 |
Charles Dutton and Liv Tyler in Cookie’s Fortune
|
He is a dinosaur in a director's chair. One of the last auteurs struggling to survive in an era of popcorn blockbusters. The "biz" has not been good to Robert Altman. His distinct creativity has seldom resulted in high box office. Still, Altman is one of those few working directors who warrant sweaty-palmed anticipation over each new film. You're never quite sure what to expect. And while there are modern classics: McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Nashville, Short Cuts, The Long Goodbye and The Player. There are also frequent missteps: Brewster McCloud, Quintet, Health and Buffalo Bill and the Indians. Like any filmmaker with a 30-year-plus bio of work behind him, Altman has his share of hits and misses.
Cookie's Fortune, Altman's new ensemble comedy, despite its deep-South charms, blatantly misses its satirical mark. It is the most pedestrian of Altman's cinematic misses. While Altman captures the gentility of Southern living with a warm and fuzzy deftness -- qualifying Cookie's Fortune as Driving Miss Daisy II -- the total absence of Altman's trademark wit and sarcasm drags the film down to commercial mediocrity. For someone who built his reputation as an anti-Hollywood maverick, it's shocking to say, but Cookie's Fortune stumbles like typical Hollywood fluff.
Aunt Jewell Mae "Cookie" Orcutt (played zestfully by veteran actress Patricia Neal) is a pipe-smoking widow who longs for her departed husband "Buck." She is a true eccentric. So it's no surprise that Cookie's unexpected death would turn the small town of Holly Springs, Miss., upside-down. Cookie's eccentric niece Camille Dixon (Glenn Close) and Camille's sheepish sister Cora Duvall (Julianne Moore) have their eye on the inheritance. But the question of foul play puts Cookie's black caretaker Willis Richland (Charles Dutton) in trouble with the law. Still, Cookie's free-spirit great-niece Emma Duvall (Liv Tyler) stands behind Willis' claims of innocence. Of course, like most small-town intrigues, nothing is what it seems.
Cookie's Fortune unloads an ensemble cast of typically Altmanesque proportions: Close, Moore, Tyler and Chris O'Donnell. The surprisingly un-Altman-like problem is that most of the film's characters fail to cross paths with any compelling relevance. Lyle Lovett (an Altman regular) is cast aside as catfish shack owner named Manny with the hots for Emma. An out-of-town police investigator (Courtney B. Vance) shows up with little impact. O'Donnell fails to generate much comic relief as a dopey deputy in the Barney Fife tradition. And when Cookie's Fortune tries to strike some sexual sparks -- tossing Tyler and O'Donnell at each other with unbridled passion -- their lusty tirades feel clumsy and out of place. Maybe when you're the youngest members of a film ensemble, clothes-tearing foreplay becomes obligated.
Of course, Cookie's Fortune failure for dramatic coherence would be forgiven if its star players were given an opportunity to try something new. Moore sleepwalks through the film as the wishy-washy Cora. Sure, she's supposed to be lethargic, but there is such a thing as playing a character too dull. Only when she's onstage playing Salome in a church Easter pageant does Moore reveal a hint of her usual spark.
Tyler, all long legs and gangly arms as Holly Springs' resident slacker, makes little impression with her black T-shirt, dark nails and baggy overalls. Hers is an unforgettable pretty face. Even Dutton -- possessing an expressive face that drips emotion -- is handcuffed by a story that allows him little to despite his central role.
Only Close manages to break out of the film's box of lethargy as the snippy Camille Close is a beguiling witch, just a few steps to the left of Cruella DeVil. With her pink dress, matching sweater and scarf, clunky sunglasses perched on her nose, Camille ransacks Cookie's house for valuables, stopping only momentarily for a well-timed put-down.
"As far as the funeral goes," Camille tells Emma, eyeing her overalls. "I hope you find something a little more tasteful than that."
Altman has traveled south before (The Gingerbread Man, Nashville). So it's no surprise that the picturesque town of Holly Springs emerges as the film's best character. Here, where women wear long dresses and men don straw hats, Altman has created a Southern gothic version of a sweet-natured comedy. Think Mayberry with a sinister underbelly.
But Cookie's Fortune can't rely on its Southern charms alone. While its jangle of guitars, bobbing fishing lines and pints of Wild Turkey make for rich and subtle touches, Altman fails to match a story with his beguiling backdrop. Attempts at tackling serious themes like racism only fumbles things further. Sure, Cookie's Fortune has its moments. All Altman films have their brilliant moments. A burst of gunfire results in an explosion of pillow feathers; a Scrabble game occurs inside a jail cell, the town's one lawyer finds himself representing both sides of the mystery. But Cookie's Fortune never seems to shake its emotional emptiness. Moments that need to be emotionally strong -- like Dutton's climactic revelation -- fail to shake the film's humid sense of storytelling lethargy.
For the 74-year-old Altman, who built his reputation on being anti-establishment, Cookie's Fortune would have benefited from more of Altman's maverick sensibilities. Here is a quiet, lyrical tale desperate for sarcastic bite. With Altman one expects a bizarre Southern gothic. Instead Cookie's Fortune is more about the tao of fishing. (Rated PG-13.)
CityBeat Grade: C.
