BABYLON (2022)
Directed by Damien Chazelle
Paramount, 189 minutes, R (graphic nudity, sex, language, violence)
½
Babylon might not be the worst film I’ve ever seen, but why quibble when it comes to rubbish? Everything about it is big: big cast, big budget, big mess. It’s on target to hemorrhage nearly $100 million, which makes it such a big turkey that it can probably be seen by the Webb telescope.
The definition of a broad comedy is an opening sequence involving a man being shat upon by an elephant. That’s setting a low bar, but it manages to go lower. It’s a mystery why this film wasn’t rated NC-17 as there’s a lot of full frontal nudity and active copulation. Don’t get too excited; on-screen nudity hasn’t been this boring since Eyes Wide Shut (1999). Much of the dialogue consists of F and MF bombs, so it’s literary merits aren’t exactly Shakespearean either.
Ostensibly, Babylon is about movies, fantasy, and transition. There are three time sequences–1926, 1932, and 1952–that correspond to the apex of silent films, their demise at the hands of talkies, and a what-happened-to-whom coda. We witness an orgiastic party in which Hollywood glitterati and hangers-on celebrate their presumed importance and invulnerability. The amoral behavior you see is exaggerated, but the for-real 1920s movie crowd drove moralists to fury. Prohibition scarcely existed in Hollywood, drugs of all sorts proliferated, bedrooms were like airport lounges, and high-profile scandals occurred, such as the trial of Fatty Arbuckle, the addiction death of Wallace Reid, and the murder of William Desmond Taylor. Many of the film characters are based loosely on historical figures.
The sprawling script (sort of) concentrates on a handful of characters: egotistical/substance-impaired actor Jack Conrad (Brad Pitt), a Douglas Fairbanks/John Gilbert mashup; depressed producer George Munn (Lucas Haas); hot jazz trumpeter Sidney Palmer, a Curtis Mosby parallel; Nellie LaRoy (Margot Robbie), whose willingness to sleep her way to celebrity borrows the reputed behavior of Clara Bow; gossip columnist Elinor St. John (Jean Smart), a thinly disguised Adela Rogers St. Johns; Lady Fay Zhu (Li Jun Ji), whose ribald lesbian cabaret act is an Anna May Wong riff; and Mexican immigrant Manuel Torres (Diego Calva). Robbie dominates the first part of the film and Calva the latter part. In 1926, everyone parties like the good times will roll forever; in 1932, they face the reality they are yesterday’s scandal sheet, and in 1952, we check to see who is left standing and when the others were planted. (Some self-destruct, some disappear, and some move on.)
Babylon alienated many critics, excited a few, and was largely ignored by audiences. A few called it a story of invention and reinvention. That would be true for Calva’s character, who transforms from the gofer Mexican immigrant Manuel to Manny, a “Spaniard” director, to an assimilated Mexican American. It’s technically true of others in a pattern that runs from unknown to star to forgotten. Mostly, though, trying to freight Babylon with gravitas gives it more credit than is due. I can assure you that my synopsis is far more coherent the movie’s wandering narrative, a nicer way of saying that this three-hour plus production is overly long for no good reason. Terms such as “redundant” and “exhausting” proliferate among those who disliked Babylon. When we look at the large number of cameo actors–including Flea, Olivia Hamilton, Tobey Maguire, Max Minghella, Eric Roberts, and Olivia Wilde–one wonders if the intent was for director Damien Chazelle to secure paydays for his posse.
As for the principals, Brad Pitt is simply bad. His affect is flat, his smirk is annoying, and his range stayed home. Margot Robbie has talent, but if you feed her corn, she chews the scenery and leaves sucrose oozing from the screen. Excuse the term, but her role was that of a manipulative tramp. She spends much of the movie in costumes that evoke a striptease and must have been riveted to her body. Li Jun Ji seems to have wandered in from a tryout for Cabaret and Lucas Haas mopes his way through. Forget the big names; the most consistent performances come from Adepo and Calva.
There is a lovely movie montage to take us out, but it’s too late by then. Overall, Babylon makes Showgirls seem like Gone with the Wind. What a let down from Chazelle, who directed the masterful Whiplash and the crowd-pleasing La La Land. Babylon suggests he needs to exit Tinseltown while there’s still hope.
Rob Weir
Postscript: Better films on Hollywood decadence include: The Artist (2011); Hail Caesar (2016), Day of the Locust (1975); Hollywood Land (2006), LA Confidential (1997), Mulholland Drive (2001), The Player (1992), and Sunset Boulevard (1950).
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