BOOGIE NIGHTS (84)

Directed by: Paul Thomas Anderson

Starring: Mark Wahlberg, Burt Reynolds, Julianne Moore, John C. Reilly

The Pitch: A porn-movie star and his extended film-making "family" go from hedonistic good times to nightmarish downfall.

Theo Sez: Anyone wondering why good film critics so rarely become good film-makers (and vice versa) may glean some insight from this dazzlingly accomplished and stunningly immature movie, an exuberant piece of film-making that collapses the moment you try to think about it. Even in cinematic terms it doesn't always make sense - why, for example, do we cross-cut between the two beatings? - and once you start talking subtext it becomes even more problematic : is the second half supposed to be a wry acknowledgment that every party has its hangover, or is it a "punishment" for the characters' depravity? (probably the former) ; does the narrow view of sexuality reflect the pornographers' code of honour, or the film-makers' own prejudices? (probably the latter). It's no surprise that the director is only 27 years old (and it's worth recalling that CITIZEN KANE, made by the 26-year-old Welles, is also about style more than substance - which is all I intend to say about that particular analogy) ; it's no surprise that its hero is a boy with not much between his ears and a staggering amount between his legs, or that it features scenes - like the Dirk-Reed bonding - that play like the world's most dazzling Bill and Ted movie. Point is, it also features scenes of bruising emotional rawness, or decadent sophistication (the Colonel's sly sangfroid), or exquisite tenderness (the whole "God Only Knows" montage at the end - which, on second viewing, had me close to tears) : it's a film of incredible range and richness. Above all - like PULP FICTION or IRMA VEP - it makes you feel like you're peering into the future, witness to a new kind of movie-making : it goes beyond storytelling, in the same kind of way as sampled music (DJ Shadow, say) goes beyond mere melody. It uses artefacts - songs, fads, fashions, sex, violence - uses them iconically, with the airy callousness of a child playing with its toys, creating unforgettable moments more than structured dramatic climaxes : the last 45 minutes especially, dropping straight narrative in favour of extended, exhilarating set-pieces, take the breath away. It's not like conventional film-watching - more like listening to some particularly brilliant sequence of cuts on a classic album, feeling as the last keening note of (say) "Day in the Life" fades away that you've been everywhere and done everything. It's a film about pleasure, both the characters' and the audience's ; it doesn't last long beyond the closing credits - but then, as the final shot implies, pleasure's a flaccid, silly-looking kind of thing if you try to actually examine it. [Addendum: Reading this again some years later, I think I may be underselling the film - which has only grown in my memory, and would probably now (Feb. 2003) be my #1 of 1997. I never meant to give the impression the film is brain-dead, or doesn't bear thinking about - what "doesn't last long beyond the closing credits" is (inevitably) the pleasure itself, not the memory of the film or my awe at its genius. PTA, like Tarantino, re-invents movie causality, i.e. the idea that B must follow directly from A, opening up a host of new connections - music can swell just because a character feels a certain way (as when Eddie Adams goes home to the kung-fu posters in his bedroom after his first meeting with Jack), structure can change or collapse to reflect the characters' fortunes - as though the film were itself (to quote the ELO song that never fails to give me a buzz at the very end) a living thing. One of the greatest and most revolutionary movies of the 90s - which I knew even back in '97, but I guess maybe I was bothered that I couldn't find a theme to it. Anderson writes about people, not themes ; y'know, like Rohmer...]