#31 | March 5 - 12, 1998  

In the Company of Men doesn't make a whole lot of sense in Moscow. After rendering the term democracy as meaningless as communism was under Soviet rule, Russia will be apt to see a rather pointless exercise in a film questioning whether freedom and equality--supposedly the gifts of a democratic system--aren't just a well-crafted illusion.

If the average Russian finds himself saying "well duh" long before director Neil LaBute reaches his morally ambiguous conclusion, this is because the democratic illusion here in Russia is about as well crafted as a Homer Simpson home-carpentry project. Moreover, the ugly truth lurking behind this illusion--the system is based on economics rather than equality and tends to favor the smooth-tongued and the powerful--is painfully apparent to anyone who hasn't been in a coma for the last six years.

But the last thing a contented U.S. cubicle-dweller (the sort of propaganda consumer who actually believes his ideas and opinions are unique and meaningful and will enable his advancement if he just gives it that old college try) wants is to hear is that the so-called American way is largely a myth keeping the grunts peacefully in line and the masters firmly in control. It is hardly surprising that this film has been either angrily dismissed as misogynistic (anger, followed by active avoidance being the brainwashed automaton's natural response to information violating his programming) or tagged with the all-purpose modifier "controversial." Considering that this label pops up most often in respect of films that attempt an honest depiction of some barely hidden truth, we arrive at the rather silly equation that in contemporary American culture the truth is, by definition, controversial (which is essentially an "Unpleasant Truth Revealed Here" alarm to warn off those who like their illusions the way they are).

Whatever this implies about America's future, it also means that a true artist has little reason to expect that his work will receive thoughtful, rational consideration--all the more so if this work is at all "popular" (which even a low-budget independent film certainly is). This (arguably) unfortunate situation is probably behind the frequently heard statement "The only audience I am concerned about is myself," but few filmmakers manage to speak these words as convincingly as David Lynch. Presumably, most directors need at least the illusion (goddam things are everywhere today) of an intelligent audience. How frustrating it must be to be denied the sensitive response one's work demands. Admittedly, this is all pretty dopey college-freshman pot-jabber, but keep in mind that if the Democratic Delusion argument in particular seems axiomatic to you, it might be because environment has you seeing things from a Russian perspective. In other words, what's obvious to the Muscovite (whether native or transplant) might not be so obvious to Davey desk clerk in Dubuque.

In all fairness, LaBute's debut is not the masterpiece my longwinded preamble might imply, and he'll probably be fine without our concern anyway--he did manage to get his film made, no small feat in itself. But the film merits at least an attempt at a serious discussion. So let's give this old film-crit thing a semi-honest go, h'm?

To begin in proper MT "Business Extra" style, I give In the Company of Men a solid B for achievement and a shaky AŠ for effort--well above the GPA the "young reformers" pulled last term. What keeps the former grade out of A range is the excess of immature, in-crowd elements. Not unlike all those first novels that read like they're meant expressly for graduate writing students, LaBute's occasionally resorts to film-school-friendly gestures that might put off a less specialized audience (although, given the state of general audiences today, perhaps we shouldn't judge him too harshly for this).

I found the score--mostly hyper-percussive improv-y tribal breaks between each act of the snowballing plot--out of place. This is intriguing during the opening credits, but never really goes anywhere; by mid-film the music is already redundant and tiresome.

Hal Hartley regular Matt Malloy's performance as Howard, the cringing, insecure half of the misogynistic duo, is another problem. Malloy's unstudied overacting may suit Hartley's self-consciously exaggerated melodramas, but it never quite meshes with the voyeuristic naturalism LaBute is after here.

Typically enough, the film's final scene is the biggest drag. Whether to ensure a memorable conclusion or out of fear that the main point might be misconstrued or even missed entirely, indie-film endings tend to be jarringly overdone. In this case, the film's constant indirect wordplay is finally stated explicitly and then repeated (shouted, more like) several times before an abrupt cut to black. As the closing credits rolled, I felt like I had spent 90 minutes watching someone assemble a mysteriously intricate and delicate device that at the last minute turned into a sledgehammer out of some highbrow MacGyver episode.

On the plus side, Aaron Eckhart is nearly flawless as Chad, the ultra-confident idea man and voice of evil reason; he's a bit like an Owen-Matthews foil to Howard's Mijay Vajeshwari (anyone who has ever seen those two "MT Out" legends systematically de-dyev a nightclub know what I'm talking about). Chad may look unnervingly like our own Mark Ames (as an ex-Aryan frat boy, that is), but the former's idea of a proper corporate environment makes even the eXile offices look like the height of PC respectability.

Having learned that being white, good-looking, and smarter than the average moron means never having to act humanely, Chad has grown into the kind of guy who coerces reluctantly ambitious black interns into exposing their testicles merely for the humiliation of it (after first savagely mocking their pronunciation of troublesome words like "ask/aks," which you can just tell they're all sensitive about), refers to Hoosiers as barbarians (I must say I'm with him on this point), and doesn't consider a week complete unless he has destroyed (emotionally or physically, depending on his mood) at least one person who considers him a friend. At home, he often stays up late at night smoking and watching tube; when he finally makes it to bed, he arouses his sleeping wife and tells her to "get to work" (Chad-style pillow-talk for "suck my dick, bitch," I guess). Not only does this flagrantly un-American behavior go unpunished, but Chad is routinely promoted up the corporate ladder, and the wife (who's not bad for an American broad, it must be said) obviously thinks he's a hell of a guy.

Actually, he sort of is. At least, this is the discomforting light in which LaBute tends to portray Chad. Like it or not, we laugh right along as he mercilessly terrorizes the deaf, the uneducated, the underpaid. His charismatic power make him the film's most compelling presence by a wide margin, while his unwillingness to use this power to achieve anything of substance is rendered irrelevant by the comparative ineffectuality of all the other characters. Even a pail of urine is kinda attractive when compared with a pile of rotting shit. Chad's final appearance onscreen, which should bring our disgust to a peak, is carefully designed as a subversive turn on the Wise Father Figure Basking in Adoration of Devoted Wife after Hard Day's Work trope from 1950s TV. And if our final glimpse of Chad's contented smirk doesn't quite reach the sublime heights of "chilling," it only misses by a hair.

So if you need a proper kickoff to an odd International Women's Day date, why not spend Sunday afternoon In the Company of Men? (Sorry 'bout that--in the face of such high-mag cheez opps I'm just a helpless 'Nuck pop star adrift on the seas of irony.)

Also on tap this week is Quentin Tarantino's latest, Jackie Brown. I said pretty much all I have to say about this one back in December when the bootleg vid arrived, but it's possible that I overstated the film's merits just a tad--so if you reread that old review, please turn down my misplaced enthusiasm a notch.

And a very special and happy International Women's Day to all the ladies, especially to my mom, my sister... and whoever Boris Nemtsov is schtooking this weekend. (In case of multiple partners for the First Deputy Prime Minister, my third special holiday greeting should go to whichever of these lucky gals shares his bed closest to noon on Sunday, 8 March. In case of multiple partners simultaneously... aah forget it.)