Director: David O. Russell
Runtime: 124 minutes
If you find it odd that Joy opens with voice over from the main character's grandmother, don't expect coherence or justification to follow. David O. Russell's new free-wheeling, rambunctious dramedy is a puzzler from start to finish, and not for the best reasons. Adapting the real-life story of Miracle Mop inventor Joy Mangano, Russell has applied the same energetic style that distinguished his last three films (The Fighter, Silver Linings Playbook, and American Hustle). Yet all of the roving, dynamic camera-work and snappy music choices in Joy's 2 hour runtime are enough to give a sense of life or necessity to this rags-to-riches tale.
That's not to say that Mangano's tale is undeserving of dramatization, but Russell's execution here doesn't do it justice. The loud, dysfunctional family that surrounds Joy (Jennifer Lawrence) feels like a watered down version of what Russell presented in both Silver Linings and The Fighter. Yelling and bickering take the place of actual character growth, as if enough familial sparring will eventually turn into quirkiness.
And it might have, were it not for the flatness that permeates just about every performance from the ensemble. Russell has assembled a typically excellent, charismatic cast, but none of them seem terribly invested in the material. The actors glide through the dialogue as if waiting for inspiration to strike, yet it never does. At worst, everyone in Joy sounds just a bit, well, bored. Whatever your opinion on Russell's recent films, they have enough energy flowing through them to make them at least passable entertainment. Joy, however, moves along mostly on autopilot, despite the lively, in-your-face photography.
Perhaps the lack of energy comes down to the cluttered, discordant nature of the story. Joy brings in characters and subplots, but the wider the film's scope becomes, the weaker its impact. The closest the film comes to evoking joy (or any other emotion) arrives in the midsection, when Mangano starts to plug the Miracle Mop on QVC. Whether cramming in a cameo from Joan Rivers (played by her daughter, Melissa), or showing Mangano's eventual triumph on live TV, the QVC scenes introduce a sense of coherence and purpose.
But the drive that highlights the rise of the Miracle Mop empire is stranded in a film that never quite figures out where it's going or leading up to. Diane Ladd's voice pops up sporadically with eyeroll-worthy narration, trying to turn Joy's story into a late 20th century entrepreneurial fairy tale. But much of what transpires just happens for the sake of filling up time over the course of a plodding two hours. The worst example is when Joy's shut in of a mother (Virginia Madsen) strikes up a relationship with a repairman. It adds nothing to the narrative, and there's nothing in the material that makes the messiness of the subplot feel acceptable. Like most of the story in Joy, it's just sort of there. One great shot in the film involves Mangano confidently strutting down a street. Unlike his subject, Russell is unable to match Joy's single-minded confidence or swagger.
Grade: C-
Director: David O. Russell
Runtime: 128 minutes
About halfway through David O. Russell's American Hustle, I suddenly realized why it all felt so vaguely familiar. Sure, the beginning had a bit of Goodfellas vibe with the tone of its voice-overs and flashbacks, but there was a second ingredient that evaded my grasp. And then it hit me: Ocean's 11. Like Soderbergh's film, Russell's latest feels like an excuse for a bunch of familiar players to get together and make a fun movie with a bunch of heinous, period-appropriate hairdos. Sure, the film is talked about as a possibly big Oscar contender, but it's really more of a laid back heist movie that just happens to have a diamond-studded ensemble. Combine the two aforementioned films and you have a rough approximation of what it's like to watch American Hustle. That is, without any of old-fashioned skill of Scorcese's mafia classic, or the effortless crowd-pleasing of Steven Soderbergh's caper remake.
A fictionalized take on the FBI's ABSCAM sting operation in the late 70s, American Hustle opens with an attempt at cheekiness: a title card reading, "A lot of this probably happened." The film isn't out to take itself too seriously. Instead, it's content to pack a blandly appealing, toothless sense of humor in a stab at broad accessibility. That said, the title card is hardly an unforgivable sin. That's where the voice over comes in. Covering not one, not two, but three different characters, American Hustle's voice over is some of the most ill-conceived since the opening of The Descendants. The saving grace of the latter film is that after the first 15 minutes, George Clooney shut up. The three-pronged vocal assault here - from Christian Bale, Amy Adams, and Bradley Cooper - may not be constant, but it does pop up across the entire film, which spans a little more than two hours.
Suffice it to say that the film's first quarter is easily its weakest. There's a lot of ground to cover, with everything from childhoods to personal motivations blasted through, all at the expense of a proper anchoring in the characters. We've got schlubby con man Irving Rosenfeld (Bale), his mistress Sydney Prosser (Adams), and Richie DiMaso (Cooper), the FBI agent who eventually manipulates the pair, all competing for our attention, which gets the film off to a jumbled start. Aside from an amusing opening bit with Irving arranging his labyrinthine combover, there's little to latch on to, seeing as so much information is simply being thrown our way.
But while we're on the subject of hair, it's worth noting that American Hustle does have a great deal of fun with with its characters' coiffures. Adams and Jennifer Lawrence (as Irving's alcoholic shut-in of a wife) are largely spared, save for when the former goes to a party with Janice Soprano hair, being the victims of follicular atrocities. The men are less fortunate. In addition to Bale's combover, there's also Cooper's hilariously tiny and tight set of curls, a nice externalizing of his finicky tightly wound persona, and Jeremy Renner's bouffant, which may possess its own gravitational pull.
Like some vicious bit of aesthetic justice, the men's looks are made to suffer, even as the women remain dressed up and lightly objectified (every other one of Adams' outfits bares quite a bit of skin). When Sydney compliments Richie on his perm, the moment comes across like a bit of meta commentary. She seems to find it attractive, but when she references the amount of effort he puts into such a 'do, it's difficult not to laugh.
It's the sort of humor that Russell has retained and broadened over the course of his last few films (including The Fighter and Silver Linings Playbook). There are dramatic scenes here (the best of which belong to Adams, in wildly different scenarios), but American Hustle isn't out to plumb the depths of its characters and their morally grey world. It's all a bunch of star-powered razzle dazzle that only momentarily catches fire. It's a film caught between giving its actors room to play off of each other, while also trying to keep its plot moving forward, only without the level of detail that might have made for a more compelling narrative.
So, as fun as it is to see these stars play dress up and spout moderately amusing dialogue, the film as a whole can't help but feel lacking. As a drama, it never has stakes necessary to generate tension (save for one last minute, and very fun, twist). As a caper-comedy, it's too removed from the specifics of its plot to feel like there's much of anything really going on. And, as a character study, it's far too thin. The hairstyles are, frankly, often more fun to pay attention to. And as much as Russell throws in dolly zooms on his actors' faces, American Hustle never truly takes flight the way his last two films did. The closest that American Hustle comes to capturing the fire of The Fighter or Silver Linings is in a brief bit of physical comedy involving Lawrence drunkenly singing along to the Bond theme "Live and Let Die." Unfortunately, like the movie as a whole, the moment is only superficially engaging, and ultimately superfluous, despite its best intentions.
Grade: C+
Director: David O. Russell
Runtime: 122 minutes
Dissect the whole of David O. Russell's Silver Linings Playbook, and you'll find a bunch of individual pieces that belong in either an unbearably cheesy romantic comedy or a shoddy Lifetime movie. Put all of these pieces into O. Russell's hands as both writer and director, and thrown in an outstanding cast, and you have one of the year's best surprises. Though Playbook does at times let its rom-com cliches get the better of it, the film maintains a steady course that mixes indie sensibilities with broad emotional appeal. Following 2010's The Fighter, this is yet another more accessible film from the brash writer/director. And, thankfully, O. Russell has hit the sweet spot, even as he veers closer to lightweight territory.
Based on Matthew Quick's novel of the same name, Playbook is the sort of comedy/drama hybrid that knows how to deftly mix the light and the heavy emotional components with ease. Pat (Bradley Cooper), recently on leave from a mental institution after a violent breakdown, is struggling to readjust to life with his parents (Robert DeNiro and Jacki Weaver). Pat is convinced that, assuming he can find a way to prove that he has changed, he can win back his wife Nikki (Brea Bee). Along the way, he meets Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence), the sister-in-law of a close friend, who has had similar issues with mental health. Several awkward encounters later, Tiffany and Pat are working together to enter a couples' dance competition, which Pat hopes will prove his supposed newfound sense of discipline and emotional control.
The buildup to the dance subplot, however, is where O. Russell and his actors succeed most. As in The Fighter, the family and friends that populate this film love each other, but also have their fair share of battle scars and hot tempers. Instead of mundane soap opera hysterics, however, we get scenes that, through turns funny and dramatic, keep the characters on an emotional high wire. So even though the comedy isn't likely to make you double over in hysteria, it comes from such a situational, organic place that the film never feels like it's straining for comedy to break up the drama. And, as loud as the characters can become, with anywhere from four to eight voices shouting over each other, the emotional fireworks have genuine heat to them. Whether Pat is ranting about his disdain for Ernest Hemingway, or awkwardly attempting to converse with Tiffany, O. Russell's sharp eye finds the truth in the characters, never letting them descend into caricatures (even Chris Tucker, which is saying something).
Much of this also comes down to the stellar work from the cast. Mr. Cooper, best known for the two Hangover films as well as Limitless, sheds his typical smug swagger and digs deep into Pat. It's both a leading man turn and a work of striking character detailing that should, hopefully allow Cooper to start unlocking his potential as a performer. Whether he's manic, angry, or blatantly disregarding normal social skills, Pat comes through so clearly as a character that his sharp shifts in mood never feel strained or contrived. The same can be said for Lawrence, who, whether by herself or interacting with Pat, feels so much like a fully-drawn person that she avoids becoming a gritty version of a manic pixie dream girl. Watching the two interact together, both troubled, both overcoming different losses, is the film's highlight. Some developments in the plot may feel a little rushed (the dance training basically consists of one montage), but the two central performances keep everything so wonderfully grounded that it only becomes apparent once the lights go up and the credits roll.
With so much excellent ground work in regards to the characters, the film carries a tremendous energy through, never flagging even as it hits a handful of predictable notes in the final act. So much of Pat and Tiffany's relationship has such an in-the-moment back and forth that the last minute moments of "will they or won't they" tension can't help but feel like a desperate appeal for broad appeal. No such appeal is necessary, as the characters, warts and all, prove so lively and engaging on multiple levels. Yet, perhaps inevitably, the more banal rom-com pieces of the puzzle eventually rear their bland heads. As such, the film ends too neatly. Like The Fighter, Silver Linings Playbook moves along with excellent emotional edginess its entire way through, only to conclude on an unitive ending that matches the story in tone, yet still feels out of place. It's as if, in the final minutes, O. Russell forgot to suppress the aspects of the film that rob it of its otherwise distinct status among romantic comedies.
Grade: B+
