What to make of Ridley Scott's nasty little bear-trap of an exploitation flick? It's a very beautiful movie, to be sure, all glowing sunsets and gleaming steel and endless horizons. The cast is as preposterously loaded (and overqualified) as any in recent memory. It features the screenwriting debut of the one and only Cormac McCarthy, a writer who, despite being somewhat overrated in this blogger's opinion, has earned his place among the luminaries of modern fiction. And yet…. And yet there's something missing.
Look, I'd never deny that McCarthy can string sentences together. At his best, there's a compelling, apocalyptic inevitability to the way his books unfold. I simply don't care for him as an author. Something about that nihilistic streak is just profoundly distasteful, but the man can write. I don't even find fault in the halting, ornate cadences of his dialogue being translated to the screen; The cast is good enough to overcome it, and it's fairly clear that we're watching a pitch-black parable rather than something meant to be taken as representative of reality. His words fit the diegetic world, which is about all you can ask. What I can wonder is the point of this film.
McCarthy seems to think he's saying something profound, even when I can't tell if he's saying anything at all. Is it that women can be every bit as cunning as men, and sometimes can manipulate situations using sex? Perhaps, but the sexual politics here are too muddled to carry a consistent message. Is it that smart men occasionally do stupid shit for which they're not remotely prepared? Again, yes, but that's pretty far from an insight. So why are we watching this particular story as it plays out, in fire and blood and unholy alloys? I honestly don't know.
McCarthy is an intriguing author, but what feels weighty on the page can be faintly absurd onscreen. He works best when translated by the perspectives of a director, or two, whose authorial voice is every bit as strong as his in the finished product. The Coens took No Country for Old Men in a different direction from the (very good, not great) book. That movie works because it's haunting, gorgeous, very funny in a coal-black way, and has much on its mind regarding the nature of greed and capitalism. This one is every bit as great a technical accomplishment as its predecessor, but the rambling monologues and portentous pronouncements go nowhere. Ruben Blades is one of the great character actors in cinema, and I'm always happy to hear him speak, but that last bit of dialogue could've been delivered in three words; "You're fucked, Counselor." Instead it stretches for minutes, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
In a lot of ways, Michael Fassbender is the biggest problem with the film. Not that his performance is bad. It's actually much too good. The Counselor, as written, is an idiot. The first half of the film consists of a lot of people telling him not to do the thing he's contemplating. The second half is a lot of people telling him exactly how thoroughly he's buried himself. That, friends, is a very dumb character. Fassbender is too magnetic, too lethal, to ever be believable here. There's a certain razor-edged intensity to all his performances. This, though, with Ridley Scott shooting him like a Jaguar in one of those British villain commercials (all puns fully intended), is just plain wrong. I'd buy him in the Pitt role, or the Blades, or, Hell, swap him for Bardem and see what happens (it wouldn't be boring), but this doesn't work.
And now to you, Mr. Scott…. Ridley Scott is an odd one. He's made genuinely great films, truly awful films, and everything in between. His technical skill has, if anything, improved with age; Prometheus, for example, is a bad movie, but the negative reviews tend to ignore how f-ing gorgeous it is to look at. On the flispside, though, is the simple fact that his ear for dialogue, which was never good, has worsened dramatically. I suspect part of it is that, in his younger days, the studios tended to pair him with stronger writers who could temper some of his bad instincts. Now though, he's an industry legend, and his tendency towards a certain structural laziness is unchecked. On this film in particular, with the huge get of a screenwriter, he had no particular reason to pay attention to anything beyond shooting, at which he indisputably remains one of the very best.
And yes, The Counselor is fairly stunning visually. Metal gleams like sin, landscapes are vast and wild, and the hugely charismatic people striding across them look like Gods. Action, such as it is, is crisp and geometrically precise. This is also one of the most impeccably sound designed movies you'll ever hear. Notice, in a certain scene involving a gruesome type of necktie, the subliminally subtle rasping hum underneath various screams and profanities. That, of course, is the motor.
So what's missing? Still hard to say. This should be a great film. All the elements are neatly assembled. Actually, that might be it. There's something half-hearted about the whole thing. It's an exercise, not an eruption. Scott is too clinical, and McCarthy too damn long-winded. His speeches and digressions slow the film to a crawl. A lot of the actors are good but miscast (poor Cameron Diaz). Others are very good indeed but given too litlle to do. Yes, Mr. Pitt, we're looking at you (Quick digression of my own; Brad Pitt fascinates me onscreen. The force of his celebrity distracts from how great an actor the man really is. Yes, he's taken a lot of junky paycheck roles, usually in something big-budget that calls on him as a leading man. But go back and look at the character-actor parts. Notice the dangerous, I'm-the-smartest-motherfucker-here gleam in his eyes. You could swap him in for Fassbender in any movie and lose nothing in the switch.). It's weird to say about a movie this violent, but I feel like it's the safest, tamest possible version of the story. Remember that fables are often told by feeble old men sitting around campfires, remembering the days when they clashed like Gods.
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