By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Inkoo Kang
By Voice Film Critics
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
More than anything, the wider anti-p.c. movement, if you can even call it that, is a triumph of media manipulation--a backlash more irrational than the phenomenon to which it's purportedly reacting, and as such, a fundamentally illusory rebellion. When movies start co-opting this faux ideology (or are thought of as doing so), it gets even more ridiculous. Just who are the thought police that the Farrellys are so brazenly defying? What kind of intellectual muzzling was Woody Allen or Warren Beatty ever subjected to? And by flouting the tyranny of liberalism-gone-amok, we're returning to the glory days of... what exactly? Porky's?
And yet, a consensus seems to have formed among pundits and critics that meanness is, in itself, good--brave, honest, somehow different. The Times found Deconstructing Harry "bracingly nasty" and In the Company of Men "fearlessly cruel." The New Yorker capsule review for There's Something About Mary celebrates its "refreshing mean-spiritedness" (even though the movie is surely, in its way, one of the year's sweetest romantic comedies). The trendspotters are onto something--straight white men are acting out--but why is simple antisocial behavior, whether offensive or not, so consistently misdiagnosed as heroism?
The most commercially successful of the recent wave, James L. Brooks's As Good as It Gets, is also the most transparently clueless. Jack Nicholson's racist, sexist, homophobic novelist verbally assaults everyone around him--a single mother and her sick kid, a gay neighbor and his pesky dog, a Latino maid--and then mysteriously comes to his senses. The film is a perfect example of Hollywood wanting it both ways (how can you object to the antihero's obnoxiousness if it's all in the name of redemption?) and getting it all wrong (you can if his behavior is as pointlessly vile--and subsequent rote transformation as absurdly unconvincing--as it is here).
As Good as It Gets also adopts the defense of most anti-p.c. comedies--"equal-opportunity" offensiveness, which basically translates as politically correct political incorrectness, and is every bit as muddleheaded and contradictory a stance as that implies. It's impossible to pull off in any meaningful sense: consider the idiotic Mark Wahlberg vehicle The Big Hit, which assembled a multiethnic cast for no other reason than to diversify its racial-slur hurling. Woody Allen's Deconstructing Harry, with its black and Asian hookers and shrewish Jewish wives, might be thought of as even more equal-op, since Allen's bile is targeted as much at his alter-ego as any of the other characters. Still, this rancor is invariably more convincing when directed outward, and ultimately nullified by the need to justify it.
Warren Beatty's Bulworth makes the most direct connection of any film to date between honesty and the politically incorrect impulse. Jolted out of a suicidal stupor, Beatty's hopelessly compromised senator embarks on a "truth-telling" spree, which consists primarily of racial putdowns and old-left tirades, badly rapped--it's supposed to be cathartic and liberating because it's apparently what people want to hear. Or is it what people have always wanted to say but have been afraid to? More to the point, which people? Beatty told Henry Louis Gates Jr. in the New Yorker, "If I had made [Bulworth] back in 1968... it would have been too politically correct for words," meaning presumably that today's high-irony climate is more conducive to "malt liquor and chicken wing" cracks. Beatty's well-publicized good intentions notwithstanding, tweaking stereotypes can be irresponsible--tantamount to perpetrating them--if both context and execution are confused, as they obviously are in Bulworth.
Good intentions are usually beside the point in the Sundance-incubated strain of anti-p.c., manifest mainly in indies that overestimate their own shock value (not to mention the value of shock per se). Take Don Roos's nicely acted, knowingly rude farce The Opposite of Sex--not so much a movie as a disingenuous pose sustained over 90 minutes. "One of those in-your-face comedies that has audiences laughing, ducking, and not believing their ears," warned delicate flower Roger Ebert. The film's tagline was similarly cautionary: "You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be offended." The most offensive thing about The Opposite of Sex is its insistence that we take offense at it--as if its impudence was supposed to be fresh or bold or the means to some elusive greater truth. This position becomes even less tenable when it transpires that Roos has almost as conclusive a makeover in mind for Christina Ricci's acerbic teen vamp as Brooks did for Nicholson's latter-day Scrooge.
Few filmmakers--indie or otherwise--are as keen to scandalize as Neil LaBute, whose only two features to date, In the Company of Men and the current Your Friends & Neighbors, are not only calculatedly shocking, but marketed as inflammatory conversation pieces ("Will keep you talking right on through winter," promises an overoptimistic blurb for Friends & Neighbors). Even though he freely admits that his ultimate goal is provocation, LaBute denies that his films trade on shock value alone. "Being shocking for its own sake is relatively useless," he says. "If you just want to shock, you might as well have an actor urinate on the camera. The idea is never to drive the audience out of the theater." He hedges, though, when asked if he thinks his films can be accurately termed anti-p.c. "They're politically ambivalent. I'm really not interested in making statements but in raising questions."
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