solemnity for significance, for someone we didn’t like.

Clearly Cooper yearns to see the Native American plight through an equitable lens, which is why he makes space for a Harper’s Weekly Correspondent (Bill Camp) to briefly undress Blocker for his misdeeds as well as a Colonel’s wife (Robyn Malcolm) to express surprisingly progressive viewpoints about Native American genocide. These characters, frankly, are never lived in, just there, a means to both-sides it which is to say a means for the film to demonstrate its progressive bonafides, a concession to contemporary viewpoints. But that makes it odd, then, that a movie set then that is nevertheless hip to the way it is now never makes space for its Native American characters.

Q’orianka Kilcher and Adam Beach might be in this movie but you hardly know it so little do they have to do, existing merely as glorified extras, as do all the Cheyennes, really, even Studi’s Yellowhawk whose mere stoic presence is, I guess, meant to engender something noble, another stereotype of classic westerns that Cooper never rectifies. Then again, “Hostiles” is trying to present Blocker as the loathsome racist he is, intentionally tempering that prejudice with dutiful manners toward Rosalie when she winds up in their group as well as his love toward a black soldier in the regiment, wanting nothing to do with the Indians he so clearly despises, staying away from them and them from him. Rather than initiating friendly action with some kumbaya peace offering, it is simply in the heat of battle when the Comanches attack that Blocker and Yellowhawk stand, by necessity, side-by-side.

As such, the change in Blocker comes from within rather than any kind of forced external kumbaya, which is rather commendable, and Bale meets the challenge. The way he merely twitches his formidable mustache makes it seem as if he is philosophically chewing over his myriad past sins, and the way he tilts his head toward the sky while standing rock solid seems to suggest something unavoidable building up within. Yet at the same time, in never hearing Native American voices, it suggests that this white man is sort of prescribing his own absolution, which can’t help but feel like a grave insult. That might have been side-stepped had the movie simply given itself over to the violence it suggests throughout is un-killable, only to opt for a conclusion suggesting rebirth, a rebirth that Bale’s final scene demeanor does not quite suggest his character deserves, almost as if he, the actor, knows, but the movie does not, that his redemption is unearned.

American Hustle

“American Hustle” opens with the following disclaimer: “Some of this actually happened.” This is partly meant to instantly counteract the extravagant amount of liberty-taking with the film’s factual roots and partly meant to simply get a laugh, a broad twist on a typical device, but I suspect there is something more to it. I suspect this unshackles the film from having to be an exposé, a commentary on having to Hustle for the American Dream, or some such, and instead frees it up to be a sprawling $50 million shaggy dog story.

Undoubtedly the film will invoke comparisons to Martin Scorsese with its frenetic camerawork, pop-heavy soundtrack and implementation of a rotary telephone for a character beatdown. It will also allow for citations of Paul Thomas Anderson, himself influenced by Grandmaster Marty, particularly 1997’s “Boogie Nights”, what when you consider “American Hustle” is set in the 70’s and makes liberal use of the era’s flamboyant costuming and disco tuneage. Some movies, however, do not aim to advance nor re-invent the form, merely to gather varying techniques of the form and wield them for the sake of sheer blinding entertainment. “American Hustle” is not The Story Of Abscam as much as it is David O. Russell’s Variety Hour – starring: Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, and assorted others!

Bale is Irving Rosenfeld, yet another character that allows for its actor to undergo a physical transformation, adding serious paunch and a delightfully ridiculous comb over. Partly a dry cleaning entrepreneur, but mostly a con man, Irving falls for/teams up with Sydney Prosser (Adams), so desperate for any other kind of life that she sees Irving not for the fake hair on his head but for the desire to deceive in his heart. It's love at first lie. These two set the stage, past and present, with voiceovers that continually trade off, two grifters reciting a ripping yarn over cocktails. Bale finds real pathos amidst all the put-ons and Adams is remarkable, the film's foremost emblem, conveying that her desperation to be someone else is, in fact, who she is.

Sydney adopts an English accent, re-casts herself "Lady Edith" of the isles and the two indulge in a prosperous scheme until undercover FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Cooper) nabs them. If Sydney is determined to lead a different life then Richie is determined to move through the ranks at the speed of sound. So, he enlists them in a sting to go after Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner), the mayor of Camden, New Jersey, and, in turn, crooked congressmen and, in turn, maybe, just maybe, the mob (represented in a particular walk-off cameo of inexpressible perfection).

Enter: The Wildcard, Rosalyn (Lawrence), wife of Irving and mother to the son he has adopted. Her initial appearance, after we have already seen Irving fall for and pledge devotion to Sydney, is a masterstroke, painting her as an afterthought, which is clearly how she views herself. He tries keeping her out of his crooked lifestyle, she worms her way in, repeatedly and hysterically. The role itself, from the screenplay by Russell and Eric Warren Singer, is killer, first and foremost, but Lawrence, who overcomes the comes-and-goes nature of her Jersey accent with manic energy, owns it. She threatens to blow up everything (the scam, the microwave) and threatens to steal the film entirely, if not for the fact her theatrical fervor is met head-on by the whole ensemble. (In keeping with the put-on-a-show nature of the whole film, I kind of wish Lawrence and Adams had swapped parts midstream. I so would have liked to see what each one could have done in the other role.)

As the untraditional crew lures Polito into its web, Richie reveals himself to be terrifically unstable and less intelligent than he thinks, falling for Sydney. She might be falling for him too, but she might be playing him, but then she might be doing both. Irving meanwhile forms a genuine affection for Polito and his family, and for Polito’s ideas to rebuild Atlantic City and, in the process, create new jobs and new wealth for New Jersey. This subplot, however, the political and social ramifications of the high-reaching undercover op, feels like an afterthought. It merely crops up around the edges, failing to provide the intended equilibrium to the Abscam shenanigans, and Russell repeatedly appears to purposely upstage tension and/or drama by playing for laughs. Thus, “American Hustle” ultimately fails to ring with any profound meaning, and yet I don't think it wants to.

There are so many little moments of absurd bliss and physical and verbal drollery inviting cuts from a theoretical editing standpoint that stay in because they are the point so much more than any “point”. As the stakes of the sting are raised, the more Richie yearns to elaborate on the ruse, to be a big shot, to rent out a whole suite at the Plaza, to be someone else.

One heightened moment goes so far as to find him dressing up like Tony Manero in "Saturday Night Fever" and squiring Sydney to the discoteque. He’s play-acting, and from the get-go we can tell that what Irving and Sydney (or is it Edith?) get off on more than the cash is the burlesque. The conclusion suggests our “heroes” have settled into their own skin, but it's telling that is the least convincing part of the picture. Everyone here just wants to lose themselves in the part, to put on a show, and what a hell of a show “American Hustle” is.

Top 5 Actor vs. Actor Showdowns

I am a fervent adorer of "Ocean's Twelve", as we know, but rather than launch into yet another passionate argument for the film's unappreciated brilliance, I'd simply like to re-iterate that its single flaw is this: a scene was not included that featured George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and Julia Roberts sitting in a room together and LITERALLY reading from a phonebook, trying to one-up each other. A Hollywood Actor Royal Rumble.

Last week I was listening to a podcast with Grantland founder Bill Simmons and the site's resident film critic, Pulitzer Prize winner Wesley Morris. Morris mentioned how Meryl Streep has openly admitted to competing with actresses in films. This led to a later discussion on how the infamous scene between Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro in the diner in "Heat" was essentially like a pickup basketball game, one on one, Jordan vs. Bird, which led to pitching an idea of re-visiting noted movie moments to ask "Who Won The Scene?" And this, as it must, got me to thinking.

Not necessarily about scenes and wondering who won them, but actorly competition, a full night of Hollywood's best squaring off in the ring, a stellar undercard and the monumental main event, live from Madison Square Garden.

Top 5 Actor vs. Actor Showdowns

Al Pacino vs. Denzel Washington

You want to get the undercard to a heavyweight title fight off to a fluffy start, and what better way than these two Oscar-winning titans hollering at each other for five rounds? But maybe it wouldn't just be hollering? Maybe the heat of battle would allow Al to re-locate his long-gone nuance and Denzel to internalize and, in turn, show us his soul. Or maybe not and they'd just holler, and five rounds of Pacino & Denzel hollering would be pretty cool. 

Amy Adams vs. Rachel Weisz 

I dare say it wouldn't have the pre-match buzz of our other bouts, but, trust me, this would bring the heat. Two chameleons, one American and one Brit, staring each other down and throwing elegant haymakers, gracefully swerving from sassy to charming to sexy to spinster to hippie to indie to classical to bawdy and back again. 

Christian Bale vs. Michael Shannon 

The intensity. Sweet Jesus, man, the INTENSITY!!!!!! They wouldn't touch (figurative) gloves, they would squint and spit and chew scenery. It would be exhausting in the best way possible. 

Cate Blanchett vs. Kate Winslet

You're toast, Blanchett. 

Daniel Day-Lewis vs. Meryl Streep

The main event. 15 rounds. No referee because he/she would just distract. A fury of tics and accents and costume changes and bone marrow embodiments. I'd think Streep might be the favorite, if only because Day-Lewis seems to require so much prep work and getting-into-character time. Unless he spent the months leading up to the bout prepping and getting-into-character. Still, no one has really ever counterpunched Day-Lewis, and Streep could counterpunch. But then, Streep has never had anyone get back up off the ropes. And Day-Lewis would get back up off the ropes. Let's call it even 'til we see it.