The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Hot Rod
On the one hand we have the Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (AJJBTCRF), and the length of the title alone tells you this film is going to be artsy. In fact, the director has what seems to be an unhealthy obsession with Holga cameras, often to the point of forgetting to film the actors. Long stretches of scenes are shot through wavy glass or faded with odd light effects just for the hell of it. I suppose you could say the director was going for a specific, old-timey, faded tintype look, but I don’t believe it. I think that if he could have stop-motioned Brad Pitt for three hours with a toy camera and then stapled it all together in a flip book, he would have done it. The fact that many scenes are simply narrated by a mysterious off-screen, never-revealed Voice reinforces that impression. But the presence of Brad Pitt demands a bigger budget than that, my friends. So the director was forced to use, you know, film. And this movie is the result.
The title also gives away the…what’s the word now? Oh yeah…climax. Thus the audience sits for a good long time, watching the Holga version of the Plains roll by while we wait for Robert Ford (a creepy, creepy Casey Affleck) to pull the trigger. Obviously, the plot is not the point of this film. We’re meant to explore the psychological motivations of the characters, the underlying tensions blah blah blah. It didn’t work for me, mostly because it’s hard to explore the underlying anything when the director won’t let you inside anyone’s head. Pitt’s James remains an enigma throughout the film, and Ford is too waffly and weird to pin down. There are hints of hero-worship, hints of homosexuality, hints of betrayal, but all only hints. The filmmakers seem to have mistaken ambiguity for profundity. Either that, or they were afraid to commit. Not unlike Robert Ford himself, they take a long time to get to the point, and when it happens, the explanation rings hollow.
But at least the point rings eventually, and the scenery ain’t bad. In Hot Rod, by contrast, there is no point at all, and as for the movie’s look…well, I’ve seen roadkill that’s more pulled together than this slop. One of the many SNL-flavored flicks that Lorne Michaels spits out every couple months, this edition features Andy Samburg as a low-rent stuntman whose skill level can be charitably described as aspirational. When his stepfather gets heart disease, Rod decides to raise the money to save him by putting on a stunt show. I’ve just made this movie sound a whole lot more coherent than it actually is, by the way. In reality, it meanders through that one-line summary for an hour and a half, throwing sixteen different schools of humor at a wall in the desperate hope that one will stick, at least enough for thirteen year old boys to buy enough tickets to keep the SNL movie brigade in the black. No one actually watches SNL anymore, right? Where is this funding coming from? And more importantly, does PETA know about team of monkeys that were confined to their typewriters to get this script?
Where was I? Oh, yeah, the completely unfunny comedy Hot Rod. Aside from the fact that none of the ostensible "comedians" involved in this project can cobble together one fucking joke that actually works, this movie also sucks for the fact that once again, the role of every female character shows all the depth and complexity of a wine aged overnight. What the fuck? Why is every SNL-style romantic interest portrayed as a cute, generally bright woman who is yet too stupid to know that she’s dating a total jerk, until the hero points it out to her, at which point she instantly transfers her affections to the immature, emotionally-stunted hero so that he may draw strength from her unwavering, selfless support to accomplish whatever daft goal Lorne Michaels decrees? Did Isla Fisher need money so badly that she couldn’t turn this shit down? Are the men involved with these projects fine with this pattern? Or, more likely, are they unaware that such a pattern even exists?
Many questions, my friends. Yet no answers. My soul still wanders over this cinematic purgatory, seeking a happy compromise between the stylized substance of Jesse James and the total lack of substance or style in Hot Rod. Whatever film that turns out to be, I hope it involves Sam Rockwell, who yet again demonstrated in AJJBTCRF that he can act motherfucking circles around anyone he’s matched up with. Perhaps Sam needs to save his dying father by shooting a famous outlaw with a Holga camera, thus getting the photo of a lifetime and fulfilling his dream by selling the photo to pay for the medical bills. Then he could be free to pursue the girl he’s loved since childhood, having finally matured via his trials to court her as a man instead of a kindergarten-level spaz. Hey, I can dream.
The numbers:
AJJBTCRF: 6 out of 10. Don’t go out of your way, unless you are a fan of the weird-ass western (SEE: Blueberry, Seraphim Falls, etc.). But there’s definitely worse ways to spend your evening.
Hot Rod: 2 out of 10. Because there’s a kitty in one scene, and because it’s still not as bad as Spider.