#39 | May 21 - June 4, 1998  

Well, almost. The good news is that you may now enjoy the Coen brothers' latest, The Big Lebowski. It's such a goddam riot I laughed more often and even louder the second time around (apologies to anyone who was within earshot). Let me begin by saying that my response to Jeff Bridges typically varies from grim tolerance to outright disgust. But not here-his ever-confused aging hippie is so engaging that Jeff simply cannot fuck things up. I even found his Quixotic fixation with the cheap rug that gets soiled (pissed on, in fact) in the opening scene strangely moving.

This rug soon leads the unsuspecting Dude (Bridges's preferred handle) into a convoluted web of intrigue that evokes the myriad interwoven social strata of 1990s Los Angeles as definitively as Raymond Chandler's writing did the LA of his era. In fact, the classic film noir version of Chandler's The Big Sleepis no doubt the inspiration for the first half of the title. (A somewhat more debatable point is whether the "Lebowski" part is a jab at the so-called "Wachowski brothers"-whom I doubt are even related-and their teenage mutant lesbian fairy tale Bound, a Coen knock-off that is shameless even by faux-indie-film standards.)

A few good men...who love bowling

As in Chandler's novels, the intricate plot is just an excuse to get to the real show: the endless array of quirky characters (total nutburgers in some cases) involved in the conspiracy. All the plot twists and inter-related motives may parse in the end, but by then it hardly matters. This would be a joy to watch even if it made zero in the way of sense. Which is why all the hubbub about L.A. Confidential was so confounding. Film noir with limp dialogue and beige characters (not to mention a "surprise" ending you can puzzle out before the first body is on ice) is just plug-and-chug detective pulp, an apt description of Russell Crowe's waxy museum re-creation of a noir rehash. The Coens, on the other hand, have adapted the genre to their own offbeat nihilistic ends, upping the laugh count, but without pulling a single dramatic punch.

Cheers are certainly due the supporting cast of character actors (many Coen regulars), who perfectly toe the fine line between clever and stupid. Capturing such performances seems to be one of the things the Coen brothers do best, their obvious love for their craft routinely letting them get away with what ought to seem pointlessly silly.

True to form, the film is visually stunning; it features some of the most entrancing dolly shots you'll ever see. And the seedily luxurious bowling alley where the Dude's spends much of his timeÉwell let's just say that if the Pro Bowling Tour had the Coens directing their broadcasts, they'd be primed and ready for a serious prime-time slot.

By the way, if there be any justice in this world, The Big Lebowski will return "fuckin' A" to its rightful place in the parlance of our times.

Surprisingly, Primary Colors also makes for an enjoyable movie in its limited way (i.e., that of a slick Hollywood production with solid performances and helpful music cues that let you know when to shed a tear or raise a proverbial fist in silent affirmation)-sort of a political Jerry Maguirewith Mike Nichols stepping in for Cameron Crowe, if you know what I mean.

The trouble is, although I found the movie pleasing and-well-programmed sap that I am-even cried at all the right places (usually only emotional sports flicks work so well), the more I think back the less happy I am about the experience.

But before I get into that, let me address one very vital issue. You see, a number of upper middle-brow critics have interpreted Primary Colors not so much as the semi-fictional Bill Clinton biopic it certainly is, but rather as an incisive, thoughtful investigation of the American political process that raises important questions about how leaders are elected. This utter bullshit has three possible explanations: (1) these critics make up in pretension what they lack in analytical skills; (2) these critics were all guests at both of Clinton's inaugural balls; (3) these critics are Roger Ebert.

Although the novel might have been able to fit that tag (why it would want to is not something I'd care to get into), the adapted screenplay cuts it to shreds, tossing out any nuance of character that won't fit into a theatrical trailer. Consequently, the book's Heavy Action Moments (threatened pistol castration, penis exposure in the workplace, "you sick hetero fuck!", roadside vomiting and suicision; etc.; notably, the Hillary character's passionless revenge sex with a brother was cut) are used to define the film's pace and structure-a lazy cop-out, in my opinion, and, even worse, one that dulls whatever edge the story had in prose form.

The book is no masterpiece, but the characters (except the Nick Carraway-esque narrator, who at least makes it painfully clear that "Anonymous" is not black) are brought convincingly to life in a way that nicely complements the story. In the film, however, key cathartic moments, when not cut entirely, are often just another stepping stone on Bill/Jack's way to the White House. The psycho-dyke's farewell is a prime example: her on-screen life is so brief that that this supposedly tragic seppuku is insultingly devoid of pathos.

In spite of the handicaps, however, most of the players put together a respectable salvage job. Had she been granted a few more scenes, Kathy Bates might well have pulled off the delicate mix of instability and fiercely held principles in the suicide lesbian. Billy Bob Thornton and Larry Hagman are stellar as, respectively, a vulgar but big-hearted redneck and an former coke-head/Florida governor. Adrian Lester, on the other hand, pushes the Oreo-nerd thing so far that the book's narrator seems, in retrospect, like a Farrakhan disciple.

Ah, so that Hillary bitch IS a Brit...

The Clintons/Stantons themselves are well portrayed individually by Emma Thompson and John Travolta, but as a pair they never quite mesh. Although Thompson keeps the Brit factor well in check, she always appears to be in a different movie from that inhabited by Travolta's Saturday Night Live-worthy caricature. This is oddly appropriate given that Clinton is the first US president with such a ludicrously exaggerated schtick that he preempts the satirical humor of his SNL parody. Since I am a fair man, I will give Travolta his due: the Fleshy Limbless Rectangle has again surprised me, Face/Off-style, by overacting his way to an entertaining and impressive performance. The problem is, Travolta's too-true impersonation makes it as difficult to take his "I feel your pain" compassion seriously as it is with the real Clinton. Yet if the climax is to have any resonance at all, then believe this compassion you must.

But here's the thing that really disturbs me (to return from my little aside): at a time when Bill Clinton is under fire for allegedly accepting oral pleasure in the Oval Office from a young woman not his wife (a minor offense in anyone's book and if we're talking presidential books, well then it's hardly even worthy of a humorous two-sentence footnote on executive hygiene*) what should be a a savage but impartial look at the dark side of a Clinton-esque presidential candidate turns out be an underhanded propaganda piece telling us that this deceitful, philandering redneck is nevertheless a "good guy," exactly the sort of leader the world's only remaining superpower desperately needs.

Now suppose I also inform you that the film proves beyond a reasonable doubt that this Democrat has fucked and perhaps impregnated the family's 15-year-old baby-sitter (the daughter of a dear old friend of his, I might add) and then uses every smoke-screen at his disposal to obscure the truth, including lying to his wife and everyone else who is close to him. I trust that you will understand the level of hypocrisy the average closet-fascist American cineaste must possess in order to come to the conclusion the film demands of him. Is this Puritan puke too busy checking up on his mutual funds to worry about the barefoot goings-on in some ghastly country backwater? Fuck if I know.

But I do know that it's high time certain Velveeta-brand tedium-junkies came out of their Friends-and-frappuccino comas before we miss the chance to caper into the next millennium with the finest nuclear arsenal five decades of US taxpayer money can buy under the control of an illiterate country club Nazi who hasn't copulated since his youngest offspring was conceived. And so:
DAN QUAYLE - PRESIDENT - 2000
There, I said it. And while I'm at it, Boogie Nights was an abysmal movie. Seinfeld was not a show about "nothing." White Zinfandel is not a valid wine choice-with any meal. No matter what you do, your children think you are evil-or, if you're lucky, just a dork.

* Whether, as has also been alleged, he spewed on the lady's dress is a gooier matter, but only if he refused to pay the dry-cleaning bill and/or did not apologize.