D: Curtis Hanson
S: Kevin Spacey, Russell Crowe, Guy Pearce, Kim Basinger
Highly praised detective thriller worthy of note for its good performances,
general seriousness and success in rendering a complex plot in a comprehensible
form, but not among the greatest masterpieces of Hollywood cinema, as many
would have you believe. Based on the novel by James Ellroy, this tough,
violent film is put together with enough style to make it engrossing and
effective as a parable of ambition, corruption, law enforcement and violence.
But it wouldn't have been hard for it to have tipped over the edge and become
thoroughly routine. In this, director Curtis Hanson (The Hand That Rocks
the Cradle, The River Wild) deserves praise. But it might also
have been possible to imbue the film with a greater sense of cinema and
of society which would have made it a rival to Chinatown (to which
it has been unfairly and liberally compared), and it is not that. The film
is so doggedly concerned with making sure that it works properly that little
attention has been given to the meaning of it all, and there are precious
few frozen moments which allow us to consider the implications of what is
one of the busiest plots in recent memory or the metaphysical dimensions
of the several strong characters whose transitions are both interesting
and believable, yet very rapid.
The labyrinthian plot (apparently cut down from the novel) involves investigations
into a series of crimes in 1950s Los Angeles by disparate characters in
the 'new' Police Department (influenced by their own self-image on a TV
show called Badge of Honour, clearly representing the perennial real
life TV cop show Dragnet), all of which eventually come together
in a rather unsurprising conspiracy which is nonetheless satisfyingly exposed.
Among the players are slick, vain Kevin Spacey; arrogant, ambitious Guy
Pearce; simpleminded, tough Russell Crowe and avuncular, sinister James
Cromwell. Added to this are the constant attentions of gutter press journalist
Danny De Vito, eager to profit from the city's seamy underbelly, the untouchable
smugness of millionaire pimp David Strathairn, and the old fashioned whore
with a heart of gold played by Kim Basinger.
Yes, there are a lot of them, and there's a lot to take in. But the film's
great strength is in its careful exposition both of plot and character,
and it becomes both a satisfying murder mystery and an acceptably dramatic
character piece even though it moves very quickly. Each of the actors does
well, with Spacey really relaxing into a screen persona he may find himself
doomed to play forever unless he finds something else to do. Aussie thesps
Russell Crowe and Guy Pearce do a good job playing hard boiled American
detectives, and the cast on the whole are worked well into the fabric of
the film under Hanson's direction.
Yet at the end of the day it is difficult to come away with much more than
polite admiration for a job well done. L.A. Confidential never really
grips the soul or gives pause for thought. Its observations on moral and
institutional corruption are hardly original, and the spin it offers is
more one of setting than of style. It never fully draws out the pervasive
human darkness it seems to be dealing in, and resembles a modern action
film more closely than a film noir. It performs within a fantasy
framework which never fully convinces as an allegorical battleground, and
its visual style is precisely that rather than an articulation of an aesthetic
project which would enhance or inform the events on screen.
Of course it's not anyone's fault that postmodernism has robbed art of its
meaning, and it is difficult for anything to break through in this type
of environment. But there is only superficial pleasure to be derived from
watching this film, and given that it has become increasingly difficult
to see serious, well made Hollywood films, the enthusiastic reaction which
greeted the release of this film is understandable. It is certainly worth
seeing, and among the best films of the year. But perhaps the kind of apotheosis
promised by its physical resemblance to so resonant a film as Chinatown
makes it a disappointment, even outside the hype it received (a similar
fate beheld Lee Tamahori's Mulholland Falls). It does raise the question
of just how fair it is to compare one thing with the other, and L.A.
Confidential is quite deliberately different from Polanski's masterpiece.
Yet even within its own frames of reference, you get the feeling that there's
a lot more that could have been on screen but simply didn't fit in the time
allowed. Of course that is not to suggest a four hour film would have been
the answer, but perhaps the ambition exceeds the probabilities of a workable
script, and screenwriters Hanson, Brian Helgeland and Ellroy have done a
marvellous job in rendering the plot at all.
Finally, L.A. Confidential is as good a thriller as you're likely
to see from a director who has specialised in good thrillers since he broke
through with The Bedroom Window. Any expectations over and above
that are entirely a matter of contrivance on the part of critics and marketing
execs. Let it do its job and enjoy the ride, just don't expect it to change
your life.
Review by Harvey O'Brien copyright
1997.