The Cat's Meow

Synopsis: So here we all are on board William Randolph Hearst's (Edward Herrmann) zillion dollar cruising yacht because the press czar of Citizen Kane fame is throwing a birthday party for Tom Ince (Cary Elwes) a down-on-his-luck movie producer who happens to be looking for a financial prop up from the great man. Why? We don't know why - he just is. Marion Davis (Kirsten Dunst) is a starlet headed for the big time - WR (as he is so oft-referred to in the film) is her sugar daddy and she loves I t. But what can she do about that other man in her life, Charlie Chaplin (Eddie Izzard)?

It is pointless scoping Bogdanovich's flaky career here, too many have drunk from that bitter chalice. Suffice to say any director who creates At Long Last Love within a few years of The Last Picture Show will eventually pay his dues for fatal inconsistencies and failed potential in that great cutting room floor in the sky. We however, are left to consider what might have been and assess this latest rotting hulk as another instalment by a man whose talents will never be fully realized.

Where to start with what is wrong with The Cat's Meow? Let me first say on the right side of the ledger Bogdanovich has woven a reasonably complex storyline into the character fabric of his film, or at least his writer Steven Peros has. I don't think Robert Altman has excessive reason to worry but as I watched a dinner table shot where all major characters were represented I had to acknowledge that at least the players had some significant intermeshing. I say "players" quite deliberately as this is so obviously a transplanted drawing room piece, but as we saw with David Mamet's State And Main, some stage plays should definitely stay right there. It was set-up for a proper feast of fun, fashion and sneaky goings-on but like my famous sprout soufflé turned out to be all bad smells and hot air.

Every piece of dialogue is a speech and the characters one dimensional and under-developed. Eddie Izzard's doughy chops remind one of a plate of flour-dusted chicken breasts and his eye rolling mannerisms might see Anthony Newley seeking damages, rest his soul. Dunst and Izzard might have almost rescued this sorry mess but alas no, all the peek-a-boo sweetness and naughtiness of her flapper-girl character and his lovesick dreamy puppyness (he virtually trips over his tongue all movie long) fall way short of requirements. Where is Nathan Lane when you need him, anyway?

Bogdanovich has created another period piece with competent detail and a historically accurate if clichéd soundtrack. At any sense of embarrassment or awkwardness at the dinner table, someone will cry "Charleston" and up they all jump to partake in that silliest of 'twenties, finger-wagging dance crazes As though if they look to be enjoying themselves all the world's problems will go away. But this motley crew don't even fake it well. I didn't believe their words, I didn't believe their wants, I didn't believe their posing and I certainly didn't believe I paid to see it. But I did. Even on half price night I wuz robbed. But getting back to the director - that's what we do - we keep giving this bloke another crack. "Someone said it was good" was my sole recommendation. Someone ought to stop going to the movies.

 

 

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