On Epics and Icons
I’ve been on something of a binge lately, watching a lot of movies, even for me. My exploration through Woody Allen (which is coming to a close after one more film) led me to a rejuvenated appreciation of his frequent collaborator, Diane Keaton, which in turn prodded me to revisit some of her work and visit some for the first time. This led me to Warren Beatty, one of Keaton’s most iconic costars, directors, and one-time lovers. It’s appropriate timing, I suppose, because a couple of weeks ago, movie websites were glad to announce that Beatty is prepping a comeback (as writer, director, and actor, no less). He hasn’t directed a film since 1998 (Bulworth), and he hasn’t appeared in one since 2001 (Town & Country). Family life (centered on a longstanding marriage to Annette Bening) has kept him out of the business, but it seems we’ll see him back onscreen before too long. While nowhere near as prolific as Woody Allen (quite the opposite, actually, with only four directing credits to his name), Beatty is another cinematic titan whose work I had previously been familiar with only in passing. He helped change the landscape of American cinema in 1967, as the star of (and impetus behind) Bonnie and Clyde; he injected new fuel into the Western genre in Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971); with Dick Tracy (1990), he created a forerunner to our now ubiquitous comic-book films; he epitomized the slick gangster in Bugsy (1991); and he brazenly sent up American politics in the satire Bulworth (1998). This is a man whose one-time famous image (as a party-boy charmer, bedding the women with whom he appeared onscreen, among many others) never prevented him from taking artistic risks and tirelessly devoting himself to his work. He actually used his status to his advantage, originating and pushing projects that certainly didn’t look like guaranteed successes. He could’ve easily slipped into bubbly romantic comedies, collecting paychecks while sleepwalking through roles which required him to do little more than grin and deliver over-written speeches with a semblance of sincerity. But Beatty was too smart, too talented, and too driven for that. He has made an indelible mark on American film, and whenever he steps back into the ring, it will be an event for sure.
Reds (1981) was one of those films that I had been meaning to get around to for years, but I inevitably forget about it until I was reminded again. After recently discovering anew the brilliance of Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton, not to mention wanting to familiarize myself with Beatty’s work (on the heels of his exciting announcement), the time had finally come to settle in and feast on this 194-minute epic. I have to admit I was not exactly salivating at the idea (Woody Allen’s 100-minute romps have had an erosive effect on my attention span), but it didn’t take much running time for me to realize that I was being blown away. By all accounts, this is Beatty’s finest hour, and I can’t imagine a finer one. The cinematography is something to behold, beautiful without necessarily jumping out at you, making maximum use of medium shots and close-ups that would be dangerously uncreative in other hands. The editing, both from a beat-to-beat perspective and one taking into account the film’s daunting structure, is craft of the highest order. As a director, and with no small thanks to his editors, I’m sure, Beatty moves effortlessly from a mostly two-handed Greenwich Village domestic drama to a Russian Revolution epic writ on a canvas full of faces and landscapes. He uses montage to its greatest effect, communicating not only passages of time, but also changes in characters’ thought processes and modes of behavior. The pacing is surprisingly deft for such an expansive endeavor; in this case, “epic” does not translate into “sleep-inducing.” This is a film that really moves. The settings change; the characters change; the whole spirit of the movie changes from idealistically mind-opening to desperately tragic (mirroring, I think, the spirit of the participants). I didn’t find it to be a message movie, nor did I think it beat the audience over the head with an overblown sense of importance.
In fact, the politics of the film are confounding. We never really know what Reed or his party are fighting for or against (other than vague references to the evils of capitalism and the plight of the working man). This could be a criticism of the film. It may well be, but I’m not sure. Perhaps, as Ebert suggested, Beatty knew that the average moviegoer would not be able to follow the politics, so he painted them in broad strokes and focused on the central relationship. While such a proposition certainly holds validity, I choose to think that the vagueness of Reed’s political stance increases the tragedy of the film. Ultimately, Louise Bryant is proven right. Infighting between the two political parties leads to nothing; Reed is not a politician but a journalist; and he never should have gone to Moscow. His death could be seen as martyrdom, but I couldn’t help thinking, “Yes. But what for?” Everyone is caught up in the spirit of the Russian Revolution; everyone clings to the belief that a similar revolution is needed in America; but, other than touting clichés about the horrors of war and the suffering of the poor, no one seems to have time to lay out the particulars of what such a revolution would entail. Either Beatty deliberately chose to keep the audience on the outside (which would be a strange decision, considering how passionately Beatty portrays Reed), or the characters themselves are unsure of their actions (or Beatty is unsure, but this also seems unlikely). For my own benefit, I’m going with the latter (if nothing else but for the thematic resonance that it brings; we say we want change, but we don’t know what to change to). Whatever the case may be, Beatty bolters the film not to politics, but to the relationships between his characters. And they are something indeed.
Beatty the actor is exceptional, seeming to hold considerable self-knowledge and an ability to utilize his own persona. There is a fierce intelligence, a radiant charisma, and a polished articulateness to John Reed that is also in Beatty. But there is also the sense that Reed is in over his head, getting swept up in something he’s not fully equipped for, finding himself speaking before thinking. As an actor not unfamiliar with the criticism that he is little more than a nice face and a disarming charm, Beatty is right at home, vacillating between Reed’s playful boyishness and his earnest image of a public leader. The actor and director ups the respective games of two actors who never previously showed signs that there were higher levels to aspire to. The scenes between Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson in this film are cinematic gold. Something’s Gotta Give (2003) is a nice reunion. They have excellent chemistry, and they’re certainly having fun. But, the scenes here require real heavy-lifting, rattling off dialogue rife with both showy one-liners and poignant subtext. So much hangs on the smallest expression, the smallest rhythm of a line delivery. Beatty cuts every two-handed scene with stunning elegance, capturing the perfect glances and pauses, whether he is onscreen or off it. Nicholson never delves into the theatrics for which he is well known. He conveys the whole spectrum of emotions with such subtlety. This is, I think, Diane Keaton’s most impressive performance. She’s more loveable in Annie Hall; she’s funnier in Love and Death; and she’s more tragically self-destructive in Looking for Mr. Goodbar (1977). But, here, she makes use of both her quirky vulnerability and her formidable strength. She digs into the wordy dialogue and carries it with ease. Keaton never ceases to amaze me. She has an in-the-moment spontaneity; a naturalness that makes us believe she is each of these people; and an ability to play a wide range of characters without dramatically altering her voice or appearance. All three actors are dynamite in this film, and it could never be the same without them.
Sometimes, it’s nice to dive into the films of yesteryear, to see why icons became icons. As our local cinemas feature marquees that replace one superhero film for another, one unnecessary sequel for another, I take refuge in films that tried to change the tune of Hollywood and alter it for the better (some of them did, but only temporarily). Hollywood will be Hollywood, I suppose, but it’s amazing to think that a film like Reds was once part of it.
-Rob
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