American Beauty

Written by Matt Zoller Seitz on . Posted in Arts & Film, Posts.



Brightness And Dark
The
advertising tag line on the poster for American Beauty is "look closer."
It’s rather coy and collegiate, but it applies in a couple of valid ways.
In one sense, this well-crafted, cruelly funny and thoroughly engrossing film
about suburban malaise and human impulse does ask you to look more closely at
its characters: Alan Ball’s ice-pick screenplay jabs holes through the
paper-thin facade of happiness his people present to the world and lets you
see the turmoil raging beneath.



But to enjoy this film,
you also have to indulge in a different kind of close-looking: You have to look
past a juvenile and rather stale concept for a film about modern American life,
that is: Beneath the well-manicured surface of suburbia lurks–thrum
of bass fiddle
–deep unhappiness! These upper-middle-class white folks
are stuck in a rat race and prize things over people. They have no values anymore.
They’re so desensitized by tv and shopping malls and chain stores that
they can’t truly connect with others. Blah blah blah.


Though the characters are,
without exception, stirringly realized by the main cast, they are, point of
fact, all stereotypes of one sort or another, and it’s a while before they
show us enough idiosyncrasies and complications that we forget they’re
stereotypes. In the first 15 minutes of American Beauty, which was directed
by theater veteran Sam Mendes, I seemed to be watching the most shallow and
pointlessly hyped American drama in recent years. (Well, maybe the second most
shallow and pointlessly hyped; the first would be Todd Solondz’s aggressively
jejune Happiness, which proceeds from the premise that all suburban residents–indeed,
all human beings–are pathetic, deluded, sexually dysfunctional losers who
deserve their lots in life, then proves it by showing us two hours of sad behavior
by pathetic, deluded, sexually dysfunctional losers who deserve their lots in
life. The only thing truly shocking things about it were 1) that its allegedly
brilliant script seemed to have been written by a gifted, glum, 18-year-old
boho wannabe desperate to settle scores, and 2) that so many supposedly sophisticated
film critics fell for it.) But I stuck it out, and I’m glad I did. American
Beauty
’s characters soon revealed so many shadings–and so many
flat-out odd and therefore believable quirks–that they sloughed off the
carapace of their preconceived profiles to reveal fresh and astonishing human
beings.


The final act of the movie,
which ties together all the disparate plot threads in a knot of sex and violence
and despair, occurs over the course of a single dark and stormy night. It plays
like the masterful "Walt Catches Cold" chapter of John Irving’s
The World According To Garp, or an Edward Albee play rewritten by James
M. Cain; it’s film noir gone domestic–at once funny and tender, squalid
and empathetic. American Beauty is one of those movies that asks cluelessly
smug audience members–the kind who second-guess movie plots out loud and
announce, "Oh, I saw that coming," at regular intervals–to keep
their rhetorical knives in the drawer for the first half-hour, so that the script,
direction and performances can work their rough magic.


Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey),
patriarch of the film’s central family, is a hack journalist at an advertising
magazine who’s stuck in a sexless marriage to a ditzy, social-climbing
real estate agent (Annette Bening). By his own admission, masturbating in the
shower each morning is the highlight of his day. His disdainful daughter, Jane
(Thora Birch), seems to loathe him, and not without reason: he’s a sarcastic,
defeated whelp who defers to his wife even when she’s being a complete
bitch, drools over Jane’s cute female friends and seems to have given up
even the dream of happiness.


The story kicks into high
gear when Lester’s empty suit of a boss asks him to write out a job description
detailing exactly what it is he contributes to the magazine. Lester, who’s
no dummy, quickly deduces that this is an especially evil way for the company
to lay people off while making the laid-off individuals feel they were somehow
complicit in their own demise. Lester, who has given 14 years of his life to
this worthless publication, realizes his life is a sham, a joke, an ongoing
empty gesture. He’d like to start living again but he’s not sure how
to go about it.


A man in this situation
is apt to make foolish choices, and sure enough, Lester’s is a whopper:
He decides what he really needs is a tryst with Jane’s best pal and cheerleading
partner, Angela Hayes (Mena Suvari), an ebullient blonde who likes to tell randy
stories about her sex life and is hoping to become the next runway sensation.
Lester becomes addicted to his own lust. One by one, his inhibitions fall away.
He starts working out again, smoking pot again, listening to rock again; he
contemplates buying that 1970 Pontiac Firebird he always wanted; most significantly,
he begins speaking his mind without fear of retribution. There’s nothing
more frightening to the world than a man with nothing to lose. Needless to say,
Lester’s family and neighbors are terrified.


As Lester embarks on his
odyssey, amusing and sometimes disturbing subplots whirl around him. His pot
connection is the teenage boy next door, Ricky Fitts (Wes Bentley, an intense
young actor with the kind voice and intense, druggy gaze of Joaquin Phoenix).
Ricky’s drug-dealing occurs right under the nose of his alienated, nearly
catatonic mom (Alison Janney) and his right-wing, macho, extremely homophobic
father, Col. Jack Fitts (a brilliant turn by Chris Cooper, who seems to be specializing
in hardcase dads these days). Ricky pretends to be the model son, talking in
military self-actualization jargon to his old man and even submitting to home
drug tests every six months. But he’s secretly consuming his own product
(the urine samples he gives his dad are ringers purchased from a pot-smoking
hospital nurse); plus, he was institutionalized two years ago for reasons that
aren’t revealed until the film’s final stretch. But the kid’s
not a psycho. He’s kind and forward-looking, and he has a poetic sensibility.


Carolyn Burnham, meanwhile,
is going through her own emotional crisis–one that’s partly brought
on by her husband’s rebellious behavior and increasingly sarcastic and
cutting remarks. She flirts openly at a party with a self-satisfied local real
estate king (another great supporting performance by Peter Gallagher, suffused
with the bland certitude of the infomercial age) and pretty soon they’re
screwing like crazed jackrabbits in a motel and he’s talking about divorcing
his wife.


In lesser hands, much of
this material could be tiresome or oppressive (Happiness was both). There
are so many familiar (even trite) elements that it’s hard to know where
to begin listing them: the defeated suburban husband who lusts after his daughter’s
best friend; the pert but empty-souled wife who is obsessed with success and
interrupts sex on a couch with her husband to warn him not to spill beer on
the expensive upholstery; the Boo Radleyesque neighbor who turns out to be a
strange kind of angel; the supposedly slutty girl whose sluttiness might be
a put-on; the homophobic, borderline Naziesque ex-jarhead whose home is so regimented
and orderly that it’s sterile and dead. And there are a couple of serious
structural problems, the most obvious of which is that after going to such trouble
to establish Lester’s infatuation with Angela, Angela disappears for the
entire middle section of the film, and Lester rarely mentions, thinks or dreams
about her during that period.


But these aren’t crippling
flaws. Moment to moment and scene to scene, Ball’s script is precise and
funny, and Mendes’ direction is efficient and consistently entertaining
(he knows how to pause before a visual joke, then move the camera or cut at
exactly the right moment to give you the punchline). Conrad L. Hall’s muted
widescreen photography captures both the loveliness and the forlorn sameness
of suburban homes.


Most crucially, unlike Solondz
and his misanthropic doppelganger, Neil LaBute, the makers of American Beauty
see people as more than warm-blooded, two-legged bugs to be studied and then
squashed; they see them as interesting and funny and worthy of sympathy even
when–perhaps especially when–they are throwing away their own decent
lives.


American Beauty’s
cast is peerless, but towering above the rest is Spacey, an emotional chameleon
of singular bravery. On film sets and in public appearances, he is, by most
accounts, a ferociously confident, even conceited individual. Yet he seems to
care less about being liked onscreen (or flattered by his scripts and directors)
than any major American actor, except perhaps for Harvey Keitel. Lester is a
great role, to be sure, but it’s not one to be tackled by fainthearted
performers, or ones who see only the character’s milquetoast surface. The
easiest approach would have been to play this man as a Walter Mitty gone way
bad–a sweet, innocent casualty of the corporatized, mass-marketed American
dream machine who becomes a liberated (if reckless) hedonist. Spacey, one of
the smartest actors alive, goes much deeper than that. He makes Lester a self-aware
man who is complicit in his own delusion. Lester’s realization that his
life is a sham becomes, in Spacey’s hands, not a sudden, out-of-nowhere
revelation, but a conscious confirmation of suspicions he’d been chewing
on for years. Lester’s struggle here is not to face the unknown and find
his lost self, but to come to grips with, and then defiantly reject, the known
truth about his own deluded life and the world around it.


Spacey has the face of a
middle manager or a high school principal or a teenager’s cool, funny father.
His face and body are distinctive on the big screen only because they’re
so indistinct, so ordinary. Yet his sly voice undermines the facade of ordinariness.
It’s a voice that seems typical, even bland, but contains engrossing and
perhaps terrifying secrets–the voice of answering machines and public radio,
psychotherapy and self-help, traffic cops with ticket pads and bosses who quietly
call you into the office to talk to you in private for just one second, then
send you back to clean out your desk. His voice italicizes hidden meanings and
foregrounds the fake courtesy and fake morality of so much modern discourse;
and when he flips out, he’s hilarious because his characters are usually
trying very hard to flip out in a somewhat controlled and purposeful manner.
His presence in American cinema is a comfort and a threat. He’s a scalding,
honest and funny actor, and deeply human.


There’s a scene near
the end of American Beauty where Lester asks a simple question about
his daughter, then hears a simple answer that makes him feel fine; his reply
is two single-syllable words: "That’s great." It’s impossible
to describe here just how much emotion and meaning Spacey packs into those two
words. There is pride in his voice, and comfort, but also regret that he’s
not young and never will be young again. There’s a bit of fear in there,
too, fear that Jane might not be happy in life, plus sadness that he won’t
be able to save her from unhappiness. And yet, paradoxically, there’s joy
in those two words as well–joy that for all his fatherly and husbandly
misery, he is alive and awake and has at least been able to watch his daughter
grow up. In two words, Spacey captures a man’s whole life. That’s
great.



Framed
The
Museum of Modern Art is showing a retrospective of 10 good anime films from
Sept. 16-26. All are from Studio Ghibli in Japan, and though they cover wildly
different subject matter, they all share certain qualities: visual richness,
inventive but unflashy storytelling and a determination to appeal to both children
and adults without pandering to either group. Of the 10 films on display, my
picks are Grave of the Fireflies (1988, Sept. 17, 6 p.m.; Sept. 19, 2:30
p.m.), Isao Takahata’s astounding ghost story about how the memories of
nuclear hellfire literally haunt modern Japan; Castle in the Sky (1986,
Sept. 18, 2:30 p.m.; Sept. 25, noon), Hayo Miyazaki’s fantasy about a young
girl whose necklace contains an entire other world–a miniaturized cloud
city; and My Neighbor Totoro (1988, Sept. 19, noon; Sept. 25, 3 p.m.),
a soaring fantasy about a giant furry creature who only a couple of young girls
can see.


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