Something must happen to a person when they're repeatedly denied the pinnacle of success in their chosen profession. Naturally, some of us are simply role players in this life and that suits the majority of us just fine. But professionals such as athletes, scholars, scientists and even filmmakers, those that operate in the public eye, are often further compelled by the force and scrutiny of their audiences to not only grab the proverbial brass ring, but to dunk the mo-fo in a piping-hot cup of gasoline, set it afire with telekinetic energy and down it without even chewing. To be recognized as the best, you have to win championships, Nobel or Pulitzer prizes and of course, get the nod from the hit n' miss judgement of The Academy Awards. Much like a woman who has been a bridesmaid over half a dozen times but has never herself been married, there have to be some mental obstacles to overcome when squeezing one's self into yet another dress that matches the floral arrangements and venue decor but doesn't quite feel like you.
A couple of months ago, while the girls were visiting relatives in Vernal, I happened to be sprawled out on the couch, soaking in a touch of PBS on one of those particular Saturday nights when they air a classic picture without editing it down for time, content or commercial interruptions. The feature for the evening was 1990's Best Picture Oscar winner, Dances With Wolves, starring then everyman and box office draw, Kevin Costner. Though I had seen the movie once before, I didn't remember enough to have any strong favorable or unfavorable attachment and wanted to give it another long look. So I turned out the lights in the living room and made myself comfy with some pillows and a cool beverage in order to sink as far as I could into the movie. Heck, it was swell. There were bison and indians and all kinds of shots of blue sky above a rugged, western horizon. All accompanied by that signature, incessant John Barry score, reminding me of how to feel during each sequence and when to feel it. By the time the movie wrapped up what seemed like 14 hours later, I wasn't so much disappointed as I was dumbfounded that the palsy-wracked spoon-feeding I had just endured had somehow eclipsed Martin Scorsese's epic fucking masterpiece, Goodfellas at the Oscars in 1990.
If one was to look at the progression of Scorsese's work, it is easy to draw a distinct line from Goodfellas to the present. A line that descends rather than ascends for an artist who appears to have suffered the shock of having his opus overlooked. When examining the arc of his career, it is easy to conclude that Scorsese deserved far greater recognition for any number of his films made prior to 1990. Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (1974), Taxi Driver (1976), The Last Waltz, his 1978 documentary chronicling the final concert performed by the legendary Canadian rock n' roll outfit, The Band, the critically acclaimed black and white biopic of middleweight Jake LaMotta, Raging Bull (1980), and the heavily controversial film, The Last Temptation Of Christ (1988) are each worthy of argument critical of the awards themselves, and can each be shown to have been pitted against some of the better nominees in all categories in that two decade span. But by the time the director put the finishing touches on Goodfellas, and the lights first dimmed at it's premier, there should have been no doubt. Unfortunately for Scorsese, he somehow fell victim to the the Academy Awards' vulnerability to popular trends and was overlooked... again, sending him into what can only be described as a frenetic film making whirlwind in an effort to concoct the right formula to give the Academy what they wanted and finally receive the Best Picture-Best Director one-two punch of recognition that had inexplicably eluded him. What followed his snubbing in 1990 was a series of ever-increasingly unScorsese-like feature films, beginning with his remake of J. Lee Thompson's 1962 thriller Cape Fear (1991), the underachieving adaptation of Edith Wharton's novel, The Age Of Innocence (1993), the Goodfellas-esque Casino (1995), the 4 category Oscar nominee Kundun (1997), his incongruent, off-kilter and cartoonish Nicholas Cage vehicle, Bringing Out The Dead (1999), the colorful, if not acclaimed Gangs Of New York (2002) and his ambitious, yet flat and flightless effort to chronicle the remarkable life of multi-faceted American mogul Howard Hughes in The Aviator (2004), until he finally struck highly suspect pay dirt in 2006 with his entertaining, yet over-rated release of The Departed, which won both Best Picture (at the expense of the tiny colossus Little Miss Sunshine) as well as Best Director in what appears to have been the Oscar's equivalent of a a do-over; a make up call where they tried to slip an apology to an aging directorial master whom they had to recognize before it was too late. Was The Departed the best film nominated that year? Probably not. Was it in any way better than Goodfellas? Hell no, it wasn't. Not even close.
Having begun this entry with the intention of reviewing Shutter Island, and in light of the content thus far, I feel that there is no need to go any further. Shutter Island is little more than a slow-to-unravel, yet sadly predictable time-killer. As usual, the casting is above par. But gone are the little details that give a Scorsese picture the realistic darkness that had become his calling card. In their place are dimly lit sets with overstated dramatic lighting schemes and phone-it-in, cookie cutter dialogue. The gritty reality and calloused palms of work-a-day characters that have become a part of the landscape in his previous pictures are subbed out in favor of a wrung out plot twist that can almost be seen from the theater parking lot and a misshapen story that drags on like an anecdote being slowly retold in an effort to fill up allotted run time. Yes, like all of the master's efforts, the film is still watchable, but in light of all of the films passed up in his magnificent career, Shutter Island is, a distorted reflection of the director himself; Just another bridesmaid trying to fit into an undersized dress and ill-colored shoes that can only be designated for one-time wear.
No comments:
Post a Comment