While I'm as happy as anyone that Pvt. Cowboy of "Full Metal Jacket" is alive and well and married to Debra Winger, I wasn't as thrilled with this film that he -- or rather, actor Arliss Howard -- decided to star in, co-write and direct.
I was at Cannes in 2001 when he premiered it; my feeling was that while it wasn't a complete disaster, it came close. But I do believe it serves a valid purpose: as an effective demonstration that some people can act, others write, and still others direct -- but very few can do all three at once (Orson Welles and Jerry Lewis being two notable exceptions).
"Big Bad Love" probably looked good on paper. The basic premise is okay: boozy backwoods writer with hyperactive imagination and Vietnam past struggles for literary acceptance (think "Barfly" meets "Five Easy Pieces," set in rural Mississippi) while coping with nagging ex-wife, p***ed-off mom and goofy- but-lovable friend.
But Howard overdoes things from the very start. Instead of working in an honest, straightforward manner -- as Bob Rafelson did in "Five Easy Pieces" -- he tries to prove he's a movie director with jump cuts ("if Soderbergh can do it, why not me?"), grammatically funky titles (too cute to be entertaining), surreal flashbacks (more powerful 30 years ago in "Midnight Cowboy"), and confusing fantasy sequences (Richard Lester cornered that market half a century ago with the great "A Hard Day's Night;" Howard fails to improve upon it here).
In the wake of such recent cinematic failures as Ethan Hawke's "Chelsea Walls," Kevin Spacey's "Albino Alligator," and Nicolas Cage's "Sonny," I find it ironic that the actor-turned-director bandwagon continues rolling, and that these and other young stars continue doing what the majority of their more experienced forebears never managed: taking the directorial reigns of a motion picture. But hip Hawke, Academy-Award-winning Spacey, successful Cage and lesser known but respected Howard all stumbled when finally given their shot, despite the masterful tutelage of Weir, Nichols, Coppola and Kubrick . Gee... maybe
filmmaking isn't so easy after all!
The problem lies in the basic approach. Unlike the successful debuts of more experienced actors-turned-directors, such as Clint Eastwood ("Play Misty For
Me") or Charles Laughton ("Night of the Hunter") -- who was smart enough not
to act and direct his first time out -- "Big Bad Love" (terrible title, incidentally, taken from the writer's book or not) functions not as a dramatic narrative, but as an artsy actors' showcase.
Eastwood transcended his career by considering himself a director first, actor second. Not so here. As Jack Warner might have said, this is what happens
when the inmates take over the asylum, the result an incoherent exercise in
student filmmaking and pull-out-the-stops method acting (undoubtedly more
enjoyable for the performers than us).
To his credit, Howard assembles an excellent cast (though all have seen better days and parts): Debra Winger, Rosanna Arquette, Angie Dickinson, Paul Le
Mat. Le Mat plays best friend Monroe-- or Billy Green Bush's Elton to Jack
Nicholson's Bobby in "Five Easy Pieces." Unfortunately, with he and Howard
moving and speaking like the mountain men in "Deliverance," the charm factor
is somewhat limited, not nearly approaching the oddball friendship Rafelson
depicted three decades ago.
The tragedy is that these fine actors could have brought much more to the table. But without a strong leader, they flounder; scenes drag on endlessly, no one
seems to be in charge. This movie wants to be about redemption, but it's too lifeless for us to care. Even the "American Beauty" montage at the end lands with a dull thud. To paraphrase one of the "fantasy" scenes: cliches, blah. Film school tricks, Actors Studio emoting, blah, blah. Meaningless voiceover,
growling Tom Waits soundtrack, unending literary recitations, blah, blah, blah.
SPOILER ALERT*****
An effective post-mortem might begin with what should have been a major scene: the writer opens what he believes will be another rejection letter, only to learn he's finally going to be published. A triumphant, joyous moment, right? But do we see or feel elation? Teary-eyed wonder? Heartbreaking relief? Not even close. He lifelessly retrieves his discarded typewriter, goes back to work, and the audience couldn't care less.
Now let's backtrack 35 years to a similar scene in Francis Ford Coppola's "You're a Big Boy Now." Peter Kastner's nerdy teenager opens an envelope to find a letter from the woman he worships, Barbara Darling. In the blink of an eye, his whole world changes. Clutching the cherished note, Kastner deliriously rollerskates -- almost flies -- through the streets of Manhattan, heart soaring. We share in his jubilation. It's one of the high points in the movie, and a perfect example of externalizing internal emotion. This is what we call cinema, Mr. Howard. You may want to study it a bit before trying something like this again (and where the hell were all those wacky fantasies when we needed them?!?!?)
If I seem to be coming down hard on a decent guy and a project many people consider worthy, it's only because I care about good filmmaking, and Howard as a potential filmmaker. One must analyze failure if one wishes to succeed, correct? And I'd honestly like to see this guy succeed (at least there's nowhere for him to go but up).
But even if he never directs again, I'll always respect Arliss Howard as an actor. Even in a secondary role, he was fantastic in "Full Metal Jacket." He immersed himself in the part. And sometimes -- without uttering a single word -- he expressed all the pain, humiliation, anger and confusion missing from "Big Bad Love."
But "Full Metal Jacket," of course, was the work of a master; this is the product of a beginner. But don't take it too hard, Arliss. Hang in there, baby! If
simultaneously acting and writing and directing was easy, everyone would be
doing it. Right?
And don't forget -- no matter what, we'll always have Pvt. Cowboy.
I was at Cannes in 2001 when he premiered it; my feeling was that while it wasn't a complete disaster, it came close. But I do believe it serves a valid purpose: as an effective demonstration that some people can act, others write, and still others direct -- but very few can do all three at once (Orson Welles and Jerry Lewis being two notable exceptions).
"Big Bad Love" probably looked good on paper. The basic premise is okay: boozy backwoods writer with hyperactive imagination and Vietnam past struggles for literary acceptance (think "Barfly" meets "Five Easy Pieces," set in rural Mississippi) while coping with nagging ex-wife, p***ed-off mom and goofy- but-lovable friend.
But Howard overdoes things from the very start. Instead of working in an honest, straightforward manner -- as Bob Rafelson did in "Five Easy Pieces" -- he tries to prove he's a movie director with jump cuts ("if Soderbergh can do it, why not me?"), grammatically funky titles (too cute to be entertaining), surreal flashbacks (more powerful 30 years ago in "Midnight Cowboy"), and confusing fantasy sequences (Richard Lester cornered that market half a century ago with the great "A Hard Day's Night;" Howard fails to improve upon it here).
In the wake of such recent cinematic failures as Ethan Hawke's "Chelsea Walls," Kevin Spacey's "Albino Alligator," and Nicolas Cage's "Sonny," I find it ironic that the actor-turned-director bandwagon continues rolling, and that these and other young stars continue doing what the majority of their more experienced forebears never managed: taking the directorial reigns of a motion picture. But hip Hawke, Academy-Award-winning Spacey, successful Cage and lesser known but respected Howard all stumbled when finally given their shot, despite the masterful tutelage of Weir, Nichols, Coppola and Kubrick . Gee... maybe
filmmaking isn't so easy after all!
The problem lies in the basic approach. Unlike the successful debuts of more experienced actors-turned-directors, such as Clint Eastwood ("Play Misty For
Me") or Charles Laughton ("Night of the Hunter") -- who was smart enough not
to act and direct his first time out -- "Big Bad Love" (terrible title, incidentally, taken from the writer's book or not) functions not as a dramatic narrative, but as an artsy actors' showcase.
Eastwood transcended his career by considering himself a director first, actor second. Not so here. As Jack Warner might have said, this is what happens
when the inmates take over the asylum, the result an incoherent exercise in
student filmmaking and pull-out-the-stops method acting (undoubtedly more
enjoyable for the performers than us).
To his credit, Howard assembles an excellent cast (though all have seen better days and parts): Debra Winger, Rosanna Arquette, Angie Dickinson, Paul Le
Mat. Le Mat plays best friend Monroe-- or Billy Green Bush's Elton to Jack
Nicholson's Bobby in "Five Easy Pieces." Unfortunately, with he and Howard
moving and speaking like the mountain men in "Deliverance," the charm factor
is somewhat limited, not nearly approaching the oddball friendship Rafelson
depicted three decades ago.
The tragedy is that these fine actors could have brought much more to the table. But without a strong leader, they flounder; scenes drag on endlessly, no one
seems to be in charge. This movie wants to be about redemption, but it's too lifeless for us to care. Even the "American Beauty" montage at the end lands with a dull thud. To paraphrase one of the "fantasy" scenes: cliches, blah. Film school tricks, Actors Studio emoting, blah, blah. Meaningless voiceover,
growling Tom Waits soundtrack, unending literary recitations, blah, blah, blah.
SPOILER ALERT*****
An effective post-mortem might begin with what should have been a major scene: the writer opens what he believes will be another rejection letter, only to learn he's finally going to be published. A triumphant, joyous moment, right? But do we see or feel elation? Teary-eyed wonder? Heartbreaking relief? Not even close. He lifelessly retrieves his discarded typewriter, goes back to work, and the audience couldn't care less.
Now let's backtrack 35 years to a similar scene in Francis Ford Coppola's "You're a Big Boy Now." Peter Kastner's nerdy teenager opens an envelope to find a letter from the woman he worships, Barbara Darling. In the blink of an eye, his whole world changes. Clutching the cherished note, Kastner deliriously rollerskates -- almost flies -- through the streets of Manhattan, heart soaring. We share in his jubilation. It's one of the high points in the movie, and a perfect example of externalizing internal emotion. This is what we call cinema, Mr. Howard. You may want to study it a bit before trying something like this again (and where the hell were all those wacky fantasies when we needed them?!?!?)
If I seem to be coming down hard on a decent guy and a project many people consider worthy, it's only because I care about good filmmaking, and Howard as a potential filmmaker. One must analyze failure if one wishes to succeed, correct? And I'd honestly like to see this guy succeed (at least there's nowhere for him to go but up).
But even if he never directs again, I'll always respect Arliss Howard as an actor. Even in a secondary role, he was fantastic in "Full Metal Jacket." He immersed himself in the part. And sometimes -- without uttering a single word -- he expressed all the pain, humiliation, anger and confusion missing from "Big Bad Love."
But "Full Metal Jacket," of course, was the work of a master; this is the product of a beginner. But don't take it too hard, Arliss. Hang in there, baby! If
simultaneously acting and writing and directing was easy, everyone would be
doing it. Right?
And don't forget -- no matter what, we'll always have Pvt. Cowboy.