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Cradle Will RockRating:
Release Date: 08 April, 2003 Retail Price: $9.99 OUR Price: $9.99 You SAVE: $0.00! Cast: Complete Cast (20 total) |
Cradle Will Rock Reviews
Robbins tries...too hard
First of all, I really wanted to like this film. It hurts not to recommend it, because the subject matter is compelling, about a once-in-a-lifetime night in American theater that happened during the Great Depression. And Tim Robbins' heart is in the right place. But good intentions don't make a great film, and unfortunately, that's the case here. Robbins tries to do a multiple-character loose plot that makes one think of Robert Altman. In fact, watching Cradle Will Rock, you realize just how good a director Altman is, because he makes this sort of thing look so effortless (so much so that detractors have often accused him of "not really directing" his pictures). Well, to quote the late senator Lloyd Bentsen: Tim Robbins, you're no Bob Altman.
The film has an impressive cast list. Unfortunately, almost everyone overacts. Particular violators are Cary Ewles as John Houseman and Angus Macfadyen as Orson Welles. Both seem to channel Nathan Lane in their over-the-top elocution and both as directed by Robbins turn every showbiz cliche in the book, such as bickering pettily and then, when they reach an agreement over something, jumping up and down and shouting "Eureka!" while hugging. Other hams include Ruben Blades as painter Diego Rivera and, surprisingly, the normally excellent Susan Sarandon as Mussolini's art-living mistress. With her accent she sounded more like Count Dracula's mistress to me. Other cliched characters include doe-eyed Emily Watson as a shy waif (what else?) who never gets a break until, of course, the last scene.
There's also a strange sideplot involving Bill Murray as a washed-up ventriloquist. This started off promising, with him attending secret meetings sponsored by alienated conservatives who see the times changing in ways that make them uncomfortable, but it went nowhere. Conversly, the third major plotline, about Nelson Rockefeller commissioning Rivera to paint a mural in his new building, went predictably where we'd expect, and was way too drawn out in the film's ending. Oddly, for a screenplay that cried out for lots of oddball, nonconformist characters, no lines and little face time is given to Corina Katt Ayala as Frida Kahlo--who in real life was quite a character who could have been put to better use here. Also underused is the always-reliable Bob Balaban. Hank Azaria is okay as the playwright, but the whole surreal bit that happens whenever he has a scene to write strikes me as Robbins trying to be arty and "profound" to no effect.
The one standout performance is by Cherry Jones, wonderfully-cast as Hallie Flanagan. Her warm and very natural performance just throws into high relief how forced and phony most of the rest of the cast is. Even here, though, Robbins misses the point. The high moment comes when Balaban shakes her into reality after the Congressional hearings and tells her "It's over." That could have been the beginning of a big dramatic scene, but Robbins glosses over it for a phony and smug mock interrogation scene in the court chambers a little later. Similarly, the walk down the street to the second theater could have been a big moment of tension--what will be the fate of this controversial play, and the actors who have rehearsed it for months? Instead Robbins gives us a victory dance--a parade of jugglers, acrobats and cha-cha dancers set to comical klezmer music that undermines what he's just set up. We feel a smugness and satisfaction before the big night even happens, and so the final scene has little tension or point. And I'll leave it to you to decide the effectiveness--and the ultimate meaning--of the last shot. I still haven't decided if it works.
A big part of what sinks this movie, after the hammy acting, is the hammy score. The music was done by David Robbins--Tim's brother. Nepotism really gets in the way here. The music is usually inapprpriate--slapstick and "in your face," like the rest of the film's elements. Cradle Will Rock never finds its tone--part history lesson, part "serious drama," part "comedy," it can't ultimately decide if it wants to hit you in the head with a hammer or in the face with a pie. It tries both by the end, and neither works.
Ultimately, I felt like Robbins didn't trust his audience enough. He lectures us to the point that the word MESSAGE in bright red practically flashes on the screen. Understatement is not in his bag of tricks. It's not that I disagree with much of what he has to say, but he fairly hits you over the head with it, and acts as though he's the first one to show you upper-class hypocracy. The one really interesting plot thread--about how the Hearsts of America appeased dictators by buying art from them (and thereby financing their fascism)--is dealt with rather heavily, and repeatedly. Okay, Tim, we get it.
Despite this negative review, the film might be interesting to see just for the fascinating history lesson that it is. Or you could go online or to a library and find some nonfiction material on the subject matter. I read somewhere that originally none other than Orson Welles himself was set to make this film, but the deal never got off the ground and then he died. That's too bad. I would like to have seen what he could have done with this compelling material. As it is, Robbins is too close--too unsubtle, too loud, too preachy--to pull it off.
Good intentions, but bad execution
Seeing Tim Robbins' Cradle Will Rock made me appreciate Robert Altman more. The Altman style of a sprawling and often unconnected narrative, with slices of life, lots of characters and overlapping dialogue, can look easy, as though the picture "directs itself." Yet in the hands of someone less talented, the hard work necessary to pull it off becomes obvious. And to paraphrase the late Lloyd Bentsen: "Tim Robbins, you're no Bob Altman."
The movie, based on a true and extraordianry happening in the history of American theater, takes place during the depths of the Great Depression, where an estimated 25% of the population was out of work. Communism was challenging democracy as a viable system in the eyes of some of the desperate. The film is educational in how it shows the rich: Rockefellers and Hearsts flirting with fascist dictators, giving them suitcases of money in exchange for art masterpieces. Yet they are not the ones called to testify to Congress for un-American activities. Instead it's the head of the WPA theater project, Hallie Flanagan, who has to defend her little organization against claims that it's pink on the inside, if not outright red. Robbins' message is clear, and the hypocrisy is as beautiful to watch as a pill-popping conservative radio host flip-flopping on illegal drug use after he's caught.
The trouble with Cradle is that it tries to be ambitious and complex and calls for an all-seeing eye, and Robbins isn't detached enough to do the job. Much of the first two acts are muddled and undeveloped. We get those Altmanesque snippets of life, naturalistically-presented (complete with the dependable Bob Balaban, though he is dreadfully underused), but they never gel and don't build steam. Throughout the first two acts I found my attention wandering--and as someone who has Lawrence of Arabia, The Godfather, and many Kurosawa flicks on his top films list, I'm hardly cursed with a short attention span. But a long film doesn't mean a great film, and Cradle, at nearly two hours and 20 minutes, could have been half an hour shorter, with several subplots eliminated. (Is Bill Murray and the schizoid dummy really necessary? What is the point of the scene where the Italian croons to the countess and her big business hubby? For that matter, why is the Italian guy in the picture at all? And why the bizarro surreal hallucinations while playwright Blitzstein is at the piano?)
Yet paradoxically, busy as the script is, it's also hollow. There are many subplots, yet few twists or surprises (save for the very last shot; how effective it is you can judge). Robbins telegraphs the various resolutions long before they happen. Cradle often feels busy for the sake of being busy.
The film has a hard time finding its tone. Is it trying to be poignant? A drama? A comedy? A history lesson? I think it tries to be all of these and ends up being none. The acting doesn't help--and that's a surprise, given such a quality cast. Robbins, who invests lots in the political themes, treats most of the characters like caricatures. Cary Elwes' John Houseman reminds me of Nathan Lane, while Angus Macfadyen's Orson Welles reminds me of...Nathan Lane. Elwes' accent sounds phony as a three dollar bill. Ditto, surprisingly, for Susan Sarandon in her heavy-handed turn as Mussolini's mistress. (She sounds more like Count Dracula's mistress.) And Vanessa Redgrave's screwball countess is a one-dimensional parody of how everyday folk think the rich act. I felt like I was watching bad community theater at times.
Take how Robbins handles Welles: here is a complex, multifaceted man if ever there was one, part genius, part scamp, part showman, part crusader. Yet here he doesn't have any of that richness, and instead is simply a loud-mouthed, slovenly egomaniac. We get no sense of his charisma, no idea why actors despised him yet would walk on hot coals to work with him. We don't glimpse the man who would go on to direct the Mercury Theater or Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons. Heck, we barely even really see him *direct* the play here.
Overall the best moments are with John Turturro as a struggling actor with real and difficult choices regarding his family versus his craft, and Cherry Jones as the aforementioned Hallie Flanagan, who runs the government's theater project. Her performance, as she testifies before hostile politicians caught up in Red-baiting, is warm and wise and completely believable. For once Robbins gets his politics across without screaming them in my ear. Ruben Blades ain't bad as painter Diego Rivera, but Corina Katt Ayala, as Frida Kahlo, isn't given much to do--surprising, given Robbins' political bent. Doe-eyed Emily Watson plays a waif with no home and no Broadway experience, who crashes the party and then--naturally--gets her Big Moment.
Once we get to the third act and the actual night of the play, the movie really picks up. The last 15 to 20 minutes are wonderful, though the intercut symbolism of the tearing down of the Rockefeller fresco (well, most of it) is heavy-handed. But when Robbins steps aside and lets his story tell itself, he has something here. Too bad he doesn't trust his material enough to stop shoving his politics in my face at every chance.
Another lapse is the music. Robbins turns over the chore of scoring the film to his brother, David Robbins. Again the tone is off. The mood in key scenes is frequently undermined with zany comic music. (The scoring where the crowd is marching off to the theater at the end should have built anticipation for the big triumph about to come, but just listen to it--it's plain silly.) The soundtrack adds to the film's tendency to either hit you over the head with a hammer or hit you in the face with a pie, and neither approach works.
The DVD is widescreen anamorphic, and the print is good, with just a few nicks and scratches here and there. Extras include a trailer and a short promotional featurette. Despite my review, you may actually want to rent Cradle Will Rock if you know little about this fascinating event and are curious. Or you could do better by simply reading up on the subject from someone less preachy and more focused than Robbins.
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