Notes from the underground (12/22/01)
____________
Vanilla Sky. [Cameron Crowe, 2001. Derived from
Abre Los Ojos (1997), by Alejandro Amenábar and Mateo Gil.]
That even more obscure object of desire: pacing back and forth across his prison cell, we discover prettyboy rich kid Tom Cruise, restored to his good looks after plastic surgery has repaired the damage done by an automobile accident which had temporarily turned him into the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but now, alas, Very Confused, trying to decide, with the aid of prison court-appointed shrink Kurt Russell, whether he is/was fucking Penelope Cruz or Cameron Diaz [a problem with which many of us have wrestled], and if so, which one he murdered, if he murdered either one [ah, this is a tangled screed]; providing the excuse for a series of flashbacks in which we relive his perfect life, the apparition of true love [Cruz, who is apparently supposed to be channeling the spirit of Jeanne Moreau; we have a bandwidth problem here], the jealous reaction of the notsotrue love [Diaz, rather more successfully channeling the spirit of Glenn Close], the decision of the latter to drive off a cliff and take him with her, the fell consequences [is that really a pun?], etc., etc. — none of it quite ringing true, and none of it quite ringing false, either.
Presently with a grand flourish the author pulls back the curtains and provides us with a lengthy explanation of the real meaning of these proceedings, but none of this rings true or false either — because, though it’s supposed to be a big surprise, it’s obvious all along that this is yet another specimen of the now very tired virtual-reality genre [memo to the Wachowski brothers: take stronger drugs], which precludes an unambiguous conclusion [let alone this absurd “Monsters! Monsters from the Id!” punchline] — and, besides, though Crowe and Cruise once again succeed in selling the star as an unattractive character who has to overcome his own limitations, this always comes off as speaking the moral that the possibility of redemption exists for those whose teeth and pecs are good enough. — “One handsome man’s triumph over narcissism.” Oh, there’s hope for crippled children there, sure enough. — You find yourself wondering what the Farrellys would do with this; and then remember
Kingpin.
On the other hand the soundtrack is terrific — no one else has an ear like Crowe’s — and the flick looks beautiful, particularly in the final vision of a deserted Manhattan. The vanilla sky, they take pains to remind us, is that of Monet; he might not have been disappointed.
But the highpoint, certainly, is the virtual-reality hologram of John Coltrane playing the sax. Cruise will be forgotten soon enough; but some men really should live a thousand years.
____________The dude with no name (12/8/01)
