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'Where' uses sex to get at showbiz
Oakland Tribune, Oct 21, 2005 by Jeffrey M. Anderson, CONTRIBUTOR
AMERICAN MOVIES have violence down pat, and each year some enterprising filmmaker figures out a way to push the envelope, exploring new and more intense ways to inject celluloid carnage. "Sin City" is the latest, and in many circles it's already hailed as a classic.
But sex is another matter. American Puritanism knows no bounds; apparently we're not allowed to consider that more people have probably indulged in sex than have fired guns. Yet while the MPAA doesn't particularly care how many rounds of ammunition pelt the human flesh, it does care how many pelvic thrusts are shown in a moment of passion.
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If a non-porn movie dares to take on sex, it must tread lightly. It comes out as lurid potboiler ("Body Heat," "Basic Instinct") that often goes straight to video, or a highbrow art film discussed in hushed tones ("Last Tango in Paris," "The Piano," "Crash").
And so we have Canadian filmmaker Atom Egoyan's "Where the Truth Lies," which cleverly attempts to straddle both ends of the erotic- movie spectrum. It weaves together sex, showbiz heartbreak and a carefully orchestrated mystery with a stab at highbrow artistry.
In the 1950s, the successful singing/comedy team of Lanny Morris (Kevin Bacon) and Vince Collins (Colin Firth) rule the airwaves and nightclubs. Their popular and risque act usually allows Lanny his choice of post-show ladies.
The duo will probably bring to mind Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis - - especially because of the 36-hour fund-raising telethon they host - - but their dynamic differs. Lanny is a rude, lascivious jerk while the polite, English-born Vince makes his behavior acceptable, and even lovable.
But something terrible happens the night of the telethon, and Lanny and Vince break up for good. The official story is that the corpse of a young woman suddenly turned up in their hotel room the morning after the telethon, but no one ever discovered how she got there.
Fifteen years later, a beautiful young reporter, Karen O'Connor (Alison Lohman), is commissioned to write a book about Vince.
Karen begins to snoop, and her investigation takes a sudden turn when she unexpectedly finds herself sitting next to Lanny in first class. She lies about her identity, but they hit it off and she spends the night with him, seriously jeopardizing her journalistic objectivity.
Despite these setbacks -- another of which includes a drug- induced evening of bisexual recreation -- Karen continues to dig, and Egoyan presents her discoveries as shards of flashbacks, each glinting a new bit oflight on another piece of the puzzle. He tightly and cleanly unfolds the mystery with unbroken patience.
In his films, Egoyan usually employs a chilly surface to cover up monstrous, roiling emotions and obsessions taking place just below. His most acclaimed work, "The Sweet Hereafter" (1997), as well as its less-appreciated follow-up "Felicia's Journey" (1999), avoid usual thriller elements, such as thumping music or leering bad guys. But by its very nature, "Where the Truth Lies" moves a little closer to the meeting between chaos and surface, between lurid potboiler and high art.
The irony is that Egoyan has somewhat damaged his signature style. "Where the Truth Lies" comes with a strange side effect, a queasiness that comes from too much 1970s-period dabbling, too much makeup, hairspray, chemical additives and excessive lifestyle. It seeps up through Egoyan's sterling sheen and tarnishes it. Fans of "The Sweet Hereafter" will notice very little left of their beloved auteur here; "Where the Truth Lies" smacks more of James Toback.
Yet "Where the Truth Lies" is still a nicely crafted piece of work, an odd departure for Egoyan, and another step forward in the long journey toward sex in cinema.
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