|
Alphabetic Index
|
Ratings Index
|
Web Resources
|
Alphabetic Index
|
Ratings Index
|
Web Resources
Granted, the national treasure who brought us M*A*S*H and Nashville is judged by a special standard. Thus his aura wins him some automatic points. But though a smidgen and a dram of magic dust filters into his latest release, the effort falls short of the enviable high water mark Mr. Altman has set for himself over the years with groundbreaking works like A Wedding, McCabe and Mrs. Miller and The Player.
If a directorial unknown were to present us with Cookie's Fortune, it might be greeted as "a slyly irreverent paean to dysfunctional Southern mores by an engaging director with a promising facility for dissecting the eccentricity in small town folks." Happily, it's a bit more than that. But you know how critics are.
Here, in cutting to the core of a distinctly American sociology -- specifically, the idiosyncratic denizens of Holly Springs, Mississippi -- Mr. Altman's cynical edge is ever present, but politely subdued. Catastrophe does not lie in wait around each corner like Damocles sword. Now, irony is a conventional storytelling mechanism for framing reward, justice and retribution. Not a fiercely arbitrary, uncontrollable force of nature catapulted from the glove of some angry Norse god.
Retaining an Altman mainstay, a fine ensemble cast featuring Glenn Close, Charles S. Dutton and Julianne Moore allows the director to lovingly fashion his Faulknerian tale of Southern discomfort. But taking a cue from his slow-drawling characters, the pace is leisurely. There is no rush, no trademark kaleidoscope of inter-cutting plots. For, like it or not, this is Altman Lite.
Though you can rest assured that almost all 10 Commandments are being broken on a regular basis in Holly Springs, keeping up appearances is the official pastime. There are almost as many historical markers (one is constantly reminded that the little burg is the home of 13 Confederate generals) as street signs. But title character Jewel Mae "Cookie" Orcutt, a crusty old widow who has never stopped grieving the loss of her dearly departed Buck, doesn't much care about how things look. When likeable Cookie, splendidly exacted by Patricia Neal, can't stand the loneliness anymore, she sets in motion the Southern gothic plot of secret ties and strained relationships by taking one of husband Buck's old revolvers and ending it all, in a rather messy sort of way.
The wily old gal leaves a note to Willis, a black family retainer/handyman. He is one of the few folks she cared about other than Emma, her prodigal grand niece portrayed with vivacious spunk by Liv Tyler. Stoically loyal Willis is brilliantly realised by Charles S. Dutton. Unfortunately, he doesn't discover the body. Instead, that rare honour is reserved for niece Camille Dixon (sharply delineated by Glenn Close), Dixie's answer to the queen of mean.
An egomaniac extraordinaire, for Camille appearances are everything. And since "people from good families simply don't commit suicide," she is completely beside herself. She berates her dead aunt for the inconvenience: "You crazy old lady! How dare you do this to me." Camille then eats the farewell missive and sets about making it look like a robbery-murder.
Along for the ride is Julianne Moore as Cora, the doltish sister who, it can easily be conjectured, has spent a lifetime of subservience to her tyrannical sibling. Camille firmly informs Cora, in case the police should ask, that Aunt Cookie did not commit suicide. A virtual zombie, Cora hauntingly parrots her sister's instructions. Because martinet Camille is currently directing the simple sister in the church play, this latest deceit is but a few more lines to memorise.
As unlucky circumstances would have it, Willis' fingerprints on the gun make him the only suspect. He is subsequently jailed for the crime. Of course, the cell door is left open at all times, this being the homespun, quirky kind of relationship movie that it is. And although all of Camille's trumped up evidence smells fishy to Sheriff Lester Boyle, acted by a trimmed down Ned Beatty, he is certain of Willis' innocence based on one grand observation: "I've fished with the man."
Commiserating with her friend, firebrand Emma, forever the bane of her vicious Aunt Camille's existence, bunks with Willis in protest of his arrest. Besides, she confides, her 274 outstanding parking violations make her a desperado, too. Quite conveniently, this also puts the rebellious lass comfortably close to heartthrob Jason, a bungling deputy played by Chris O'Donnell.
Evidenced by her fast and loose tampering, all the world's a stage for Camille. Hence rehearsals for the upcoming church production of Salome, which she ludicrously bills as "a play by Camille Dixon and Oscar Wilde," prove a clever sub-plot and loosely based metaphor for the story's greater goings-on. But regardless of which world she's in, the despicable control freak revels in her authority, real as well as imagined. If she's worried about possibly sending an innocent man to the gas chamber, she doesn't show it. To coin a Southern phrase, the evil witch has chutzpah.
But what of it? While Miss Close is entertaining via her over-the-top wickedness, certainly Mr. Altman didn't spend two hours to prove that Camille Dixon is a warped narcissist beyond redemption. And while good guy Willis' misfortunate travail is full of wit, whimsy, and even a little wisdom as concerns black-white relationships way down South, it's just not enough to sustain a feature length film. Inordinately focusing on exposition and his scattershot batch of warmly eccentric sub-texts, the director uses up nearly half of the film before any of his lazily introduced premises take flight. And unlike classic Altman, where the whole is inevitably greater than the sum of its parts, the lack of focus proves a liability. While Cookie's Fortune doesn't crumble, it does taste half-baked.
|
Alphabetic Index
|
Ratings Index
|
Web Resources