American Beauty

CHRONIC INCONSUMMATION

Sam Mendes’ American Beauty is another of those chilled morality tales, much like Ang Lee’s The Ice Storm, speaking about—but not necessarily to—Americans wallowing in their glaring amorality and materialism; in short, the movies are lectures about us from directors who don’t really know us. Shortly into AB, Kevin Spacey is irritated by not being able to watch the James Bond marathon on TNT when in fact the Bond series ran as a virtual exclusive on TBS at the time of the making of this picture. It’s not a minor point to quibble over; while it may mean less for the British-born Cambridge-educated director to miss the error, it’s not okay for born-in-the-U.S.A. Spacey and smartass screenwriter Alan Ball, neither of whom ignorant of media noise, to skip over this telling detail which almost fatally alters receptiveness. On the Internet, it’s been written this movie is “high concept,” but once we’re into the movie’s limpy, hackneyed throbs of probable danger—especially in regard to a pro-Nazi closet case—everything becomes “low information” expectant and the only heightened achievement is in our resentment in being had. If Mendes and Ball believe they’re onto something scoldingly revelatory, the rest of us will likely conclude they’ve clogged transmissions via the tiresome drug of convenient harpiness. (As one writer put it, once more it’s “the suburbs as soulless enclaves full of cul de sacs that end in ruin.”) American Beauty is a more entertaining reproach than Lee’s; we can laugh at the fractured mumblings—like the spooky clear-eyed drug pusher’s Cybill-inspired self-estimation he’s the “best piece of ass in three states” and he sells for two grand government-grown grass genetically engineered to eliminate the paranoia. And also laugh at Spacey’s taunting job resignation. The actor is, though, tepid; he’s never much involved—detached, even chronically inconsummate, both as character and personality. Is this why he won an Oscar—because he never cums? What man could if dressed for bed in a t-shirt and heavy-duty p.j.s? (He’s much more effective in the detestable Hurlyburly and, despite his age, as Bobby Darin in Beyond the Sea.) His wrap-up narration may have been stolen from Glenn Close’s in Reversal of Fortune. By some accounts, Annette Bening expected to win an Oscar for her performance, which isn’t only presumptuous it’s also evidence of self-delusion. She’s a Screen Queen of Shrill—a snot-nosed bitch right on schedule to be another disguised dullard. In looking back on her career, she is seldom capable of holding our interest in her leading roles, except for Running with Scissors and Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool, an awful title keeping audiences away from her very decent portrayal of Gloria Grahame’s last days. Otoh, shortened presences in The Grifters and Imogene (its other title Girl Most Likely) strengthen her scene-stealing allure.

Viewers familiar with HBO’s Six Feet Under will note some origins from AB—Ball’s use of death to get into subjects like familial dysfunction, sex and homosexuality, drugs, disturbing social mores. Watching the complete series can cause us to reel from its variety pack emotions, to feel discombobulated. One day, after my mind finally reassembles from all the swirl, I want to write more about the aftereffects. Here’s a sneak preview: no other entertainment I can think of has a greater set of Scenes from the Kitchen.

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ralphbenner@nowreviewing.com