Two wonderful performances in search of a worthy vehicle.
SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK (2012)
Directed by David O.
Russell
Weinstein Group, 122
minutes, R (brief nudity, language)
* *
Need more confirmation that movies are in the creative
doldrums? Silver Linings Playbook is
up for numerous Oscars, including Best Picture, and it’s not even a good movie, let alone an Oscar-worthy
nominee. Were it not for outstanding performances from leads Bradley Cooper and
Jennifer Lawrence, it would be one of the worst pieces of manipulative tearjerker
schlock since Terms of Endearment.
Like so many bad films, Silver
Linings Playbook can’t decide if it’s a drama, a romance, or a comedy. By
trying to be all three, it doesn’t work as any of them. The setup is simple.
Patrick Solatano Jr. (Cooper) comes unglued when he comes home early and finds
his wife Nikki (Brea Bee) showering and groping with a colleague. Blind with
rage and–we’re led to believe–latent mental instability, he nearly kills the
guy. Because of that (script convenient) latency, Pat is sent to Excelsior, a
mental health facility in Baltimore instead of jail, though he does end losing
his home, job, and wife. Okay, let’s get it straight from the start. This film
is set in Philadelphia and I used to work in Pennsylvania law enforcement. It’s
extremely unlikely that Pat would have been sent anywhere except jail, and he
surely wouldn’t have been shipped across state lines (which would have involved
an enormous outflow of money).
Never mind that. We pick up the story eight months later
when Pat’s mother, Dolores (Jacki Weaver), signs his discharge from the
facility. Pat moves in with Dolores and paterfamilias Pat. Sr. (Robert DeNiro),
who is making ends meet by running numbers. We quickly learn where Pat Jr. got
his demon–his old man is textbook (or is stereotype?) OCD, a guy who truly
believes that he can gamble his way back to solvency through the fortunes of
his beloved Philadelphia Eagles, as long as everyone wears the proper jerseys,
touches an Eagles kerchief properly, and holds a set of remote controls at the
correct height. Having Pat Jr. watch the game with him is part of the “mojo.” Except
Pat Jr. is a wreck. He didn’t take his meds in the facility, thinks his therapy
with psychiatrist Cliff Patel (Anupam Kher) is a joke, and believes he can cure
himself through running, reading, and positive thinking. Part of the “cure”
involves winning back Nikki, with whom he is obsessed.
Cooper is terrific in the role. He is a hyper hair trigger
that can go off at any time and it doesn’t take much. His ineffectual mother is
sympathetic, as are friends Ronnie (Jim Ortiz) and Danny (Chris Tucker), but
they have issues of their own. Ronnie is in over his head with a big mortgage,
a new baby, and a materialistic, free-spending wife, Veronica (Julia Stiles);
and Danny is a frequent AWOL from Excelsior, where Pat met him. Water finds its
own level in the form of Veronica’s troubled younger sister, Tiffany (Jessica
Lawrence), who also came mentally unhinged when her husband was killed in an
accident. The initial sparks fly when Pat and Tiffany spar over which one of
them is crazier. Lawrence is every bit Cooper’s equal in a role in which she’s
part icy Goth, part vulnerable sparrow, and part call-the-bullshit truth
speaker.
Had the film centered on these two people moving toward one
another in the healing process, this might have been a very good film. Alas,
the film is junked up with paste-up characters: Veronica, a cop that shows up
every time Pat goes off, an older jerk brother, and Kher playing one of the
least convincing shrinks in movie history (and that’s quite a statement). DeNiro
doesn’t do much except populate the film. Did Russell swallow a Political
Correctness pill? Pat Jr. has an Indian psychiatrist, a Hispanic friend, and a
black sidekick. In North Philly? If you think that’s unlikely, how about a plot
that involves Pat Sr. needing to win a bet on an Eagles game to save his dream
(and probably his house)? And he’s talked into taking it by none other than
Tiffany, who delivers a snarky monologue that’s lifted from My Cousin Vinny with the automobile
litany replaced by football stats. But let’s take it a step further down the
path of absurdity. Even if the Eagles win, Pat St. can’t collect unless he also
wins a side bet that Pat Jr. and Tiffany will score at least a 5 in a professional
dance contest! Cue the music and let’s see how much of Saturday Night Fever we can pirate. And let’s throw in a few
conventions such as an old-fashioned fistfight, Pat Jr. running through the
streets of Philly (Rocky), and
letters of questionable authorship (Cyrano).
What could have been an incisive look at mental illness
dissolves into caper and lame comedy. The entire movie is a manipulative strip
tease posing as a feel-good movie. It has the intellectual depth of junior high
school, and it demeans the problems with which Cooper and Lawrence are
wrestling. Lawrence may well win an Oscar in a not-so-strong pool of actresses
and she’s so good that few would begrudge her. But if this film wins anything
beyond that, the Oscars can officially be declared a joke. David O. Russell
apparently wishes to be a Hollywood director in the worst way. He’s succeeded.
–Rob Weir
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