Joel/Ethan Coen (2007)
As promised, as expected and as always, the Coen's once again follow up a critically acclaimed, serious film, in the case of
'No Country For Old Men' (2007) an
Academy Award winning one, with one of their more slapstick and playful films; just as
'Big Lebowski' (1998) followed
'Fargo' (1996) and
'Intolerable Cruelty' (2003) followed
'The Man Who Wasn't There' (2001).
Burn After Reading, completes their monikered 'idiot trilogy', (
with O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) and Intolerable Cruelty parts one and two), again starring
George Clooney in full
gurning glory, supported by a plethora of regular actors from the Coen cannon;
Frances MacDormand,
J.K Simmons and
Richard Jenkins amongst others. Joining them this time around, for their first Coen feature, are
John Malkovitch,
Tilda Swinton and, in a glorious comical role, one Mr.
Brad Pitt.
Filmed without the aid of their long time collaborator, cinematographer
Roger Deakins,
Burn After Reading finds the Coen's treading similar themes (the inept criminal) and motifs (misunderstandings, buffoonery), dotted with their panache for dialogue and framed in their particular Coenesque universe. In a plot too complicated, that's not to say daft to the very max, to do justice within a one paragraph synopsis, let's just say, to suffice, that every single character plays the idiot to aplomb, generally screw up and comes a cropper. Clueless, hapless and feckless, our ensemble cast not only constantly get the wrong end of the stick, they pick it up, pocket it and then run with it.
Believe it or not, this is the Coen's first original screenplay since 2001,
The Man Who Wasn't There, and harks back to some of their more savage black comedies, with a, sometimes, shocking taste for comical violence and an overwhelming sense of derision towards it's main players.
Burn After Reading seems to revel in its character's ignorance, stupidity and eventual, demise, gleefully setting up each of them to look as worthless as possible, whilst the plot falls neatly into the background amongst a barrage of false leads and dead ends. It's a trick the Coen's have been playing on us for years, the shaggy dog story aspect that guides its audience in to their mad, defined little world whilst simultaneously blinding us with the red-herrings, 'Mcguffins' galore and dizzying dialogue spoken at scatter gun speed.
In this particular instance the shaggy dog story starts with Chad (Brad Pitt); a bounding, excited, puppy dog of a man, forever trapped in the mind of a 14 year old boy, a performance so hilarious and delightful that it's probably the films major highlight, and his discovery of disk that appears, to Chad anyway, to contain '
top secret shit'. Working alongside Linda (Frances MacDormond), with another refined and sturdy performance from one of Hollywood's best known secrets, at the Hard Bodies gym, who, in attempting, to overcome her loneliness, wishes to hold back the years with a, seemingly, perverse cosmetic surgery schedule that will hopefully snare her the man she's desperately craves, takes the opportunity to bribe the owner of said disk, one Osbourne Cox, an ex-CIA analyst, played with delusional bitterness, basking in an alcoholic stupor, by John Malkovitch, in order to complete her costly procedure.
Osbourne, at the centre of a personal crisis; having just lost his job, his wife (Tilda Swinton) is ready to dump him for her lover Harry Pfarrer (George Clooney), who is himself married and a serial philanderer; secretly dating Linda alongside countless other lonely, desperate women, fights the two, would be black-mailers, with his last whisky soaked breath, desperately trying to hold on this his solitary piece of dignity. Our main players, the CIA and even the Russian embassy are drawn in to a conspiring circle of nothingness, each trying out manoeuvre their adversary without the slightest idea why they're doing so. From here the film is in free-fall, it's anyone's guess as to what's really going on, as J.K Simmons perplexed CIA head-honcho says to his subordinate '
report back to me when it makes sense'.
It's a compact film, as you would expect from the Coen's, the little touches are exquisite; the picture of Putin of the Russian Embassy wall, Brad Pitt's imbecile,
Carter Burnwell's brilliant, paranoid, score, even down to the movie poster above advertising this film, are perfectly aligned and expertly delivered. Yet, despite the finesse Burn After Reading will leave you underwhelmed, deflated even, and if there is one over-riding criticism levelled at the film it's the distinct lack of warmth and empathy. Apart from Chad, you feel nothing for these characters and it's this nihilistic thread, which creeps in to the Coen's work from time to time, that leaves you so disengaged with the film. Ultimately, this feels more like a cold-hearted clinical piece of work rather than a labour of love, churned out by a 'brand' on a high, which appears more cynical with each fevered atrocity attributed to it's protagonists.
Originally posted on:
Film for the Soul