Boogie Nights

Paul Thomas Anderson's Boogie Nights revolves around one of the most darkly comic MacGuffins in cinematic history. Like the shark in Jaws, the member of Dirk Diggler at once drives the film and remains unseen, achieving a mythic quality before the payoff. We gauge its size through the reaction shots of those who gaze upon it. Anderson films close-ups of widened eyes and slacked jaws; women (and jealous, insecure men) gaze lustfully at Dirk's diggler, and its symbolic import drives most of the film. Yet just as the shark ultimately didn't live up to the hype -- who can miss that bounce when the shark leaps onto the boat? -- so too does Dirk's member fail to measure up in the end, a flaccid and impotent fossil of the great beast it once was.

Boogie Nights' immediate and most pervasive influence is, of course, Martin Scorsese's GoodFellas: both use highly stylized direction (Anderson's clearly derives from Marty's) to weave an epic tragicomedy of a seedy underworld, GoodFellas with organized crime and Boogie Nights the porn industry. Anderson defines his world with two early, extended tracking shots, one in a discotheque that briefly introduces the large cast and a second, at a pool party, that gives them shape and definition. Both of these tracking shots, as with the magnificent shots of the club and the Copa in GoodFellas, are shimmering and sensual, not so much calling attention to themselves -- as so many extended tracking shots do -- but calling attention to themselves through the narcissism of the world it paints; in both films, the shots justify themselves by reflecting the vanity and self-indulgence of the areas they profile.

At the discotheque works Dirk (né Eddie Adams), a high school dropout who cleans dishes in between working as a male prostitute. His home life recalls Rebel Without a Cause, a harpy-like mother who snaps at her submissive husband; Dirk has to take a bus from Torrance to Reseda to work at the nightclub, a job he could just as easily get closer to home, but then he might not enjoy the benefit of that extra hour each way away from his family. One night, Eddie meets Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds), an adult film director who's heard rumors of the particularly gifted washroom boy. Jack invites the lad to his lavish home in the suburbs, a convenient offer when Eddie runs away from home, and before you know it Eddie renames himself Dirk and jumps into his new occupation with vigor.

Toeing the line between absurdity and epic tragedy, Boogie Nights charts the rise and fall of the Me Generation through the highs and lows of the pornography industry, the snowblind cocaine binge of its stars a microcosm for the nation's own drug escapism and the effect of the VHS tape on the business representative of the Reagonomic turn to cold, pragmatic capitalism above all else. Anderson, for his part, understands how ridiculous his story is, and he fills the screen with goofball characters too odd to be anything but believable, such as Don Cheadle as a country music-loving porn star who by day works as a stereo salesman and audiophile; Heather Graham as a young starlet who never takes off her roller skates; John C. Reilly as Reed Rothchild, the former big star who gets gently shoved to the role of the sidekick to make way for Dirk even before the kid enters the business; and William H. Macy as Bill, the cuckolded assistant director, always forced to suffer the indignity of his wife's (porn star Nina Hartley, who ironically enjoyed reportedly the most stable and longest lasting relationship in the business*) public adultery.

Too, Anderson uses his camera with a great deal of wit: he oversaturates the pool party with light, a cheeky emphasis on the sunny appeal of this line of work to the impressionable and, as we learn quickly, childlike Dirk. When Scotty (Philip Seymour Hoffman), the gay boom operator, arrives, Anderson cuts to his POV, framing Dirk in an iris. Naturally, the scenes involving actual porn shoots are hysterical, with the characters woodenly delivering basic dialogue as Jack looks on, brow furrowed in concentration as if a compatriot of the New Hollywood filmmakers taking cinema to bold new territories around the same time. Anderson's stylistic quick-tracks and brightly colored sheen are captivating and immersive even as they are off-putting, gently separating us from the fast-paced, gaudy world he's documenting to allow us to spot the cracks forming before the world of leopard prints and suede crumbles around them.

Working with a cast of Altmanesque proportions, Anderson nevertheless adheres to Scorsese's GoodFellas formula of centering the action on a few characters and rooting the camera in the point of view of the main protagonist. Like Henry Hill, Eddie/Dirk falls into his seedy line of work in adolescence -- Henry starts working for the mob as a boy, while the emotionally stunted, teenage Eddie finds the same familial comfort in adult films -- and rises through the ranks by knowing the game in and out. Dirk even has a primal innocence that Hill never exhibited: in his first shoot, he sheepishly asks if he's doing well, gently asking for encouragement from both his partner in the scene and the people filming. Even as he edges Reed to the sidelines, he develops a deep friendship with the guy. Yet, as Henry before him, Dirk loses himself to cocaine, the white powder affecting his performance and seeding jealous paranoia in his mind, fueling an impotent rage that sends him into a tailspin. Mark Wahlberg, then underwear model and wannabe rapper who played like the New Kids on the Block (of which his brother Donnie was a member) crossed with Vanilla Ice, manages to walk the same tightrope Ray Liotta traversed, between reactive dependency on the factors that affect the character and propulsive acting.

Also key to the story and its thematic purpose is Jack. Played by Burt Reynolds, possibly the icon of '70s populist cinema, Jack represents a perversion of the nostalgia of the decade. As much as he's a seasoned pro, Jack genuinely believes the bullshit he's slinging -- that he's a true filmmaker bringing art to the genre, that he discovers and fosters artistic talent and that he's a father figure to these strung-out, lost children -- and Reynolds makes us like him almost in spite of himself. Perhaps the central performance of the film, however, is Julianne Moore as Amber Waves, the aging porn star who projects the matronly love she's not allowed to give her actual child, separated by her vindictive ex-husband, onto the people in the business, offering a bastion of warmth and support for kids too dumb to realize that she's worse than all of them. She acts out a reverse Oedipal complex with Dirk, her feelings falling somewhere in-between motherly love and sexual lust; a testament to her misplaced sensibilities, she is the one who first offers Dirk cocaine, setting in motion his downfall.

Boogie Nights takes a turn for the worse, symbolically, on the eve of the new decade, with a murder-suicide that grinds the festivities and optimism to a screeching halt. Bill's explosive solution to his wife's infidelity is brief and brutal, ushering in the age of instant gratification: soon, Jack's financier (Robert Ridgely) is busted for possession of child pornography, and his new producer (Philip Baker Hall) curtly tears down Jack's belief in the art of his films, forcing the director to make cheap, to-the-point pictures to be released straight to VHS.

A dark comedy floats over the entire picture, but it dives into the blackest abyss in the third act. Buck (Cheadle) cannot secure a loan for his own stereo outlet, as the bank won't finance a porn star, thus trapping him in the lifestyle. His dream become a harsh nightmare, Jack's cool enthusiasm for his work transforms into bitter workmanship, and both he and Rollergirl unleash their pent-up fury on a derisive amateur performer. Dirk and Reed fall out of the porn business in their addled and attempt to land a record deal, and dire straits force Dirk to return to his life as a male prostitute, leading to an altercation with a group of homophobes.

Brilliantly illustrating the cultural shift from the carefree, self-appraising narcissism and the outright, desperate solipsism of Reagan's '80s is the final extended scene, in which Dirk, Reed and their buddy Todd (Thomas Jane) attempt to scam and rob a drug dealer (Alfred Molina). Molina's apartment condenses the difference between the two decades by replacing the faux-homely, gaudy, sickly warm splendor of '70s decor with icy modern interior design: harsh, white lighting illuminating the slick, mathematically precise furniture, speakers booming soulless synth-pop to match the feel of the decor. One of the most twisted, bizarrely funny sequences I can recall seeing -- and the only sequence in contemporary film that matches the odd tension of one of Quentin Tarantino's elongated scenes -- Todd's plan strikes us as doomed from the start and only gets worse as Molina bandies wildly about the place waving a gun around while a Vietnamese boy in the corner of the living room tosses firecrackers to freak these coked-up robbers out even further. It ends with the sudden, comic brutality of a Tarantino climax, paving the way for a change of heart in Dirk.

Boogie Nights ends with the characters reconciled, several living in Jack's home, the familial undertones of initial interactions now fully developed ties. Yet the comforting ending belies the tragedy of the film: whenever any of these characters interact with the outside world -- as they did in most of the third act -- they are beaten, shot, derided and shunned. Jack will never make another film that will play in a theater; Amber will never gain custody of her child; Dirk and Rollergirl are just two high school dropouts with talents that can be considered old and useless on a yearly basis (surf a few web sites on a virus-protected computer to see an industry that shoehorns its performers into the mature category before they even hit 30**). Anderson is kind enough (though perhaps naïve) not to show any characters ravaged by AIDS, as we so many porn stars during the '80s (among them John Holmes, the basis for Dirk Diggler), but one could scarcely call the ending a happy one. These characters are trapped in their version of Grey Gardens, cut off by a world that sanctimoniously condescends to them even as they increasingly embrace pornography's ethos of gratification and hollow glamor. Even in their glitzy, expensive estate, they're as manipulated and castrated by Reagan's economy and the rise of empty moralism as the poor.



*Research for this film was...interesting.
** Again, very interesting.

Deliverance

When I was around 11 years old, I watched Deliverance for the first time. My family was always making references to lines like "squeal like a pig" and "you sure do got a purty mouth" as well as twanging out a banjo lick whenever we took a trip up to North Georgia (incidentally the setting and shooting location of the film). I was curious, so I managed to slip in a copy in our Blockbuster haul one day unnoticed. God, what a mistake.

As I watched the doomed canoeing excursion of four Atlanta boys paddling down a river before the construction of a new dam destroyed it forever, I was enraptured, not in interest or analysis but horror. Granted, it was my fault that I watched this movie at too young an age, but my word it did a number on me. I've never used the "squeal like a pig" line since, though I admit I still hum "Dueling Banjos" when the time calls for it. The experience shook me so thoroughly that I've never watched the film again, even when I felt I was old enough to take it, until today when my film professor played it. While I still felt pangs of fear, I quickly learned that not only was I old enough to properly handle the film -- and it barely affected me this time around, of course -- but I could also see it for what it is: a Vietnam movie.

Upon the film's release in 1972, America was on the verge of a full troop removal in Vietnam and films about the war were still anathema and box office poison. Not until the end of the decade did major films like The Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now get releases, and it took nearly an additional decade for the next wave (Full Metal Jacket, Casualties of War, Platoon) arrive. Ergo, director John Boorman and writer James Dickey (adapting his own novel) substituted the jungle with the forest, and Vietnamese peasants with hillfolk farmers.

Into this world come four city boys: Lewis (Burt Reynolds), the man's man who organizes the trip ostensibly to get in touch with nature; Ed (Jon Voight), who looks up to Lewis; Drew (Ronny Cox), the friendliest member of the group; and Bobby (Ned Beatty), an insurance salesman with the least ties to the others. In an opening voiceover, Lewis vehemently argues for the trip, as the dam will "rape this land." He expresses a hatred for the construction company for threatening to destroy the beauty of the land and of forcing the inhabitants in the valley that will become a lake when the river is diverted. Yet he and the others express a disdain for the locals from the start; Bobby in particular openly mocks a gas station attendant while Lewis condescends to the men he pays to drive their cars down to the mouth of the river. Only Drew is polite and affable with the natives, even playing that now-legendary tune with a talented inbred boy.

As their journey down the river unfolds, we see the Vietnam metaphor expand. This group of white men have brought their ideals and beliefs into a world so near yet so alien to them, and they mock, demean and attack these natives for their perceived inferiority. Slowly, they begin to fill soldier archetypes: Bobby is the slightly craven but vocally outspoken one, the type who walks around 'Nam, or France, or the islands of the Pacific espousing his low opinions of his surroundings. Eventually that abrasiveness costs him dearly, in that infamous scene.

Bobby's rape, diluted substantially through nearly four decades' worth of parody, nevertheless retains its visceral weight. A number of my classmates mentioned that their fathers (no moms were mentioned) thought the film was hilarious, though I was relieved that these students all expressed a disbelief in their parents' opinions once it was finished. Two filthy, toothless hillbillies approach Ed and Bobby from out of the woods when the pair stops on the river bank for a rest, demanding to know what they're doing there. Bobby, always so scathing, realizes that they're wandering into danger and tries to diffuse the situation, but he only makes it worse when he stammers out a reference to the men possibly wanting to protect a moonshine still. Suddenly, enraged, the men trap Ed and Bobby and violate the latter while we see (and mainly hear) the actions from Ed's point of view. When Lewis comes to the rescue and murders Bobby's rapist, the rest slip into their roles fully.

The men agree to bury the affair (literally), and only Drew objects. Playing the role of the idealistic young private reminiscent of the Michael J. Fox character in Casualties of War or the Charlie Sheen character in Platoon, Drew believes that they must report Bobby's assault and their murder, rightly citing it as justifiable homicide. But Lewis brings up going to a trail by jury in this town of close-knit farmers, while Bobby pleads with them, "I don't want this getting around." So, they bury the attacker and attempt to make it to the end of the rapids.

Soon after they depart, however, Drew suddenly tumbles out of the canoe, and Lewis immediately shouts that he's been shot. The survivors barely make it through a set of rapids and find themselves trapped by the supposed shooter. Lewis is incapacitated with a compound fracture, so Ed must climb the cliff to dispatch the attacker. Earlier in the film, Ed attempted to shoot a deer with his bow and arrow but he couldn't bring himself to do it, and he has a similar problem when he spots a shooter overlooking their tipped canoe. The macho posturing giving way to an inability to kill is a standard trope of war films, but it's the implication of Ed's murder that draws the biggest parallels to Vietnam.

He climbed the rock face to exact revenge for his dead friend and presumed that this man was the same who helped the rapist corner him and Bobby, yet the man he kills has teeth, unlike the second rapist. This is a clear microcosm of so many "reprisals" targeting innocent Vietnamese villages, most notoriously the My Lai Massacre. His doubt only exacerbates his feelings of guilt and revulsion at taking a life.

Eventually, the three surviving pals make it to shore, agree upon a story to sell the cops and head to the hospital. The local sheriff knows something is up and that the story doesn't check out, but he has nothing to charge them with, so he reluctantly lets them go. While Lewis remains behind to continue recuperating -- and even possibly lose his leg -- Ed and Bobby bid farewell. As a goodbye, Bobby merely tells Ed, "I don't think I'll be seeing you anytime soon," a final acknowledgment of their agreement never to speak of what happened.

The journey down the Georgia river, in retrospect, calls to mind Capt. Willard's trip upstream in Apocalypse Now: in that film, Willard knew he was heading into danger, while these men assumed they were just going to have some fun. Where Willard had the option of turning around, these four had to keep going until they emerged (hopefully) alive. Also, that shot of a hand rising from the river is an obvious nod to horror pictures, but it also made me think of Willard rising from the lake to confront Kurtz. Deliverance is not a perfect film; it tries to cram a lot into a modest length and occasionally some stuff just won't fit nicely. However, it's a fascinating allegory for the Vietnam conflict and indeed for the American mindset of all our subsequent conflicts.