The arrival of the New Year can be many different things to
many different people, from the promise of a fresh start to another reminder of
the transience of life and inevitability of time, but for a pop culture junkie
like me, it means three things: top 10 or “best of” lists, disposable action
flicks and horror sequels and, as if to compensate for the second item, the
Oscars. As far as award seasons go, this one is shaping up to be quite interesting,
boasting an unusually strong field with no obvious frontrunners, at least in
the main categories (Gravity might as
well accept its Best Visual Effects trophy right now). Of course, things might
and probably will change once the Golden Globes and Guilds reveal their winners,
but for now, the competition remains happily wide open.
Maybe because it’s
kind of/sort of similar to Argo (a
movie that also gets routinely over-simplified)?
For the record, American
Hustle isn’t my favorite movie of 2013 (that honor currently belongs to the
poignant Before Midnight) or my
personal choice for Best Picture (I’m being cliché and rooting for 12 Years a Slave, though I’d also be
delighted to see Gravity come out
ahead). But I still liked it a lot, and it’s disappointing to see the dismissive,
even condescending
attitude many critics have toward it. I shouldn’t feel the urge to root against
a film I thoroughly enjoyed just so I won’t have to tolerate the barrage of
hyperbolic outrage that will inevitably greet its victory.
First
of all, I need to address the predictable yet nonetheless disconcerting amount
of media attention that has been devoted to lead actress – and potential Oscar
nominee – Amy Adams’s cleavage. If you somehow missed the promotional images
and trailers, American Hustle is a
wacky conspiracy drama set in the ‘70s, and among its spectacularly flamboyant
costumes are numerous dresses with low-cut or plunging necklines. This is
apparently an open invitation for otherwise respectable, professional
journalists and critics to make inappropriate,
borderline-creepy
comments about the movie’s actresses, Adams in particular. It’s one thing to
criticize the film’s treatment of its female characters; although I thought the
actors made them feel complex and three-dimensional, it’s true that their
stories revolve largely around their relationships with the men. But it’s
another thing entirely to reduce the actresses themselves to sexy
window-dressing, which not only discredits a couple of terrific performances
but is also blatantly offensive. The constant obsession with the absence of
bras, a conscious, justifiable creative decision, and “feminist” concern-trolling
about Adams’s various degrees of exposed skin only reinforce the already-common
perception that women should be ashamed of their bodies. Whenever an actress
ventures to flaunt her sexuality, even when inhabiting a fictional persona
onscreen, it is assumed that she was coerced into the
role or the scene; the possibility that she could be completely comfortable
with sex or even partial nudity is inconceivable.
More to the point, though, I’m baffled
by the widespread labeling of American
Hustle as pure “fluff”. On
the one hand, I understand how people could be overwhelmed by the whirlwind of
elaborate wigs, flashy costumes and ubiquitous, period-appropriate music, and
it’s perfectly acceptable to argue that the film didn’t convey its message and
ideas effectively or that its message/ideas aren’t insightful or interesting.
But to claim that it has absolutely nothing to say is, frankly, just bullshit.
At the end of the day, denying a movie its value as a cultural artifact is the
laziest form of criticism, nothing more than a pretext to avoid thinking about
it in any nuanced way. As was pounded into my head by my college mass media
class, it’s impossible for art to exist in an insular bubble completely
separate from reality, so every single movie, TV show, etc. necessarily
reflects some aspect of the society in which it was created. Even blatantly
escapist fare like Transformers has meaning,
a deeper significance beyond what the filmmaker might have intended. So next
time you feel tempted to either defend or denigrate a movie by dismissing it as
“just fun”, don’t.
I expect better from someone who took upward
of 18,000 words to describe precisely (and brilliantly) why Man of Steel is a shitty movie
American
Hustle isn’t the only recent David O. Russell movie to be
unfairly written off. When initially released in November 2012, Silver Linings Playbook garnered
widespread critical acclaim, earning a proud 92% fresh rating on Rotten
Tomatoes and landing on several
top
10
lists,
as well as eight Oscar nominations, including a win for lead actress Jennifer
Lawrence. Even back then, however, you could sense the faint rumblings of an
impending backlash – complaints that the movie was too diluted or
crowd-pleasing; that it was “just” a quirky romantic comedy; that the ending
was too neat; that Lawrence’s character was thinly written or that Lawrence
herself was too young for the role; and so on. It’s not that some of these aren’t
valid complaints (on my first viewing, the ending did leave me feeling a tad
unsatisfied). What’s aggravating is the implication that if a movie has
mainstream appeal, there’s no way it can be taken seriously as art. To begin
with, considering how terrible the overall state of modern romantic comedies
is, when a genuinely good one comes along, it should be embraced regardless of
whether it manages to transcend or subvert the genre. Silver Linings Playbook is both funny, the humor spontaneous and
incisive without ever feeling cheap or mean-spirited, and romantic, thanks in
large part to the vivacious, effortless chemistry shared by the two leads,
which is more than the vast majority of rom-coms can say. But it is more than that:
it’s also perhaps the only movie I have ever seen about mental illness that
actually treats mental illness with respect as well as honesty, neither
demonizing nor glorifying the subject. If a movie connects with people on a
personal, profound level, how can it not matter?
Yep, so meaningless.
In general, I’m officially done with the idolization of
cynicism and exclusivity. Harboring a deep, abiding contempt for humanity doesn’t
make you more intelligent or discerning than your fellow human beings, and bleak,
gritty, unsentimental indies aren’t inherently superior to lighthearted, earnest,
emotional crowd-pleasers – a term that, by the way, smacks of elitism,
suggesting that mass audiences blindly consume whatever they are fed as though
incapable of higher thought. What makes, say, Drive, a fairly traditional neo-noir that quickly gained a
passionate cult following, better (hint: cooler) than War Horse, a fairly traditional war epic that popular consensus
decided was undeserving of its Best Picture nomination? Essentially, nothing
except our culture’s stubborn suspicion of sincerity and uplift, both not
coincidentally traits associated with femininity (sorry, I’m too paranoid not
to see sexism in everything). Long story short, it would be great if we could
stop using words like “crowd-pleaser” or “mainstream” as pejoratives; there’s
nothing wrong with popular success, and there’s nothing profound about
violence, darkness, nihilism, poverty or any of those things so often
celebrated for being “real”.
But
since it’s apparently a question that many people have, I might as well
explain: what exactly is the point of American
Hustle? Why do I think it’s as worthy as any movie of a Best Picture Oscar?
Well, first because like all awards, the Oscars are subjective, and the opinion
of critics who did like the film, of which there are
plenty, has just as much
merit as that of the critics who disliked it. More specifically, though, David
O. Russell clearly did have something to say with American Hustle, even if, like he did with Silver Linings Playbook, the underlying themes are packaged in the framework
of a jaunty, stylish romp.
At its
heart, American Hustle is an exploration
of two concepts: authenticity and redemption. As numerous people have pointed
out, the film has a vaguely artificial quality to it, from the over-the-top hairstyles
and wardrobe to the tacky, saturated lighting and mannered acting. In fact, I
took care to note in my
review the importance of the opening scene, in which Irving Rosenfeld, the
con artist portrayed by Christian Bale, meticulously pastes a toupee onto his
scalp in a rather clumsy attempt to conceal his dire comb-over. This isn’t just
an excuse for movie stars to play dress-up; it’s a visual manifestation of the
characters’ efforts to hide the truth, burying themselves beneath layers of deception,
lies and superficial personae. In the world of American Hustle, nothing and no one is authentic. People do what
they can in order to get by, to survive another day, and dishonesty is simply a
method of self-protection. What’s the difference between fiction and reality
and why does it matter? In our current age of digital technology, it’s as
resonant an issue as any.
Similarly,
Russell’s movie puts a subtle spin on the conventional notion of redemption.
Needless to say, the characters in American
Hustle aren’t exactly the most honorable or likable film characters I’ve
ever encountered, and with the arguable exception of Bale’s Irving, they don’t
experience much internal growth even by the deceptively happily-ever-after
ending. But if there’s one area that the director excels at, as evidenced by The Fighter and Silver Linings Playbook, it’s his ability to present viewers with a
cast of deeply flawed, even morally repugnant people and make them, if not sympathetic,
at least interesting and complex. Whereas The
Wolf of Wall Street, another 2013 Oscar contender concerned with capitalist
ambition and greed, brazenly condemns its protagonist (though its efforts are
somewhat undermined by the final act, which lacks the rest of the film’s gleeful,
biting sense of anarchy), American Hustle
refuses to judge its characters and denies its audience the vicarious thrill of
schadenfreude. In a curious inversion of expectations, the sleazy criminals
manage to evade punishment, and the well-meaning (but equally sleazy) law enforcement
agent is disgraced. Irving and Sydney don’t deserve to get away without facing
any consequences, and at first, this might seem like a cheap cop-out. Yet it
also compels you to wonder why exactly it feels unearned. The “heroes” of American Hustle may not be law-abiding
or moral in the strictest sense, but especially as depicted by Russell and his game
troupe of actors, they’re still human, desperate and struggling. Maybe, just
maybe, they deserve happiness as much as anybody else. After all, what gives us
the right to judge them? Either way, the movie isn’t close to the simplistic,
black-and-white “fluff” that some people believe it to be.
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