There
were three high-profile biopics unveiled at the 2003 Toronto International Film
Festival, and two of them were about print journalists with very different work
ethics. One was Shattered Glass,
about New Republic writer Stephen
“The Original Jayson Blair” Glass, while the other chose to focus on the exact
same subject covered in 2000 festival entry When
the Sky Falls.
           Falls,
which practically vanished off the face of the Earth after Toronto (it
eventually premiered on Showtime), told the tragic tale of Dublin’s Sunday Independent investigative journalist
Veronica Guerin, only without using Guerin’s name because its producers
couldn’t afford to acquire the rights. Enter the suddenly omnipresent producer
Jerry Bruckheimer, and you get Veronica Guerin, a flashier, more
manipulative, but in absolutely no way better version directed by the
increasingly erratic (and growingly inconsequential) Joel Schumacher.
           Here, Falls‘ Joan Allen is replaced by Cate Blanchett in the lead role of
a journalist hell-bent on doing something about her city’s sudden rise in heroin
consumption, as well as the usual crimes related to the rampant use of that
drug. Veronica has the tenacity of a pit bull, as well as the hair of Princess
Di, but it’s the former that makes her husband Graham (Barry Barnes) and mother
(Brenda Fricker) concerned for her safety. Even Veronica’s editor (Emmet
Bergin) thinks his star reporter goes too far to get a story, but nobody seems
able to stop her from putting herself in harm’s way.
           Veronica’s investigation into the
skag trade leads her into a seedy underworld which contains the likes of Martin
“The General” Cahill (Gerry O’Brien). She’s fed information by an informant
(Ciarán Hinds) with close ties to the area’s big drug kingpin (Gerard
McSorley). She butts heads and takes risks, and before long Veronica is beaten,
shot in the leg, and has some disturbingly specific threats made against her
young son (Simon O’Driscoll). But does that stop her? Absolutely not.
           One of the problems I have with Guerin (the film, not the woman) is the
fact the filmmakers reveal the ending of the story in both the trailer and in
the opening minutes of the film itself. Because Guerin is not a well-known
personality on this side of the Atlantic, this gravely diminishes the impact of
the climax to the point where everything leading up to it becomes rather
trivial from a cinematic standpoint. That is, unless you’re a Colin Farrell
fan, because Shumacher’s boy-toy makes a brief appearance here as an Irish
hooligan.
           As gifted as Blanchett is, she never
really connects with the audience, and I don’t think it’s her fault so much as
Schumacher’s. The Batman butcher
seems unable to decide whether to make Guerin a gritty, realistic drama, or sell out and make it all flashy and Hollywood.
The result is, as one would expect, a mixed bag at best. A main hindrance is
that Guerin‘s bad guys just don’t
seem very threatening, and Veronica never appears to be frightened of them. Is
she naïve, stupid, or relentless? We never really find out.
There exists
in Rochester, as in most other medium and large cities, a group of
insatiable (and usually unemployed) human packrats who lie, cheat, steal, and
God knows what else in order to get into advance screenings of films and grab
the promotional novelties (posters, t-shirts, etc.) that are often distributed
there. I’ve heard them called everything from Passholes to Prize Pigs to Movie
Gypsies.
           An offshoot of the Passholes’
Manhattan chapter (they usually pay for admission, though) is the subject of
the documentary Cinemania (screens Saturday, October 18, at the Dryden).
Directors Angela Christlieb and Stephen Kijak follow five of its members as
they scurry around to New York theaters, coming up for air only to hop on the
subway that will rocket them to their next film screening. Some see as many as 2,000
pictures a year. 2,000! And people look at me like I’m from another planet when
I tell them I see 300 a year.
           My favorite subject was Jack, who
said movies are “better than sex,” though one wonders if he has the frame of
reference from which to make that comparison. The hairy man obsesses about
things like print condition, projection quality, and screen masking — all
things most people couldn’t give a fig about (you wonder how he’d feel about
this movie, which was shot on video and blown up to film). Jack even goes into
detail about his special diet, which involves precious few fruits and
vegetables. Because you don’t want nature calling when you’re seeing La Dolce Vita for the 17th time.
           Harvey lives with his mother and has
an impressive collection of soundtrack LPs but no turntable on which to play
them. Roberta was banned from the MoMA venue after she pulled a choking move
right out of the WWE on an usher who had the gall to tear her ticket (she
collects them, along with — judging from the state of her home — everything
else she’s come in contact with over the last six decades). They’re both on
disability, as is Eric, who pretty much vanishes for some reason — perhaps he
didn’t end up being eccentric enough on camera. Bill is, though for completely
different reasons. He fancies himself a philosopher but worries about his
unemployment benefits carrying him through the New York Film Festival.
           Cinemania shows there’s a very fine line between an obsession being kinda cute and
completely insane. Some will find it depressing, especially those who realize
the doc hits a little too close to home.
Interested
in raw, unsanitized movie ramblings from Jon? Visit his site, Planet Sick-Boy (www.sick-boy.com),
or listen to him on WBER’s Friday Morning Show.
This article appears in Oct 15-21, 2003.
