Happy, Texas

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

Quirkytown, USA
nothing else, Happy, Texas proves yet again that William H. Macy is one of the
best actors in America. He’s not playing the lead here–a shame, since
he should always play the lead. But he makes what could have been merely an
eccentric and interesting supporting part–a small-town Texas sheriff with
mysterious motives–into an object of sheer fascination. It’s a textbook
example of how to create a great performance by withholding as much as possible,
giving the audience exactly as much information as it needs at the exact moment
it’s needed. Describing exactly what it is that Macy does requires giving
away some key surprises; if you don’t like surprises spoiled, you’ll
probably want to take a powder after the next paragraph and go see the movie..

In a nutshell, it’s
about a couple of duplicitous but nonviolent convicts (Steve Zahn and Jeremy
Northam) who escape from prison and hole up in the title town. They pose as
gay lovers who travel the country training child contestants in beauty pageants.
They spot a bank that looks like easy pickings and decide the beauty pageant
would be the perfect distraction for robbing it.

So Northam’s character,
a Paul Newmanesque hustler named Harry, sets about gaining the confidence of
the bank’s lovely manager, Joe (Ally Walker), pretending to be her "girlfriend"
while casing the bank and stealing the keys to the vault. Meanwhile, Zahn’s
character, Wayne–a dopey loser with a Festus accent and a Fu Manchu mustache–assumes
the task of tutoring the second-graders who are trying to qualify for the annual
Little Miss Fresh Squeezed pageant. The latter task requires a little research,
since Wayne knows absolutely nothing about singing, dancing, performing, sewing,
teaching and other important pageant-coach skills. Fortunately, the girls’
charming teacher and sponsor, Ms. Schaefer (Illeana Douglas), is there to offer
moral support, reprimands and backhanded flirtation.

The problem with these criminals
is that they get so attached to the town and its people that they start to grow
and change, until they like their assumed identities better than the ones they
came in with. As Kurt Vonnegut has written, be careful what you pretend to be
because you are what you pretend to be. In other words, Happy, Texas
is another in a long line of comedies about likable no-goodniks who pose as
respectable citizens to escape the authorities or pull off a crime; the roots
of the screenplay, which was cowritten by Illsley, Ed Stone and Phil Reeves,
go back at least as far as the original We’re No Angels–farther,
really, to the silent era.

In a business sense, Happy,
is even more familiar. It’s sort of an Americanized version of
British-Irish eccentric dreamer comedies that have done so well over here in
recent years–films like I Went Down, Brassed Off!, Waking
Ned Devine
and the box office smash The Full Monty. It’s sweet
and light and goes down pretty easy, as long as you don’t worry about plausible
character motivation or realistic atmosphere; despite some spot-on slang, costumes
and props–as a Texan, I can vouch for their accuracy–the setting still
feels more like a movie small town than a real small town, the townspeople’s
assumptions about homosexuality are outdated in this age of Oprah and the accents
vary from excellent (Walker, Macy) to serviceable (Douglas) to deliberately
baroque (the gleefully mushmouthed Zahn). And while I don’t mind that the
Texas locations were faked in Piru, CA–the history of movies is a history
of fakery–I wish Illsley hadn’t decided to push his luck in a scene
set on Joe’s front porch, where looming green mountains are clearly visible
behind the actors.

But the film has its share
of virtues, chief among them a refusal to make smug sport of characters who
make very easy targets. Happy, Texas has a big heart, which goes a long
way toward making its various flaws–inconsistent pacing, a cutesy score,
an unnecessarily drawn-out epilogue–forgivable.

And above all else, there’s
Macy. His character, Chappy, is the sheriff of Happy (Chappy, the sheriff of
Happy; Jesus Christ!), and at first he seems every inch the stereotype of the
slow-speaking, stoic, walrus-mustached Texas lawman. But it is soon revealed
that he’s a closeted gay man, and he’s developing a crush on Harry.
The film is never more surefooted than when it’s examining the tension
between Harry and Chappy. Harry, of course, is living a lie, and so is Chappy,
but while Chappy’s lie would likely get him ostracized and even run out
of law enforcement if it were exposed, Harry’s would land him back in prison.
So it’s hilarious when Chappy puts the fear of God in Harry without even
realizing he’s doing it–asking Harry about the status of his relationship
with Wayne, requesting him to please come over here for a second and look at
a smudged fax from the Texas Rangers’ fugitive unit. And it’s startling
and informative to see how the ingrained machismo of rural Texas loners can
coexist with being secretly gay–how these two personality aspects can enrich
rather than undermine the legitimacy of the other. Chappy’s the kind of
guy who can invite Harry out to a gay honkytonk joint, tell the waiter he wants
the steak "rare as can be–de-horn it, wipe its ass and send it on
out here," then go for a spin with Harry on the dance floor–all the
while mistaking Harry’s awkwardness for typical first-date tremors rather
than evidence of a deeper deception.

Anybody who’s lived
in Texas knows that men like Chappy exist; the trick is making the character
lived-in–making him plausible to skeptical viewers on the coasts without
overselling him or making him "wacky." Macy does it by taking everything
about the character for granted. He doesn’t italicize any of his character
traits–Chappy’s sure handling of pistols and shotguns, his steely
gaze, his cagey silences, the faintly mournful way he checks out Harry and Wayne
together, thinking the two are a functioning, out-of-the-closet couple. Macy’s
a smart actor. He’s thinking long-term, planting seeds and laying foundation,
looking ahead toward the dramatic reversals and payoffs in the final third of
the film rather than living minute to minute and trying to steal every scene.
That’s Zahn’s approach; he’s funny, and because he’s a rising
star and he’s playing a more stereotypical movie Texan, his is the face
you see on the poster. But his performance doesn’t linger in the mind the
way Macy’s does, because it’s basically an inspired bit of clowning.
Zahn is making balloon animals; Macy is working in marble, carving out a great
performance one controlled hammer stroke at a time.

It’s the right strategy.
By the end of the story, when Chappy realizes he’s been duped and responds
to this knowledge by beating himself up emotionally instead of Harry, the character
has transcended screenwriting gimmickry and become the most complex, least predictable
gay man we’ve seen in a mainstream comedy in quite some time.

Is it Macy’s average-guy
looks that keep him from getting romantic leads and action hero parts? On the
basis of this superb performance, with its solid core of decency and unexpected
tenderness, he could inhabit any character placed in front of him–and do
it better than almost anybody in movies.

George C. Scott died last
week at age 71, leaving behind not just a legacy of great performances (in good
films and bad) but also a virtually unmatched record for professional integrity.

Scott was not a matinee
idol–he’d had his nose broken many times in brawls and had gin blossoms,
a thick midsection and a gravelly voice from his admittedly hard drinking. But
he arrived in movies at exactly the right time, moving from character parts
in the late 50s and early 60s through leading roles in the 70s, his progress
paralleling the rise of the less glamorous, Method-influenced leading man even
though he himself never embodied the Method. He believed in understanding the
script and just doing the best, most truthful job possible. Best performances:
The Hustler, Anatomy of a Murder, Patton, The Hospital
and the misbegotten Hemingway pastiche Islands in the Stream, which is
interesting mainly because he’s in it. But I’ll watch pretty much
anything he did just because he was in it–even the godawful Gloria
remake with Sharon Stone, where his declining health and physical control were
so painfully obvious that his presence onscreen seemed evidence of either masochism
or elder abuse.

What became shockingly clear
last week, as the obituaries poured in, was that Scott’s prickly integrity,
and his much-voiced belief that actors should not be tricked by the industry
into thinking of themselves as competitors, was not a self-serving pose. The
second time he was nominated for an Oscar, for 1961’s The Hustler,
he wrote the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences asking them to withdraw
his nomination. (The Academy refused.) When he won Best Actor for Patton,
he didn’t see his own name called or hear the announcement that he had
declined the award; he was home watching a hockey game.

One aspect of Scott’s
life that went largely unremarked upon was his obsession with a script titled
Harrow Alley, an epic black comedy by Walter Brown Newman (Cat Ballou,
The Man With The Golden Arm) set during the plague years in London. I’ve
read the screenplay, which is nearly always included on lists of the best unproduced
scripts in Hollywood, and I can say without reservation that its reputation
as a masterwork is deserved. It’s not just one of those legendary scripts
that reads better than it would probably play; it’s furiously cinematic,
by turns funny, horrifying and tender. But it always had three strikes against
it: the subject matter, the approximate three-hour running time and the tricky
mix of moods, which would require a great director rather than a competent one.
It should surprise no one that Scott bought the script outright in 1968 and
held onto it until his death. He originally intended it as a starring vehicle
for himself and Peter O’Toole, but as he grew older, he proposed it as
a film for younger actors–Kenneth Branagh and Daniel Day-Lewis were bandied

In The 50 Greatest Movies
Never Made
, a new book by Film Threat founder Chris Gore, Scott is
quoted as saying, "Whoever’s interested in financing it seems to want
to cut it, and I have insisted, since I purchased it in 1968, that it not be
cut." Putting a finer point on things, Scott also said, "I can always
get the financing if I allow them to fuck it up, you see, but that I won’t
allow." (Can’t you just hear him saying that, with a gravelly bass
rumble on the first syllable of "allow"?)

I hope Scott’s estate
will guard Harrow Alley as judiciously as Scott did when he was alive.
A man’s integrity shouldn’t be auctioned off along with pieces of
his estate.

My two cents’ worth
on Maslin retiring: To paraphrase Sherlock Holmes: When presented with a variety
of theories, the simplest one is usually correct. I believed her when she told
The New York Observer she was tired of the grind and generally
disenchanted with post-70s movies. I do wish, however, that she’d articulated
that disenchantment more pointedly in her reviews instead of expressing it covertly,
by summarizing the plot instead of talking about what films were doing and saying
and whether they did their jobs poorly or well. She also had the disconcerting
habit of going easy on big Hollywood trashheaps (her way of suggesting they
were irrelevant, I guess) while launching blistering attacks against puny little
art films like Harmony Korine’s Gummo. (In my book, any movie that
can rouse the legendarily affable Maslin to a state of apoplexy must be worth
seeing.) I never knew her, but the couple of times I talked to her she seemed
nice; she was a pleasant presence in the Times’ film section, a
rare reviewer who seemed to appreciate how amazingly hard it is to make a film,
much less get it in front of audiences.

Who should replace her?
David Denby was mentioned in the Daily News, and even gave them a quote,
but why should he give up the space, high profile and merciful weekly bylines
to crank out copy at a daily? Stephen Holden, the eternal heir apparent, is
a pretty good choice; he’s more politically astute and responds more passionately
to foreign and American independent films. (Armond White’s probably vomiting
reading this, but what the hell.) Caryn James was good on the film beat, a smart,
off-kilter, vaguely Voice-ish presence, and she’s very good writing
about tv (though she shouldn’t cherry-pick just the stuff that interests
her; the real test of critical mettle is evaluating something it wouldn’t
normally occur to you to watch).

My pick–and Godfrey
at first thought I was kidding when I proposed it–is Frank Rich. He was
clearly lost on the op-ed page, recycling the same boring corporate-media-bad/regular-folks-good
polemic day after day after day. But he must love movies, otherwise he wouldn’t
reference them every chance he gets, even when it’s not appropriate. And
as his past history confirms, no Times critic is better at using his
position as a bully pulpit. If he got the gig–and who knows if he’d
accept it–he’d do what Times critics are supposed to do: set
the terms of debate for an entire medium. It’d be like lighting a Bunsen
burner under the complacent backsides of the Hollywood studios. Disney already
hates him for what he writes about them on the op-ed page; it’d be fun
to see what sort of smear campaign they’d wage if he was reviewing their