By Alan Scherstuhl
By Mark Holcombe
By Scott Foundas
By Nick Pinkerton
By Michael Atkinson
By Scott Foundas
By Keith Phipps
By Alan Scherstuhl
Let me come right out and say it: I love John Sayles movies. I love their crackling dialogue, their for-the-bleachers irony. I love the fact that, to Sayles, integrity once meant inserting a pile of reptile shit into the horror flick Alligator, which he wrote in 1980. And that integrity to him now means cutting a scene of an alligator set loose on a shopping mall in his latest near-comedy, Sunshine State.
I love that both of these choices were grounded in something like a credo. When scripting the aforementioned Jaws knockoff, the nation's preeminent independent filmmaker (who continues to wear a second hat as uncredited story doctor on studio crap) decided to step into something that most monster movies had avoided up to that point: self-conscious commentary (on the horror genre, on animal rights, on the intrusive whiff of "real life"). Forty-plus scripts later, Sayles the director snips from his talky new ensemble piece the one thing that most summer movies take pains to include: a superfluous action sequence.
"I try to write stories that I don't think a million other people are [writing]," he says, explaining himself during a recent interview at Minneapolis's Marquette Hotel. "A lot of what interests me about telling a movie story is, Here's something I see in the world around me, and I haven't seen it in the movies yet."
When he began directing, for instance, Sayles saw smart and humane Sixties radicals. He put them onscreen for $40,000 in The Return of the Secaucus Seven (1980), a tale of reunited domestic Peace Corps-like vets grappling with their ideals in a leaner era. (The premise was duly jacked by Lawrence Kasdan for The Big Chill, with the depressing twist that his Motown-lovin' lame-o's had no ideals left to worry about.)
I love the fact that Sayles still grapples: that his movies expend rich dialogue on Disneyfication, racist anomie, and golf-course landscaping--all of it in his latest picture, incidentally. His detractors are right to say that his films don't quite take within the mind's eye. Sayles might well regard dramatic catharsis and purely visual storytelling as things that a million other people do. (His most intoxicated cinema remains a rock video--for Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A.") Yet I left Sunshine State elated, buzzing over the characters and issues (in that order) as if the movie's northern Florida island were my own hometown.
There's an empathetic stoicism to Sayles's fiction. There's also an unmistakable touch of Ralph Nader (speaking of Florida) in his gentle frankness--and in the unmistakable iconography of a graying, hirsute ex-jock whose singular reputation for integrity begs parody. The Onion once ran a fake-news item under the headline "Joe Eszterhas Brought in to Punch Up Senate Bill" with the following caveat:
"When John Sayles worked on the bill for increased health benefits for Alaskan fishermen, it was a beautiful, poignant bill," said Sen. Ernest Hollings (D-SC). "It only got 11 votes in the House, but those congressmen who supported it were deeply moved. Not at all like that $220 billion asteroid-defense-system bill Jerry Bruckheimer put out a few years ago. It was a soulless piece of crap, but everyone showed up for that vote."
Reading these sentences for the first time, Sayles lets loose a growling, nasal chuckle. "This is interesting because I've often used this metaphor," he says. "Getting a script through the Hollywood system is like getting a bill through Congress. By the time it comes out the other end, it's kind of like your lunch. It's not going to look like what came in."
Sayles should know. During post-production of the melancholy sleeper Baby, It's You (1983), he was kicked out of the editing room for a month by the suits at Paramount. Luckily, the studio's version of the film tested one point lower with audiences than Sayles's, and the director won back final cut.
You might say that Sayles is the Ian MacKaye of movies. Still, you can also see in this author-turned-auteur a pinch of the mercenary craftsman played by Burt Reynolds in 1989's Breaking In (another Sayles script-for-hire). Indeed, all 13 of the Sayles-driven pictures--the ones he wrote, directed, and edited--were funded by his "bread job" in Hollywood. (His rewrites include Apollo 13, Mimic, and The Sixth Day.) The man is either the shrewdest idealist in the biz, or its most principled hack.
I find evidence of both in the workmanlike pleasures of Sayles's latest ensemble piece, in which his craft feels almost visceral. It's a kick to watch the variegated perspectives and plot strands weave together in Sunshine State, much as they did in 1991's City of Hope and 1996's Lone Star. The imagined locality this time is Delrona Beach, where white and black enclaves are the target of developers so keen on conquest that they describe their plan in almost military terms. (Sayles pointedly neglected to invite Gov. Jeb Bush to the set.)
Sopranos matron Edie Falco stars as Marly, a tequila-comforted "motelier" under pressure to sell her beachfront establishment. Ralph Waite (the patriarch on The Waltons) is her craggy father, who holds the deed and won't let go. In a welcome change of pace, Waite's besieged representative of the white ruling class is given a long, hilarious, Archie Bunker-esque monologue ("You smoke a damn cigarette, they make you feel like a baby strangler!"). But Sayles is so slack as a director that he flubs the visual punch line. (He's Nader-like in more ways than one.) Elsewhere he can't be bothered to scribble in a little romantic chemistry between Marly and a passively flirtatious landscape architect played by Timothy Hutton (who does little more than appear happy to be in a movie).
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