Slumming

Factotum, 2005. Directed by Bent Hamer, written by Hamer and producer Jim Stark. Starring Matt Dillon, Lili Taylor, Marisa Tomei, Fisher Stevens, Didier Flamand, James Cada, Tony Lyons, and Dan Lee Jr. as a dwarf that Dillon abuses.

Now playing exclusively at the Uptown Theater.

On his Swingin’ Affair album, Frank Sinatra sang “I Got Plenty O’ Nuttin’”, a song from the Gershwin brothers’ acclaimed musical/opera Porgy and Bess. Though I adore the Frank, I can’t stand “Nuttin’”, simply because it’s ridiculous to hear a guy like Sinatra sing about having nothing but his song, his gal, and his Lord. No, Frank Sinatra made it a point to let everyone know that he’s got plenty more than that, if only gallons and gallons of gin and vermouth, girls, and a pinky ring.

I couldn’t help but make comparisons between Sinatra’s silly rendition of that admittedly silly song and Factotum, which could be the softest attept at approximating alcoholism and poverty I’ve ever seen. If the denizens of the Twin Cities think this is a hard-luck environment, I suggest they spend their next vacation in Detroit proper.

Before we continue, let me admit that I loathe Bukowski’s writing. Bukowski is a raging jerk, a man whose saving grace is purportedly that he’s got this half-assed wit and a poetic eye for his squalid surroundings. Bullshit, I say. His observations are cliched, stolen at times from both John Fante and, it seems to me, Raymond Chandler and a variety of hard-boiled novelists. It’s always been interesting to me that Bukowski claims to have been so profoundly influenced by John Fante’s work, especially the great Ask the Dust. For it seems as though CB did not understand Fante at all, did not see the pain and the suffering, did not see that he didn’t have to make the whole Goddamned world spin around the loser who wrote the book. Fante has a deep respect for every character in his novels, including the women he fights with and the fools who don’t get him (in fact, he’s often seen as worthy of being ignored). For Bukowski, there is nothing but Bukowski, and the world is made up of assholes with dirty underpants. He’s as shallow and hateful as Mickey Spillane, without even the crappy plot to keep you interested.

For whatever reason, there are many people who adore Bukowski. I don’t know why this is, why they want to waste their precious time with a guy who, if he had met them, would treat them only with contempt, especially if they were women who refused his advances. Apparently Norwegian filmmaker Bent Hamer fell under the old soak’s spell, as did Matt Dillon, Marisa Tomei, and indie-stalwart Lili Taylor, all of whom have been in much better than Factotum.

Anyone who would see Factotum must know it has no plot. It is made up of a series of episodes, of Henry Chinaski (Dillon as Bukowski) losing jobs left and right and drinking away his unemployment checks. He meets Taylor’s Jan and screws her day and night and they drink and vomit together. Later he dumps her and meets Tomei’s Laura and screws her as well. No drunk woman can resist the charm of Chinaski. Only we rarely get to see that charm.

Dillon has already gleaned numerous accolades by mimicking Peter Weller’s gravelly mumble in Naked Lunch. These are both non-performances, simply vocal mimics who barely respond to the actors or the situations around them. Dillon’s Chinaski has decent comic timing, but as an angry man he has no fire and as a lover he has no chemistry. Perhaps I might have been more impressed if hard-body Dillon hadn’t been cast. Bukowski must be grinning in his grave, considering his pock-marked face, thinning hair, and bulbous nose have been given their on-screen appearance in the well-trimmed mug of Matt Dillon. Marisa Tomei is made up to look haggish, but her great good looks poke through, as do her fabulous legs. Lili Taylor is only marginally better, as she seems willing to hvae let herself go more. Dillon can’t even let his beard grow–the thing is consistently trimmed, as if he was trying out for Miami Vice.

And Hamer’s world of the bums and their surroundings are surprisingly clean; not since Spielberg’s execrable AI have I seen such lousy representations of squalor. The bathrooms have cleaner grout than my house (and yes, I clean my tub).

Above all, we are supposed to be amused and impressed by Chinaski. But he’s an asshole that we’re all supposed to love. He beats a foreman who is a dwarf, smacks Lili Taylor across the face in a crowded bar (and writes, in a famous line of his book, that she has a tight pussy and takes it like she’s being stabbed), and chokes and pummels a guy who’s sitting in his seat at Canterbury Park. Of course, that guy is presented as a jerk, so it’s fine that he beats the tar out of him. After all, our Chinaski smokes on the job and stares at the skyline and narrates his turgid prose. That makes beating his girlfriend funny, or profound. I’m still not sure which–I found all this disgusting.

But this is the world of Charles Bukowski, a poor poet who is in great pain and who is misunderstood and gives no voice to anyone but himself. And I think of Fante’s powerful ending to Ask The Dust, a frustrating and powerful close to a great book, and one that offered tribute to a broken soul that was not his own. I wondered, as I watched Factotum, if Bukowski ever thought of anyone but himself. And whether or not anyone wonders about the other characters in his books and this film. Taylor’s Jan is a much more fascinating character, as is the story of the failed composer Pierre, a wealthy alcoholic with a bevvy of drunk women surrounding him. Factotum is about a cheap writer who can’t see past his own ugly nose. If you want beautiful sqaulor, read Fante, read Phil Levine, read Anzia Yezierska. These are authors who slept in gutters and wrote about themselves and the other men and women and children who slept there, too. Bukowski is a reprobate who can’t see the world past the tips of his toes. He can stay the gutter for all I care.