The 2000 Academy Awards were hailed by some media sources for choosing to embrace something a little darker than the mainstream.
At this point, it's not clear what those media sources were thinking.
Instead of nominating some of the most innovative and entertaining films of the decade for Best Picture — the absences of Magnolia, Fight Club and Being John Malkovich stand out the most — Academy members chose American Beauty, The Insider, The Sixth Sense, The Cider House Rules and, for some absolutely inexplicable reason, The Green Mile. (Chalk the last one up to the Academy's "Must Nominate Something Involving Tom Hanks" rule.)
Then, to make themselves feel better, these members chose American Beauty as their winner. American Beauty is a good movie, but it's not great. It's the sort of film that Americans with middlebrow taste who feel guilty about disliking edgy, independent films jump all over. It's just dark and arty enough to make viewers feel as if they're watching something subversive, but then the film slaps on enough of a happy ending that it won't keep said viewers up at night.
It's a frustrating movie because it does have aspects that are so, so good, and they were properly rewarded on Oscar night. Kevin Spacey turned in what is likely his best performance to date and Conrad Hall's cinematography is nothing short of amazing (oh, those red roses!). Furthermore, American Beauty captured late-1990s suburban angst better than any of its contemporaries, something that really resonates with the millions of Americans for whom bedroom communities are home.
But these factors do not make up for some of the film's cartoonish characters and the script's constantly changing attitudes toward them. Annette Bening's character is portrayed as a shrill, unfeeling career woman whom no one in their right mind should have sympathy for until the very end, when suddenly the film switches its attitude toward her just because of what happens to her husband — who she has hated, incidentally, throughout the entire movie. Suddenly, she's sympathetic.
Even more inconsistent is its treatment of Mena Suvari, who plays Kevin Spacey's cheerleading object of desire. In a pivotal scene, Wes Bentley delivers a stinging critique of her character, telling her that her outer beauty doesn't mean that she isn't ugly because at heart, Suvari's character is "ordinary" and "boring." Then, not five minutes later, in a touching scene between Suvari and Spacey, the film does an abrupt U-turn and assures viewers that yes, indeed, Suvari's character is a special, beautiful person. All you have to do is ignore the way she was portrayed a scant 10 minutes earlier.
Such inconsistencies in character development aren't justified by one Oscar-worthy performance, great cinematography and an adept depiction of suburban life. These inconsistencies are something you wouldn't find in what should have been named Best Picture at the 2000 awards.
But since the best picture made for that year's Oscar ceremony was actually missing from the nominee list (I'm going with Being John Malkovich, but you can easily plug in any number of more deserving films here), the next best thing is The Insider, a movie that does not have a single false move.
Michael Mann's docudrama centers on whistleblower Jeffrey Wigand's efforts to bring down the tobacco industry and respected journalist Lowell Bergman's difficulties in bringing Wigand's work to light. Wigand loses damn near everything — his family, his career, his house, his safety — to do the right thing. And Bergman, in return, risks his career to aid him.
Russell Crowe's physical transformation into Jeffrey Wigand is something to behold. And Pacino, as Bergman, is as good as ever when confronting a socially crusading journalist's ongoing internal war regarding sources and objectivity.
Mann's direction is flawless, and his film establishes an excellent rhythm that keeps viewers glued to their seats. Wigand's desperation and intensity is felt through every moment in the film, as are Bergman's good intentions and hard work.
Furthermore, the film deserves kudos for Christopher Plummer's uncanny portrayal of Mike Wallace. In the film's climax, Plummer delivers one of the most severe tongue-lashings ever put to screen to Gina Gershon's know-it-all CBS lawyer, a scene that crackles with intensity and flat-out fantastic filmmaking.
Those two or three minutes could more than hold their own against all 121 minutes of American Beauty. Add in Crowe, Pacino and Mann's excellent exposition, and it's not hard to see where Academy members went wrong.
— Stephanie Kuenn (smkuenn at gmail dot com)
