One would expect a Baz Luhrmann, Tim Burton, or Steven Spielberg to be responsible for tedious, rambling fluff like The Aviator. Indeed, I can scarcely believe that this way-overlong, splashy biopic about the aviation movie-maker and entrepreneur Howard Hughes (Leonardo DiCaprio) could have been directed by the same man who helmed Goodfellas and Taxi Driver. Yet it was. The man’s name is Martin Scorsese, and his understanding of the word “sellout” is second to none among Hollywood’s elite.
Like the film Capote about the iconic American writer, Hitchcock achieves a mild success largely because of the masterful impersonation of Anthony Hopkins in the eponymous role. All the more impressive since, unlike the lisping, snickering-over-cocktails Truman, Hitch didn’t exactly have the spiciest personality—at least on the surface. But Hopkins admirably captures the deadpan wit, the jaundiced critical eye, the automaton-like walk. Which makes for an entertaining watch, especially for those who remember the corpulent film master from his introductions to the famed Alfred Hitchcock Presents television series.
These days, I think all Scorsese would have to do is cut a loud fart for the Academy and moviegoers alike to shout “Bravo!” After all, they did so over the Irish gangster flick The Departed, which cussed at them ad nauseam and gave them violence galore while saying next to nothing of value. Albeit Hugo reeks of a Disneyish vibe, shamelessly flaunting its 3-D graphical-clockworks extravaganza while getting all warm and cuddly about how wonderful it is that two young waifs are finding purpose in life. But all the more sickening for Marty, who used to be above merely pandering to the brainless mainstream. Seriously, is this cotton-candy-sweet Hugo helmed by the same iconoclast who spearheaded such gritty yet subtle character exposés as Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, and Goodfellas?
“She’s the greatest piece of ass on earth. With tits like that, you make allowances.” This crude logic proffered by Marilyn Monroe’s (Michele Williams) publicist Arthur Jacobs (Toby Jones) just about sums up how much actual talent it takes to forge an acting career in Hollywood provided that you’ve got the right package of bodily goods to ware. Let’s admit it: Marilyn probably didn’t get her famous role in Some Like It Hot because of her ability to faithfully re-create a character; rather, it was one more fulfillment of the persona Hollywood had created for her: that of a coquette who could get leering men hot in the pants by making kissing gestures at them with her forefinger and doing a little bunny-hop dance number. Sure, it’s shallow, but as the old saying goes, sex sells. Sadly, such shallowness also sums up Simon Curtis’s My Week With Marilyn, a film that I’d expected much more from.