![]() ![]() But then, they are stealing from the best.It’s a new year, but the debate about film versus digital will continue to rage. Likely to fry the mind of anyone who hasn’t yet built up a resistance to the brothers’ foibles and predilections over the past 16 films, it’s easily the most Coen-y Coen movie they’ve put out. That said, if you’re a committed Coenophile (as we all should be, right?), you’re unlikely to be too bothered by all this. It’s not like the film is hollow - hidden at its heart, in fact, is a struggle for the soul of Hollywood - it’s just that it feels more like a series of pleasant diversions rather than a single, solid journey. And, as good as Brolin is, the character lacks the culty appeal of, say, The Dude in The Big Lebowski, whose shambolic nature matched that film’s saggy, shaggy storytelling. It’s clear the Coens aren’t interested in sustaining the sense of mystery at who exactly has starnapped Whitlock, so it’s hard for the audience to care either when the big reveal hits. Mannix’s travails don’t entwine satisfactorily, and while the flourishes are fantastic, none really move the story forward. Where Hail, Caesar! falters, though, is in the glue that binds all these elaborate sketches. ![]() It’s an astonishing technical achievement. In each case, the Coens’ A-crew (including Mary Zophres on costumes, Roger Deakins as DP and Carter Burwell scoring) nail the genre perfectly. And there’s Hail, Caesar! itself, which glows convincingly with all the grandeur and pomposity of a true, old-school Hollywood epic. There’s cowboy Doyle’s latest picture, a twee Western named Lazy Ol’ Moon, complete with a cantankerous prospector-type. There’s a full-on, astonishingly inventive song ’n’ dance number featuring a tap-dancing Channing Tatum and a bunch of sailor-boys lamenting that “We Ain’t Gonna See No Dames”. There’s the Johansson-centred synchronised-swimming sequence, featuring a giant, mechanical whale. Because, beyond all the trademarks, gags and Georgian gurning, what Hail, Caesar! essentially amounts to is a series of impressively mounted pastiches. On the one hand, the brothers are snickering at the silliness of how things used to be, but on the other they are celebrating this bygone Golden Age. This is the Dream Factory operating at maximum productivity, and Joel and Ethan revel in the absurdities of the studio system, whereby directors can’t pick their stars, and stars have to change their image at the wag of a fat finger and date who they’re damn well told. It's likely to fry the mind of anyone who hasn’t yet built up a resistance to the brothers’ foibles and predilections. “You won’t be shouldering a load of crackpot problems.” But Mannix - played by Brolin as a charming bruiser who’s not quite as unflappable as he’d like people to think - thrives on the crackpot problems. And there’s a greater temptation than tobacco: a big-time job offer from aerospace company Lockheed. He will do something as objectionable as slapping an actress for taking part in an unsanctioned photo-session, but is also wracked with Catholic guilt over lying to his wife about quitting smoking. ![]() A fixer for the studio, there’s a little of Tom Regan from Miller’s Crossing about him, though he’s armed with petty cash rather than a pistol. Mannix, the closest thing this movie has to a main character, is another of the Coens’ serious men. It’s Josh Brolin as Capitol’s Head Of Physical Production, Eddie Mannix, who drives things - albeit not always using the most direct route. As kidnapped matinée idol Baird Whitlock, another George-shaped Coen creation who’s two steps behind the rest of the room, he is merely their MacGuffin like the baby in Raising Arizona, only not as smart and a touch more helpless. If self-plagiarism were a criminal offence, the Coen brothers would be facing a long stretch in San Quentin. ![]()
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