By Tricia Olszewski
You’ve lied. You’re called on it. What do you do? Certain people crumble. Others, like author Clifford Irving, are further emboldened: They don’t merely deny the charge; they add a few more layers to their story, plus lots of outrage. Irving, the subject of Lasse Hallström’s The Hoax, nearly got away with his most famous lie in the early ’70s, and it was far from a tiny fib. Frustrated by his failure as a writer, Irving pitched a biography on reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes, telling publisher McGraw-Hill that Hughes selected him to tell his story. Irving had a handwritten directive from Hughes as evidence and whispered of communications with Hughes. He humbly admitted to the execs that he was as astonished as they were.
The thing is, Irving had never met Hughes, and the letters were forged by Irving himself. At least that’s how it started according to the film, which was written by William Wheeler based on Irving’s own book about the experience, also titled The Hoax. (Irving reportedly does not want to be associated with the movie—citing, ironically, untruths in Wheeler’s telling.) The story begins with Irving (Richard Gere) living it up after being assured by his editor, Andrea Tate (Hope Davis), that his latest work would be published and become a success. Not so fast: The deal didn’t get inked, and he and his artist wife, Edith (Marcia Gay Harden), are left broke as ever. An article on Hughes in Newsweek, which contained a photo of a letter handwritten by the tycoon, gives Irving the idea that would eventually land him and his researcher, Dick Suskind (Alfred Molina), in jail.
As in previous films like 2005’s Casanova or 2000’s Chocolat, Hallström’s touch is playful. Even as Suskind is having palpitations over photographing government documents—never is research so crucial as when your powerful subject doesn’t know who you are—Irving still acts as if it’s all a harmless prank. The author gets high off his own ingenuity, spinning tales that are a shade too colorful and proclaiming, “The more outrageous I sound, the more convincing I sound!” Irving even plays dress-up—slicked hair, pencil mustache—when he energetically mimics Hughes on falsified taped interviews. Throughout the endeavor, the pair are frequently challenged, often in an office of circling publishing wolves. Suskind sweats; Irving grins and beefs up his story. He tells them that Hughes talked about buying a majority interest in McGraw-Hill if they don’t support the book: “Just keep the printing presses and get rid of the idiots!”
Gere knows there’s one trait every good liar must have: charm. (It’s a useful trait in a two-hour movie, too.) His never-say-die enthusiasm forces you onto Irving’s side, holding your breath along with his whenever the results of another handwriting analysis are announced and celebrating as he eases out of another tight spot. Molina’s Suskind, therefore, is the comic relief for as long as the project is portrayed a joke. Sweaty and messily dressed, Molina makes Suskind anxious and awkward when it’s showtime. (“He gave me a prune!” he offers the publishers as a Hughes anecdote, barely after the greetings have ended.) When he’s with Irving, he’s more comfortable but still nervous. (“There’s an angry billionaire, and he’s chasing me!” he points out when his friend attempts to reassure him.)
Davis, in contrast, is fierce despite her character’s very ’70s, very feminine A-line suits and helmeted dark bob. Tate’s initial steely reluctance to believe Irving’s stories nicely gives way to giddiness when it starts to seem like the project’s for real. Her ferociousness never really disappears, though; Davis’ best moment may be when Tate takes down an assistant who allegedly screwed up: “Pray that you die, you sniveling twat,” she hisses shortly after beaming at the prospect of a Hughes visit.
In a similar way, The Hoax subtly morphs from a fun story about a scam into a character study, with a bit of a thriller thrown in à la A Beautiful Mind. The partners’ consciences regarding the book—one is nervous about the lies, the other isn’t—show roots in their home lives as everything starts to fall apart. The story even gets political, dragging in a battle between Hughes and the Nixon White House regarding Hughes’ airline, TWA, which has a tie to Irving’s book. No matter how closely you pay attention at this complex but mesmerizing point, you’re likely to walk out of the theater feeling, appropriately, like the characters—unsure of what was fantasy and what was reality but knowing you’ve just been caught in a whirlwind.
Twin dongs.” That’s the offending detail that first beleaguers the scheming figure skaters who decide to compete as a pair in Blades of Glory, the Will Ferrell–Jon Heder comedy that also likes to talk about wieners, boners, and a book titled I’d Like to Put My Poems in You. And if you don’t quite understand the problem, there’s even a visual that a skating fan uses to demonstrate that something’s amiss with this coupling: “Let me ask you something,” a dude says as he cradles two hot dogs in one bun. “Does this look right to you?”
Yes, Blades speed-skates toward homophobia with gags such as the clinging peacock costume Jimmy MacElroy (Heder) wears stretched across his body or the cringing expression Chazz Michael Michaels (Ferrell) wears when Jimmy’s crotch is in his face for all the Olympic audience to see. Yet the joke’s more on the ridiculous posturing—swishy or otherwise—of figure skaters than the idea of two men ice-dancing together. And the fact that this particular pair hates each other.
When Jimmy and Chazz are banned from the sport after fighting during an awards ceremony at a men’s-singles competition, they fall into obscurity: Jimmy works at a sporting-goods store, while Chazz winds up drunk and puking in his costume as an evil wizard in a Grublets on Ice show. (“I just threw up in here, people,” Chazz mumbles into his mic. “That’s the reality.”) When they meet again, they recoil—after all, Jimmy’s the adopted child with the curly locks who was dubbed “Little Orphan Awesome,” while Chazz used to thrust his pelvis to Billy Squier’s “The Stroke,” shoot fire from his fingers, and was described as an “ice-devouring sex tornado.” When Jimmy’s weirdo stalker (Nick Swardson), desperate to see the object of his fixation skating again, tells him that the rules say the ban applies only to men’s-singles, Jimmy sulkily lets Chazz know that they can compete in pairs competition. Naturally, they then fight. But the scuffle is captured on camera, and when Jimmy’s coach (Craig T. Nelson) watches it in slo-mo, he sees not hapless enemies roundhousing and tossing each other into walls but a magical combination of strength and grace.
Blades of Glory is co-directed by two freshmen, Josh Gordon and Will Speck, and credits an astonishing four scripters. But the movie has Ferrell all over it: You see the actor’s paunchy bod again, for instance, and learn the logistics of a “boob handshake.” You also get lines like, “That’ll give me time to get my jugs waxed,” placed Cyrano-style into the mouth of Jenna Fischer’s sweet love-interest character by her older siblings who are also Jimmy and Chazz’s rivals, the Van Waldenbergs (Amy Poehler and her superbly silly husband, Will Arnett). It’s largely an easy, one-joke sendup, but unlike Ferrell’s previous vehicle, last year’s Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, Blades doesn’t whip through all the comic possibilities in its first half just to rely on tired repetition in the final rounds. More impressive, there’s not a lowbrow bathroom gag to be found among all the wieners, boners, and dongs.