kitty
01-03-2005, 08:59 PM
DiCaprio's Titanic: Aviator Soars
It's unfortunate that Leonardo DiCaprio is best-known right now as the simpering doe-eyed Jack Dawson of Titanic. The truth about DiCaprio is that he's really one of the best actors of our time; in fact, in a kind of unrecognized metaphor of DiCaprio's real-life career, in Gangs of New York, the established gang of Daniel Day-Lewis' Butcher is toppled by the fresh blood of the newly-landed Irish, and DiCaprio's character, Amsterdam Vallon, assumes the Butcher's throne at the head of New York's underworld. Similarly, DiCaprio is our generation's Day-Lewis: a stunningly capable actor who invests everything into his roles, who shuns the limelight of Hollywood fame, and who will thusly never be recognized for his true talent. Like Day-Lewis, DiCaprio takes on time-consuming and difficult roles in ambitious epics, and like Day-Lewis, we see him only once or twice every few years when he unveils his masterpieces. Like Day-Lewis, DiCaprio had his one pop culture, 'sellout' role that turned him into a teenie-bop icon, adorning the walls of dorm rooms for a whole generation of swooning children. For DiCaprio, it was Titanic, for Day-Lewis, it was The Last of the Mohicans.
Following his career since his unabashedly powerful performances in What's Eating Gilbert Grape and The Basketball Diaries, DiCaprio has slowly ventured over the years into ever more daring and adventurous waters. Forgiving him for Titanic and The Beach (which, in this reviewer's opinion, was terrible through no fault of the star actor), DiCaprio's career has been a string of character-driven discussions of aspects of the human condition, and in The Aviator, we see DiCaprio finally coming into his own, employing the accumulation of hard-earned skill and talent that brought him to this point.
In The Aviator, DiCaprio plays eccentric idealist Howard Hughes, the aeronautic mogul who literally piloted TWA Airlines to greatness during the 1930's and 1940's. Hughes is shown, for all of his superhuman inventiveness, as a man before his time, and yet does not protect us from his foibles and faults, most notable of which is the full-fledged mental illnesses that turned out to be his greatest prison, chaining him to the ground despite his life-long love of flight.
The film is studded with notable names. Cate Blanchett plays Hughes' first, and possibly his only, love, Katherine Hepburn, while Alec Baldwin shared DiCaprio's top-billing, as, Juan Trippe, the CEO of rival airline, Pan Am. Blanchett is pretty spot-on, although her Hepburn is, perhaps intentionally, a tad too extreme in her spunky assertiveness, while Baldwin is nothing spectacular, being underused and generally forgettable. Kate Beckinsale is simultaneously beautiful and uninspiring as Ava Gardner – spending most of her time being little more than a flesh-built prop used only to adorn the movie set (as Hughes’ amusingly snickers in the film, “who doesn’t love tits?”), but Alan Alda as Sen. Ralph Owen Brewster is at once brilliantly threatening and refreshingly amusing.
But, obviously, the film is carried by DiCaprio as Hughes. Director Martin Scorsese wisely coaches DiCaprio to portray Hughes as tortured and introspective, and the combined talents of actor and director allows the audience to feel for Hughes' imperfections without letting them take over the role. DiCaprio treats this film as his piece de resistance, as well he should since he shows that he is able to infuse his performance with rare nuance, and convey the slow progression of Hughes' mad obsession.
Scorsese makes excellent use of his camera work, using lighting and slow panning shots to bring the viewer, who are accustomed to faster, sleeker, and more modern aircraft than those of Hughes' day, into his world and help us to feel his fascination with flying. The shots are laced with gleaming metallic silver and the camera follows Hughes so tenderly that we are drawn into believing Hughes' airplanes truly are magnificent and futuristic when, in reality, the technology might now belong in a museum or the home of a collector of antiques. Similarly, when Hughes sinks into the prison of his OCD, Scorsese darkens the lights and tightens his shots, shooting from odd angles and saturating the colours just enough to make the audience feel Hughes' discomfort and misery.
The film has the right feel for its period, a rarity among docudramas and autobiographical works, but Scorsese manages to capture the right balance of both the idealism and paranoia during the war. APA activists may be disappointed to learn that the slur 'Japs' is used once by DiCaprio's character, but given the mood and era of the film, this reviewer feels the word is neither out of place nor unforgivable. In fact, the word and sentiment were necessary to ground the movie in the proper historical and political atmosphere, and Hughes, as a maker of wartime spy planes, would certainly have been closely tied to the anti-Japanese rhetoric of the time.
Truly, this reviewer hopes that DiCaprio and Scorsese do what most actor/director collaborations do, and stick around for years to come (often far past what is wise). Unlike most cooperative efforts which are obnoxiously quirky at best (Clooney and Soderbergh), and sappy cash cows at worst (Hanks and Spielberg), DiCaprio and Scorsese really seem to be onto something, and both seem to have dedicated themselves to making that ever increasingly endangered species, the Good Movie. Unfortunately, if DiCaprio continues in Day-Lewis' footsteps, he will not receive the popular recognition he so rightfully deserves for The Aviator in the coming Oscars.
But, as it is for any really good actor, it won't matter. Like Howard Hughes and his career, soaring above the clouds is the reward itself.
It's unfortunate that Leonardo DiCaprio is best-known right now as the simpering doe-eyed Jack Dawson of Titanic. The truth about DiCaprio is that he's really one of the best actors of our time; in fact, in a kind of unrecognized metaphor of DiCaprio's real-life career, in Gangs of New York, the established gang of Daniel Day-Lewis' Butcher is toppled by the fresh blood of the newly-landed Irish, and DiCaprio's character, Amsterdam Vallon, assumes the Butcher's throne at the head of New York's underworld. Similarly, DiCaprio is our generation's Day-Lewis: a stunningly capable actor who invests everything into his roles, who shuns the limelight of Hollywood fame, and who will thusly never be recognized for his true talent. Like Day-Lewis, DiCaprio takes on time-consuming and difficult roles in ambitious epics, and like Day-Lewis, we see him only once or twice every few years when he unveils his masterpieces. Like Day-Lewis, DiCaprio had his one pop culture, 'sellout' role that turned him into a teenie-bop icon, adorning the walls of dorm rooms for a whole generation of swooning children. For DiCaprio, it was Titanic, for Day-Lewis, it was The Last of the Mohicans.
Following his career since his unabashedly powerful performances in What's Eating Gilbert Grape and The Basketball Diaries, DiCaprio has slowly ventured over the years into ever more daring and adventurous waters. Forgiving him for Titanic and The Beach (which, in this reviewer's opinion, was terrible through no fault of the star actor), DiCaprio's career has been a string of character-driven discussions of aspects of the human condition, and in The Aviator, we see DiCaprio finally coming into his own, employing the accumulation of hard-earned skill and talent that brought him to this point.
In The Aviator, DiCaprio plays eccentric idealist Howard Hughes, the aeronautic mogul who literally piloted TWA Airlines to greatness during the 1930's and 1940's. Hughes is shown, for all of his superhuman inventiveness, as a man before his time, and yet does not protect us from his foibles and faults, most notable of which is the full-fledged mental illnesses that turned out to be his greatest prison, chaining him to the ground despite his life-long love of flight.
The film is studded with notable names. Cate Blanchett plays Hughes' first, and possibly his only, love, Katherine Hepburn, while Alec Baldwin shared DiCaprio's top-billing, as, Juan Trippe, the CEO of rival airline, Pan Am. Blanchett is pretty spot-on, although her Hepburn is, perhaps intentionally, a tad too extreme in her spunky assertiveness, while Baldwin is nothing spectacular, being underused and generally forgettable. Kate Beckinsale is simultaneously beautiful and uninspiring as Ava Gardner – spending most of her time being little more than a flesh-built prop used only to adorn the movie set (as Hughes’ amusingly snickers in the film, “who doesn’t love tits?”), but Alan Alda as Sen. Ralph Owen Brewster is at once brilliantly threatening and refreshingly amusing.
But, obviously, the film is carried by DiCaprio as Hughes. Director Martin Scorsese wisely coaches DiCaprio to portray Hughes as tortured and introspective, and the combined talents of actor and director allows the audience to feel for Hughes' imperfections without letting them take over the role. DiCaprio treats this film as his piece de resistance, as well he should since he shows that he is able to infuse his performance with rare nuance, and convey the slow progression of Hughes' mad obsession.
Scorsese makes excellent use of his camera work, using lighting and slow panning shots to bring the viewer, who are accustomed to faster, sleeker, and more modern aircraft than those of Hughes' day, into his world and help us to feel his fascination with flying. The shots are laced with gleaming metallic silver and the camera follows Hughes so tenderly that we are drawn into believing Hughes' airplanes truly are magnificent and futuristic when, in reality, the technology might now belong in a museum or the home of a collector of antiques. Similarly, when Hughes sinks into the prison of his OCD, Scorsese darkens the lights and tightens his shots, shooting from odd angles and saturating the colours just enough to make the audience feel Hughes' discomfort and misery.
The film has the right feel for its period, a rarity among docudramas and autobiographical works, but Scorsese manages to capture the right balance of both the idealism and paranoia during the war. APA activists may be disappointed to learn that the slur 'Japs' is used once by DiCaprio's character, but given the mood and era of the film, this reviewer feels the word is neither out of place nor unforgivable. In fact, the word and sentiment were necessary to ground the movie in the proper historical and political atmosphere, and Hughes, as a maker of wartime spy planes, would certainly have been closely tied to the anti-Japanese rhetoric of the time.
Truly, this reviewer hopes that DiCaprio and Scorsese do what most actor/director collaborations do, and stick around for years to come (often far past what is wise). Unlike most cooperative efforts which are obnoxiously quirky at best (Clooney and Soderbergh), and sappy cash cows at worst (Hanks and Spielberg), DiCaprio and Scorsese really seem to be onto something, and both seem to have dedicated themselves to making that ever increasingly endangered species, the Good Movie. Unfortunately, if DiCaprio continues in Day-Lewis' footsteps, he will not receive the popular recognition he so rightfully deserves for The Aviator in the coming Oscars.
But, as it is for any really good actor, it won't matter. Like Howard Hughes and his career, soaring above the clouds is the reward itself.