Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.
Mr. Beaks, like myself, is quite fond of some of the work of Alan Parker.
However, after reading this review, I’m fairly sure Alan Parker is going to be no fan of Mr. Beaks.
Check this mutha out...
THE LIFE OF DAVID GALE (d. Alan Parker, w. Charles Randolph)
With December fast approaching, the publicists at Universal must be breathing a sigh of release as they glance across their release slate; outside of the impressive indie acquisitions rounded up by their prestige boutique, Focus, they haven’t an Oscar-worthy in-house production worth a full page For Your Consideration ad in Variety. In other words, the normally crazed Christmas season just got a lot less hectic.
Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Oh, no….. they were supposed to have the crown jewel of the Awards Season; the brilliant, can’t miss screenplay from a precociously talented newcomer sculpted into fine cinematic form by a great, veteran director, rounded out by a cast of former Oscar nominees – Laura Linney and Kate Winslet – and toplined by two-time winner Kevin Spacey. And, better than all of these attributes, it was a film of Great Importance; a passionate case against America’s inhumane policy of Capital Punishment against which only the most heartless conservative could rail. Why, surely, the first finished print would be stowed away in the National Film Registry without a single raised voice of protest.
Yes, there *was* excitement over THE LIFE OF DAVID GALE many, many months ago, and, sure enough, it appeared as a potential front-runner for March gold in all of the early Fall Previews, but something happened along the way. Slowly, it began to fall off the radar, and, eventually, the release schedule, quietly moving to late February, from whence only the unlikely SILENCE OF THE LAMBS has gone on to win Best Picture. How could this happen?
Well, had anyone with a shot-glass full of sense bothered to read the script, this would’ve all been academic. THE LIFE OF DAVID GALE is a simplistic, poorly written anti-death penalty polemic that is offensive not only for its telegraphed plot twists, but its crass trivialization of a deeply important issue that continues to trouble this country. It’s the kind of wrongheaded, straw man argument that makes Hollywood Liberals such an easily dismissed lot, and, frankly, makes me consider jumping over to the Pro-Death Penalty ship if only to avoid associating with stridently ideological mush-heads.
After a clumsily inserted prologue – one of the film’s most nagging flaws is its ham-fisted segues between past and present – we are introduced to reporter Bitsey Bloom (Winslet), a highly principled journalist who’s just been released from jail for refusing to reveal her sources on a child pornographer story. Now, she’s been requested to conduct three interviews with the soon-to-be executed David Gale (Spacey), a once highly-esteemed professor, and, ironically enough, vocal death penalty opponent who has found himself on death row in Texas (oops!) after raping and murdering his former friend and colleague Constance Hallaway (Linney). Though she’s a loose-cannon, Bitsey’s editor okays the story, but not without sending down an intern (Gabriel Mann) so the screenwriter has someone with whom Bitsey can discuss key plot points and banal exposition. Seriously, this film is plotted with all the finesse of Manute Bol skating a figure eight.
Once in Austin, Bitsey begins her sessions with Gale, and the quid pro quo is on. You see, Gale has chosen Bitsey because of her reputation as a tenacious but fair crusader for the truth. With only a week to go until his execution, he’s no choice but to stake his survival on this dogged reporter, who, hopefully, is intrepid enough to piece together the real story behind his framing. To that end, Gale leisurely draws out the backstory of how he fell from the glory of academia to being convicted and condemned by the state of Texas for a murder he claims he did not commit. First, there was the break-up of his already dissolving marriage (his wife has been engaged in an affair) over an ill-advised dalliance with a scornful female graduate student (Rhona Mitra) recently expelled for offering to exchange sexual favors for a passing grade in Gale’s class. As revenge, she corners Gale at a party after he’s had too much to drink, and lures him into a bout of rough sex that she later claims was rape. Gale is immediately put on sabbatical, while his wife files for divorce and sole custody of their son, thus removing from Gale’s life his most cherished possession. Subsequently, Gale becomes a raging drunk, dashing any hopes of landing a teaching gig at another university. He’s a pariah, and quickly hits rock bottom, but he finds salvation and sobriety by throwing himself back into his work with Deathwatch, where his old friend Constance welcomes him with open arms. But just when he gets his feet back on the ground, it’s all taken away from him again; sending him into the real tailspin that will end with Constance bound and suffocated on her kitchen floor.
All of this information is imparted during the three interviews with Gale, and is broken up by Bitsey’s own investigation to figure out who might want to set him up. Figuring into all of this is a mysterious man in a cowboy hat who trails Bitsey and her intern in his rusty pick-up truck, and Gale’s good ol’ boy lawyer, who has been badly mishandling the subsequent appeals. Meanwhile, the missing videotape of Constance’s murder surfaces in Bitsey’s hotel room (yes, it was videotaped), which, if watched, will kill the viewer in seven days.
If only THE LIFE OF DAVID GALE were merely an overplotted mess, then it could be discarded onto the scrap heap of noble failures and quickly forgotten. But Alan Parker is vigorous in his telling of this convoluted tale, drawing on his worst propagandistic impulses as a filmmaker, and turning this into a grotesque, operatic tragedy. Parker repeatedly slams the viewer over the head with Message, and traffics in shamelessly overt symbolism, going so far as to pose Spacey arms outstretched like Jesus in the film’s most groan inducing moment. It’s a shame to see the director of such visionary pictures like SHOOT THE MOON and ANGEL HEART sinking to such artless depths, but it’s not like he hasn’t scraped bottom before (see COME SEE THE PARADISE and ROAD TO WELLVILLE for further evidence, or, better yet, don’t).
As the titular martyr, Spacey conveys too effectively the smugness that has crept uncomfortably into past performances. It seems like he’s playing Gale as an extension of himself and his own beliefs, which makes the character all the more unbearable. Though Gale is a tortured, flawed individual, he’s absolutely meant to be profound, and Spacey draws out all of his insipid observances with an insufferable didacticism. Faring worse is Winslet, whose vivaciousness is muted as the no-nonsense Bitsey. Only Linney comes through unscathed, overcoming the clunky dialogue to lend tragic shadings to Constance where they are, frankly, undeserved.
Unfortunately, to fully eviscerate THE LIFE OF DAVID GALE would require that I start revealing key plot points that are meant to surprise, and it’s something I can’t do in good conscience. Maybe when the film is released, I’ll revisit it and give it the horsewhipping it truly deserves. Until then, this will have to suffice – my only misgiving being that it won’t qualify as the worst film of 2002.
Faithfully submitted,
Mr. Beaks
Yikes. Double yikes. Of course, this is toned down dramatically from when Beaks called me right after the screening, drunkenly demanding the home address of “this lousy rotten Randolph sumbitch!” If anyone else out there got a look at this one, I’d love to hear more about what sort of movie made Beaks climb the “Y” on the HOLLYWOOD sign and expose himself. This one must be something truly special...
"Moriarty" out.
