Hollywoodland, 2006. Directed by Allen Coulter, written by Paul Bernbaum. Starring Adrien Brody, Diane Lane, Ben Affleck, Bob Hoskins, Robin Tunney, Jeffrey DeMunn, Joe Spano, Molly Parker, Dash Mihok (what a name!), and Lois Smith.
Now showing in select theaters around town.
There is a point in the near-great Hollywoodland where Ben Affleck, playing the tragic George Reeves, is gently chided by his agent, Arthur (the underused Jeffrey DeMunn), to stop smoking in public. Superman doesn’t smoke, Arthur laughs, it sets a bad example. George finishes his puff, and his betrays only the slightest hint of panic. A group of crazy boy scouts is pounding on the glass of the restaurant they’re eating in, in order to get Superman’s attention. George knows deep down that with every episode as the caped crusader, he’s burying himself deeper and deeper. He is not the man in the red cape. But he is also not possessed of any discernable talent outside of being the Man of Steel. Hollywood, like a boa constrictor, is slowly devouring George Reeves’ soul.
Did Ben Affleck stare deep down into himself and think, I’ve got to play it straight for once in my life? As he ages, Affleck has got to know that his time as a star is as limited as George Reeves’–only Affleck hasn’t got a syndicated television show to fall back on. His performance in Hollywoodland is a rarity, a moving and subtle portrayal of a man coming to the end of his rope. Avoiding histrionics, and never losing his sense of humor, Affleck wanders through this film like the dreamers who flock to Southern California’s sunshine in the hopes they’ll live forever, only to discover the when the movie’s over, the lights go out, and the darkness comes crashing down.
Hollywoodland is a strange film, a movie that veers between perfection and mind-boggling inanity. At times it seems like Sunset Blvd. meets Mulholland Dr. meets Altman’s Long Goodbye, with a touch of Chinatown thrown in for good measure. If that seems like quite a brew, it’s to the film’s considerable credit that it manages to hold all these influences together and be thoroughly original, falling apart only when the screenplay veers from these rich sources. It is a film with two stories: that of George Reeves and his suicide/murder. And that of gumshoe Louis Simo (Adrien Brody), investigating this death. The first is a masterpiece; the other (mostly) a misstep.
The facts: One evening, while entertaining a few friends, actor George Reeves bids his guests good night, shuffles upstairs to his bedroom, undresses and then shoots himself in the head. The LAPD rules it an ‘indicated suicide’, and pretty much closes the case. Enter Louis Simo. He’s a private dick with so few clients and resources he’s running his shop out of a dingy, backwater L.A. hotel. One day, he runs into an associate at a detective firm he used to work with, who hands him this tidbit: Reeves’ mother doesn’t believe her son would kill himself, and wants someone to dig up clues that point to murder. Simo ingratiates himself with the bitchy old woman (Lois Smith, who doesn’t seem capable of any other type of performance), and tries to get to the bottom of this mystery.
Interspersed within this story is the downfall of Reeves. We see him trying to claw his way up Hollywood’s golden ladder, shining with confidence. We first notice him hanging out in Ciro’s, elbowing his way close to Rita Hayworth just to get his picture in the papers. Any publicity is good publicity, he reasons, with his broad grin. In the process he meets Toni Mannix (Diane Lane), who turns out to be the wife of MGM Studio head Eddie Mannix (Bob Hoskins). They have an affair in broad daylight–the married couple has an agreement, whereby each gets their own lover on the side, without complaint, going so far as to dine together as a foursome. Toni loves Reeves because he makes her feel young in her waning years; he truly cares for her, enjoys the lavish presents (including a house), and hopes that she’ll get him some meaty roles at MGM. Instead, he’s cast as Superman, a role that will weigh him down for the rest of his life.
The director, Allen Coulter, manages to create a world that is a sepia-toned, sun-drenched wasteland of ruined lawns and big, empty mansions, too much space and far too much despair. Even better, he has a steady hand and an unobtrusive camera that drinks in some of the finest performances by small, relatively unknown actors who are magnificent without exception. You’ve got to hand something to a director that has elicited one of the finest performances of the year from Ben Affleck, but that he’s matched scene-for-scene by Diane Lane, by Bob Hoskins, by Robin Tunney as his shrewish fiance and Jeffrey DeMunn makes it all the more impressive.
There are a number of scenes that have lingered on since seeing this film: of DeMunn reminiscing about Reeves career to Adrien Brody; of Hoskins comforting Lane after Reeves’ death, their relationship twisted but charged with respect; Tunney admitting she’s lonely to Brody over the phone–every character igiven their due thanks to Coulter’s loving camera, which doesn’t force sentiment with blaring music or intrusive shots. And he get’s the mood just right, the sets a playground for these performances: Brody’s dingy hotel is a nod to Altman’s Long Goodbye, with its dirty pool and tanned old man, eternally lifting weights to stave off his inevitable death. The old have no place in Hollywood.
Unfortunately, these great scenes only make the other quarter of this film an exercise in deep frustration. Coulter and screenwriter Paul Bernbaum haven’t learned Lesson Number One from Chinatown and any other hard-boiled film: rid yourself of back-story. There’s a reason Gittes and Marlowe and the Continental Op are single fellows, without families. The reason is that no one cares. The mystery they’re after is all that matters, and that’s only the device that puts its characters under duress. But in Hollywoodland, Brody, who at times makes a very effective simpleton, a hack shamus who can’t see past his prodigious nose, is bogged down with scenes about his family and his girlfriend. When we’re caught up in Reeves’ life, in Brody’s trying to uncover something, anything, to keep this story in the papers, the last thing you want is to leave this world of ruined dreams for the domestic squabbles between ex-husband and ex-wife. The film grinds to a halt in these moments. Then there’s a silly subplot involving one of Brody’s other cases, which only serves to show us he’s clueless–which the main plot does quite well, thank you.
A great movie might still exist in Hollywoodland–you could hack out these scenes and leave a short and devastating film behind, a 90 minute noir classic about the evils of this wicked industry. Brody’s detective will never get to the bottom of things, he’s just an insect skimming the surface of a stagnant pond. The rest are just waiting to die, failures all, except for the studio head who has sold his soul ages ago.
You begin to realize that Reeves suffered from three of Hollywood’s great cancers: of the disease of the studio system and its sinister bosses; the sickness of those hangers-on who only want the stars to get money or near fame; and that quiet menace that haunts every actor’s dreams, that you’re not good enough and never will be. All three could have killed Reeves and in Hollywoodland, we never to get to the bottom of the mystery. In the end, does it really matter?
“You mean the Post tortured that guy before we did? That must be how they get their info ahead of the CIA.”