Wonder Wheel

WONDER WHEEL               D                           
USA  (101 mi)  2017 d:  Woody Allen                 Wonderwheelmovie - Official site

Wow!  What an epic misfire.  Most have probably never seen a Woody Allen film that falls this far off the rails, unfunny and unchallenging, on the wrong footing from the very start, as it feels completely miscast, where viewers recognize the neurotic voice of Woody Allen in the narration, but don’t associate those words and thoughts with any of these actors, as the dialogue is simply not interchangeable.  Allen speaks with a pronounced ethnic Jewishness, which has always been a reference point in his films, but here the constant nagging tone is all wrong, as its Borscht Belt humor is carried out by Gentile actors, where the result is simply not the same, as the actors go through the motions but lack any hint of comedy or vaudeville humor, turning this into an agonizing dramatic misadventure with pretensions to Tennessee Williams or Eugene O’Neill, the great American playwrights, but without the depth and complexity, falling enormously short.  Framed as a Eugene O’Neill dysfunctional family set in the 50’s, where everything that can go wrong does, set entirely within the raucous confines of an overcrowded Coney Island amusement park, even the living quarters, intermixed with elements of A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), a spinoff apparently from 2013 Top Ten List #7 Blue Jasmine, it features an ongoing narration by a family outsider, Justin Timberlake as Mickey (normally a decent actor, but he’s all wrong as the voice of Woody Allen), an aspiring playwright who also works as a Coney Island lifeguard, who never once is seen rescuing a swimmer in distress.  Instead he intervenes in places where he shouldn’t, basically playing the field, fostering the hopes and dreams of two very different women.  First is Ginny (Kate Winslet), an emotionally-charged older waitess in an oyster bar who finds herself lost in a Blanche Dubois delirium, continually going on emotionally distraught monologues complaining of migraines and overwork, where her every last nerve is being tested.  She is a former actress whose career was derailed by a momentary lapse of judgement when she cheated on her husband, an anonymous jazz drummer who consequently left her, forever blaming herself for that mistake, sending her on an alcohol-fueled bender, leaving her with an emotionally damaged son (Jack Gore as Richie) who is clearly affected by his father’s absence, turning into a serial pyromaniac, lighting fires whenever the feeling hits him, which happens to be several times a day.  Finding a fellow alcoholic on the rebound, Ginny re-marries her current husband, a blue-collar carousel operator named Humpty, Jim Belushi, who spends the entire film doing his best Stanley Kowalski impression.  Into their lives walks Carolina (Juno Temple), the second woman, Humpty’s long-lost daughter who got herself involved with a dreamy young mob gangster with pockets full of cash, actually spilling the beans to the feds, where she’s now on the run with the mob looking for her, with shades of Mia Farrow in Broadway Danny Rose (1984).  This is a film where the sins of the parents are handed down to their own children, each an emotional basket case of frazzled nerve endings.

There isn’t a single likable character in this film, much of which is ugly and overwrought, delving into the ongoing personal insecurities and fears of people with barely enough money to scrape by, who constantly harp at one another for the choices they make, as they’re stuck in a rut that they can’t get out of, mostly feeling like caged animals.  Ginny is a whirlwind of fluctuating moods, much of it delusional, where she constantly thinks of no one but herself, growing hysterical when she thinks it’s all too much, with a claustrophobic world closing in on her, giving her no room to breathe, where she hasn’t an ounce of so-called freedom, literally suffocating before our eyes.  Humpty is a loud and blustery character who’s little more than a blowhard, all bark and no bite, that is since Ginny has removed alcohol from his daily regimen, keeping him off the sauce, as he grows brutally violent when drunk, though when times get rough, she takes a swig from a bottle she keeps hidden underneath the sink.  Timberlake’s confessional, on-going narration couldn’t be more off-putting, as it’s completely out of synch with the rest of the picture, where he’s more of a con man than he lets on, always shrouded in innocence, yet he’s a snake in the grass, never being honest with the audience, where the entire film feels like a rationalization for womanizing, yet he’s constantly being judgmental towards others without ever pointing the finger at himself.  At the center of the film is Ginny’s guilt, as she’s forever blaming herself for the pit she’s fallen into, stuck like a trapped insect, unable to pull her way out, as her husband has no ambition, leaving her having to pull the entire weight.  That heavy burden is constantly hovering over her, like a dark cloud, relentless and debilitating, as she’s been sucked into a life she hates, where everyone in it literally disgusts her, including herself, where her son’s constant obsession with setting fires is actually more of an irritation, as she never comes to grips with it, but simply blames him each and every time, having yet another panic attack.  For his part, Richie is cool with all the attention it provides, never fearing the consequences of getting caught, thinking so what, as it doesn’t hinder his actions, simply doing what he wants whenever he wants, with no interference.  From Ginny’s point of view, this is total bliss, as it’s unlimited freedom, exactly what’s missing in her overly constricted life, where she’s suffocating and can’t breathe, drowning in a life of squalor with a man she probably doesn’t even like, much less respect, but she sticks around as he rescued her from her prior emotional downfall.   

With a constantly repetitive jazz retro soundtrack that continuously plays the same song on repeat, feeling like a recurring headache after a while, the film is shot by veteran cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, who creates a mosaic of constantly shifting light and color, especially faces, where a palette of artificiality bathes the screen throughout.  Enter Mickey, who offers Ginny a doorway out, having an affair that couldn’t come at a better time, where she goes all in, like water gushing out of a broken dam, becoming an unstoppable force.  While liking the attention of an older woman and all the associating drama, which he thinks will be excellent material for his plays, Mickey remains more coy about his motives, taking it slower, enjoying the ride, not turning it into such a big deal, which is what she does at every opportunity, constantly reminding him, where he’s her lifeline to a way out.  But Carolina’s youth and good looks complicate the status quo, perking up his antennae, as she’s not like other girls in the neighborhood, having traveled around the world in luxury and style, literally blowing him away, falling for her in spite of himself.  Knowing how this would crush Jenny, he does it anyway, even if it goes against all rationale of good sense, as Carolina is the forbidden fruit.  Of course he does this behind Ginny’s back, never letting on, pretending like nothing’s happening when he knows full well there’s a spark, which changes the dynamic with Ginny, who knows something’s up, but Mickey turns into another good-for-nothing man who deceives her, unable to trust the whole lot of them, turning against all men in the process, spiraling even more out of control, taking refuge in the bottle, with Humpty eventually joining in, becoming the picture of a pathetic drama without an ounce of humanity on display, where instead it’s all bluster.  The male characters are deplorable, every one a sleaze, while the women at least fare better in their scenes together, but in the end Allen’s grim and overly fatalistic view taints all.  With mob heavies Tony Sirico and Steven Schirripa from The Sopranos on Carolina’s tail, she is dangerous merchandise, making her all the more enticing to a young unattached male like Mickey, who seems to have his own issues with illusions, where he’s like a deer in the headlights, hypnotized by her allure, unable to help himself, striking while the iron is hot.  The stage is set for a final showdown with Ginny, but like Blanche, she’s already lost in the cobwebs of her own delusions, barely recognizable as a person, losing every last trace of her dignity, where it all derails into a tailspin of unfiltered torment, each little bit only adding to the collective hell of having to endure more, wiping out any hint of reality, where all that’s left is a waking nightmare that never ends, where she can’t ever wake up, stuck in an endless Sisyphean death spiral of human misery and suffocation, becoming all-consuming, like a fever dream.  Lost in the haze, the film is back where it starts, mired in that sinking feeling of utter futility.  Spare us the drama, Woody, as behind the curtain, nothing is real.  

Thief

THIEF             A-                   

USA  (122 mi)  1981  d:  Michael Mann

I am the last guy in the world that you wanna fuck with.     —Frank (James Caan) 

After some brief work in television, this is Michael Mann’s first feature film, and the only film *not* shot on ‘Scope throughout his career, but it’s one of his most eye-popping films, with a dialogue-free opening where the everpresent rain and the synthesized musical score in an urban environment may make some think of Blade Runner (1982), which was still a year away.  Instead this is a crime thriller set on the streets of Chicago, the director’s hometown, introducing many local actors who would go on to have prominent careers, while showing in all its glory the essence of Lower Wacker Drive, once an underground, subterranean world of decaying cement pillars, an actual road directly underneath another road called Wacker Drive that runs on ground level, that was a haven for the derelicts and the homeless, given a clean sheen from the rain, making it almost look clean and respectable instead of the filthy rat trap it actually was, years later cleaned up by the city, sending all the homeless and riff raff away to other less protected grounds.  The grime of this notorious roadway rubs off on the film’s subject matter, suggesting crime is a dirty business.  James Caan, forever remembered as the hot-headed Sonny Corleone in THE GODFATHER (1972), plays Frank, an upscale jewel thief who uses the most sophisticated technological equipment as his means of entry, outsmarting the cops on all fronts, usually making a bundle while getting away clean.  Like most Mann films, this is a gorgeous looking neo-noir film, shot by Donald E. Thorin, making excellent use of onsite locations, using first class film composition throughout, plenty of night shots, and sensational editing.  Adapting a story written by an actual thief, the 1975 novel The Home Invaders: Confessions of a Cat Burglar by Frank Hohimer, pen name for John Seybold, who actually specialized in home invasions and was ironically serving time in prison while this film was in production.  Mann changed the focus to a jewel thief, using actual thieves as professional consultants for the film, along with their tools and equipment.  The burglary tools were provided by John Santucci, in reality a recently paroled thief who plays the rousting corrupt cop Sgt. Urizzi, the guy continually tailing Frank, where the tools of the trade are prominently featured in the film, usually in extended wordless sequences, much like Jules Dassin’s RIFIFI (1955), where the professionalism of the planning and the meticulous detail of carrying out near impossible crimes simply holds the audience breathless. 

Much of this film feels like racing against time, as it opens wordlessly at a blistering pace right in the middle of a robbery in progress, with pulsating synthesizer music by Tangerine Dream that is locked in synch with their movements, where Frank is carefully working his way around a bank safe’s supposedly impenetrable lock mechanism, using heavy duty drill equipment (which the actors were trained to use) to search for a secretly concealed safety catch, where once inside he helps himself to a free-for-all of safety deposit boxes filled with stored diamonds.  The lookout in the car parked in the alley is honed in on the police radio, where both remain in close contact through a wire, as the jewels are dropped with the lookout who drives off while the thieves walk away on foot through a rain-soaked alley, quickly stripping off their work overalls until they appear as normal as can be.  After a job well done, we can see Frank kick back in a quintessential Michael Mann shot that appears again in MANHUNTER (1986), HEAT (1995) and THE INSIDER (1999). With his back to the camera, Frank looks out at the lake in a kind of Zen inner calm, where he has some degree of inner peace and personal fulfillment. Frank’s cover is running a car sales operation, though much of the time is spent in what looks like stripping down stolen cars into something he can sell on his lot, making it look like a respectable business.  A consummate professional, a man proud of what he does, knowing he’s the best there is, he is also someone looking ahead to where he never has to worry about looking over his shoulder again.  Respectability means family and stability, something he’s never had in his life, through privately this is his all-consuming desire.  We only learn this in a lengthy conversation he has with Tuesday Weld as Jessie, one of the stronger female protagonists in any Mann film, terrific as a woman who’s been around the block once or twice, but the woman Frank wants to hold onto, even though she doesn’t know it yet.  When Frank whisks her out of a bar (where Mighty Joe Young is playing), literally kidnapping her against her will, stuffing her into his car until they arrive at an all night diner where Frank’s near ten minute monologue is the centerpiece of the film, as he literally pours out his life story.  This may be James Caan’s proudest moment as an actor, as despite confessing his criminal history to a woman who’s dead set against his ideas, having had trouble with a drug trafficker in the past, but the guy is mesmerizing in convincing her that he has no time left in his life to bullshit or play games, that after spending a decade in prison he has to make up for lost time if he wants his piece of the American Dream, eventually persuading her (and the audience) that they are intrinsically linked together romantically, just a drop dead memorable cinematic moment, as the guy couldn’t be more genuinely straightforward, a complete game changing moment, as otherwise he’s a professional swindler, not the most trustworthy character.  Who’d believe him?—yet he’s convincing.   

While everything to this point is among Mann’s best ever, using an odd mix of humor, male machismo, believable characters, and well-written, beautifully constructed scenes, where the dazzling pace of the film matches the accumulated interest in the storyline, which is astonishing in itself, where Frank is the kind of guy who meticulously reconstructs his lost or broken life piece by piece, where he constructs a marriage, a home, and a family exactly as he prepares for and approaches the most difficult aspects of his heists, one step at a time, where much of this film bears witness to his focus on the small details in order to be successful.  But things take a turn for the worse with the introduction of Chicago crime boss Leo (Robert Prosky), a reassuring father figure who’s always promising some idealized fantasy perfection, telling people their worries are over, that if they work with him, he’ll take care of everything.  Despite his better judgment, Frank is tempted by this Faustian offer that sounds too good to be true, as the lure of such a lucrative heist could solve all his problems, where he could pull one last big score and finally retire into respectability.  Frank has always run his own show, used his own guys, never had to answer to a “boss,” and he insists on keeping things that way.  But as soon as they agree to work together, his house is bugged and the cops are all over Frank because they know something big is in the air, as what are these guys doing, supposedly each other’s competition, suddenly chumming around?  Nonetheless, Frank’s advance work, including his pal Barry (Jim Belushi), the crack expert at breaking security, begins to bear fruit, where after plenty of doubts about whether it was even possible, they began to understand how to pull it off.  It’s here the film re-focuses on incorporating documentary detail, where the process of the crime takes center stage, where the audience is treated to the spray of sparks from a blowtorch and hand-rigged welding equipment, using some super-heated lance with a white hot tip to literally melt a safe open, where fire and smoke turn a bank vault into an iron smelt, with Frank and his crew consumed by the heat and smoke in the confined, claustrophobic space, where his grimy face afterwards looks like he spent the day in a steel mill.  Despite the apparent success of the operation, Leo and Frank don’t see eye to eye, as Leo sees a budding future together while Frank wants out.  These are not the kind of guys who accept no for an answer, but Caan and Prosky are excellent holding their ground in a spellbinding chess game of battling wits which could easily blow up in their faces at any time.  “You are making big profits from my work, my sweat, my risk, but that is OK because I elected to make that deal. Now the deal is over, and it’s pay-up time.”  Indeed—while some of this appears again in a later Mann film, HEAT (1995), which has a similar lengthy coffee shop sequence (with adversaries Robert De Niro and Al Pacino), the writing is terrific throughout, maintaining fresh interest and energy, keeping the suspense taut, using a remarkable score, where it all comes to a head with a convoluted 1980’s style action finish, given a highly stylistic flourish of double crosses and bullets, where the apocalyptic final shot bears a similarity to the Coen Brothers’ NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN (2007).