bam thwok posted:

American Hustle had all the trappings of a masterful film: Trunk shots borrowed from Tarantino, the legend himself, De Niro, as the big bad mob boss, the period stylings of Argo, the promise of titillating sex, corrupting drugs, and an intricate miasma of "what's the con and what isn't?" hanging over the characters' heads. But all of those are subverted.

The trunk shot reveals a tchotchke. De Niro has less than 5 minutes of screen time, and his threat miraculously evaporates. The over-the-top production design serves as a distraction and repulses us rather than invites us into its ambiance. As best as I can recall, for a movie that looked to be as sexy and drug-addled as this one, no one has any actual sex (and the subject is consistently avoided or balked at; in the flashback to Sydney's stripper days, her nipples are fully covered. Rosenfeld's son is only his by adoption, removing even the implication of him having sex. Syndey delays and rebuffs DiMaso's advances until the last possible PG-13 moment [and quickly turns violent when it crosses that threshold]), and aside from DiMaso quietly snorting a pinch of coke/uppers and then doing nothing in particular besides politely stand around, the most commonly used drug was heart medication, and its consequences were nil. And the cons/lies are appallingly superficial, never with more than one layer, and never lasting particularly long - conceived and planned unseen between cuts.

The metaphor of the forger as the true master is an obvious one, but it does not do a particularly good job of describing the characters. What does, however, is the very first scene of the movie when Rosenfeld, with an expert, practiced routine, ornately styles his comeover only to be immediately exposed by DiMaso. The aspirations and actions of these characters to present themselves masterfully as something they are not is laughably bad. Rosenfeld, from the get go, looks like the smarmiest, least trust-worthy man in history, and everyone seems to have this impression of him right away. Sydney's British accent is preposterously bad -an imitation of what a posh English lady might sound like that only a former stripper from Albuquerque could devise. DiMaso is Mr. Magoo-like in his lack of prowess in law enforcement, and every single one of his schemes or ideas is immediately identified as pathetically dumb by those around him.

And yet, the plot is contrived such that every other character plays along with them each step of the way, even their adversaries as they defy their own instincts with only the flimsiest of reassurances. But more damning than that, the audience has no choice but to play along, too. They are forced to accept and tolerate the garish production, the frankly baffling actions of characters that constantly contradict themselves, jarring switches in voice-over perspective, indulgent shots borrowed from other directors, Bradley Cooper with a perm, the length, and logic-defying plot developments, lest they have to admit that what they're watching isn't masterful at all, but a forgery. Scorsese this is not. His movie is in the theater two doors down.

I think this matter of projection and boxing in, to detriment, is an apt commentary on the audience's and critics' relationship with the film more so than within the film itself. There is a lot of projection going on w/r/t implied depth and layered duplicity in character's actions and lines than what actually exists. Whether this was intentional, I'm not sure, but it would certainly make me feel better about about my misgivings on the plot, some perplexing character behavior, and generally a film which stretches the limits of credulity.

And maybe this was just my experience, but I think at some level people understand that this film is deeply flawed, and wool is being pulled over their eyes. In the past I've gone to the theater to see other films - that earned far less than the unanimous praise being heaped by critics on this one - solicit pretty vigorous applause, where the audience will turn to each other and say "wow, that was great". This was not one of those occasions. Packed theater on Christmas day, and it only roused a polite smattering of applause, with a much more muted ad resigned mood. Resigned to accept that we had just seen a work of art drenched in accolades, and that if our visceral reaction to it was of disappointed befuddlement, well, surely the critics know better than we do. And maybe getting people to buy into that is the only one of David O Russell's cons that actually felt unexpected. Therein lies the true American Hustle - that a giant mess of a movie with all the right names attached to it, opening on the right day, with a flashy trailer and a leaked video of Jennifer Lawrence making out with Amy Adams, can snowball its echo-chamber of praise into a nice box office and awards season take before anyone takes notice of what's really going on beneath the surface.

I should've just gone to see Saving Mr. Banks.