Many a year ago, I entered college with the rose-tinted dreams of becoming the next big Hollywood visionary. Full of ideas (a few of them good, most of them atrociously bad), I hammered away at a major in Filmmaking, only to gradually realize that:
A. The industry is notoriously difficult to find success in
B. I would have to move to California or New York to just get my foot in the door
C. You can call it "paying your dues" all you want, but if I have to get my feet wet by starring as an extra in a Michael Bay movie, then you can go fuck yourself.
I eventually realized that my dreams were of the pipe variety, and even though I gave up on the filmmaking odyssey that I felt I was destined to dominate, I still have some ideas floating around in my noggin, and that I could find a happy medium by making a career reviewing films and sharing my quasi-elitist views with you, the loyal readers. Oh hai!
But what REALLY turned me off about a potential life as a Hollywood player was the inherent phoniness and ultimate emptiness of such a lifestyle. Sure, millions of dollars, coke-encrusted parties and a fleet of bleach-blonde groupies at one's disposal sounds nice and all, but is that all there is to it? Eventually, wouldn't one just feel bored with their existence? Wouldn't the blunt hammer of irony strike when you realize that despite all your career accomplishments, you still amount to nothing?
That's the premise of director Sofia Coppola's heavily minimalistic and almost insufferably introspective drama Somewhere, a seemingly insider's look at the startling boredom and lack of meaning accompanying the superficial glitz and glamor we spectators adore from afar.
Rising Hollywood actor Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) has been recuperating from a small arm injury at the Hollywood Chateau Marmont, and if he isn't fulfilling publicity obligations for his newest film, he's either sleeping in his hotel room, hiring strippers to do private pole dances for him, having sex with random women, or hanging out with his childhood pal Sammy (Chris Pontius).
Clearly bored with his life and seemingly unable to experience pleasure, Johnny experiences a spark when visited by his 11-year-old daughter Cleo (Elle Fanning), whose custody is shared between him and his ex-wife Layla (Lala Sloatman). But when Layla calls and informs Johnny that she's going away "for a while", Cleo stays with Johnny at the Marmont. And it's this reconnection with his daughter that forces Johnny to reassess his life and what his life as a celebrity has done to him.
Now if you're thinking, "Hey! A Sofia Coppola movie about an actor facing an existential crisis? Didn't we already see that before, albeit much better and with Bill Murray?", then... yes, yes you're right. Like her superior and Oscar-winning 2003 sophomore outing Lost in Translation, Coppola's film examines the not-so-glamorous aura of celebrity and the themes of boredom, lack of happiness, and loneliness.
And, in a way, it works. Somewhere begins with a Ferrari driving in circles for what seems like eternity. But the camera is stationary, viewing the car from a distance, never switching angles. You'd think that speeding around in a Ferrari would be fucking exhilarating, but what Coppola is telling us is that only we, the outsider "non-celebrities", would think that. The entire film would seem like one big bore to most, what with many long scenes featuring mundane activity (Johnny getting movie make-up applied to his face, posing for publicity shots for his movie, the aforementioned Ferrari scene, etc.) projecting Johnny's boredom and emptiness onto the viewer.
It's all done in a very European filmmaking style, relaxed in its execution and content without throwing special effects, lens flares, and spastic editing in your face every ten milliseconds. I wouldn't be surprised if this film in particular would lull more impatient viewers to sleep, but any potential pretentiousness on the film's part is kept at bay by the fine performances.
Stephen Dorff (a terrific actor who deserves to be plucked from the straight-to-DVD hell he's been unfairly toiling in for the last decade, and hopefully this does the trick) does a superb job as the bad-boy-on-the-surface star with a sweet, understated, yet heartbreaking performance that makes Johnny's turmoil and inner conflict that much more palpable. Dorff wisely goes for the "less is more" acting route, and his body language and eyes do most of the talking for him. Even when his entire head is covered in plaster for a movie mask and he's just SITTING there for an unbearably claustrophobic five minutes, his ennui is our ennui.
Giving Johnny reason to appreciate his existence, however, is his loving and emotionally mature daughter Cleo, wonderfully portrayed by Elle Fanning. Unlike those other family dramas about daughters perpetually disappointed by their distant fathers, Fanning's Cleo seems to understand and maybe even tolerate her dad's behavior. But her warmth and dedication serves as a catalyst for Johnny's transformation, and the scenes between Fanning and Dorff are never cloying, sappy, or manipulative.
I'll have to admit that I got Coppola's point about the emptiness of celebrity life after probably twenty minutes in, and that the rest of the film was just being endlessly repetitive about said point. But as a minimalist, almost avant-garde experimental film, it's clockwork. The amount of humor sprinkled in was proportionately appropriate (especially a funny cameo by Benicio del Toro whose utter lack of "Hey! I'm a famous celebrity doing a cameo!" fanfare was the very source of that humor), and a small supporting role by uncharacteristically clothed "Jackass" star Chris Pontius adds a needed sense of energy and laidback camaraderie.
Like many independent Hollywood filmmakers, you either love Coppola's work or absolutely hate it. She's done a great job making a career distinctive and independent from her father, but if she's going to continue to make movies taking a critical/unconventional look at celebrity, she should try making said unconventionality more unique and engaging rather than resting on her apparent love for New Wave-style pretentiousness. That doesn't really take you Somewhere, but rather just brings you nowhere.
That was a really cheap pun. I'm better than that.
Letter Grade: "C"
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