Is there any filmmaker making movies today who is as consistently inconsistent as Neil
Jordan? The man who proved that it’s actually possible to make an abysmal flick
despite the participation of Sean Penn, Robert DeNiro,
and David Mamet (1989’s We’re No Angels) also helped usher in the commercial viability of
independent cinema when Miramax got its mitts on 1992’s seminal The Crying Game. Since then the Irish
auteur has given us both a dazzling fiasco (1994’s Interview with the Vampire) as well as an elegant tearjerker
(1999’s The End of the Affair), with
stops along the way (i.e., 1996’s underrated Michael Collins and 1997’s overpraisedThe Butcher Boy) of varying success.
Breakfast
on Pluto is Jordan’s
latest film. Adapted from a novel by Patrick McCabe — also the author of the
book on which The Butcher Boy was
based — Pluto relates the
once-upon-a-time of a foster child who grows up to be a transvestite in the
strife-torn Ireland of the ’60s and ’70s. Pluto,
for better or for worse, is vintage Neil Jordan: a black comedy suffused with
manipulatively leaden drama and obvious symbolism, its
flaws rendered forgivable thanks to the passion with which Jordan
spins a yarn as well as his dependably impeccable casting.
Cillian
Murphy (Batman Begins) plays Patrick
Braden, an Irish handful at ease with the fact that he’s not like other boys,
even if the adults around him don’t share his contentment. With his whispery
voice, sky-blue peepers, and lush pout, the androgynous Patrick makes no
attempt to hide his feminine proclivities, whether he’s fast-talking his way
into home ec class or bedazzling his school uniform.
Patrick is, however, increasingly consumed by thoughts of his birth mother, a
bubble-curled blonde who reportedly moved to London,
and he snatches the first available opportunity to light out as well.
Yup, Pluto is your basic road movie in which someone looks for something
but finds so much more, meeting a colorful array of characters who supply the
journey with its necessary momentum. Patrick first gets involved with a glam
rocker (composer Gavin Friday) who dabbles in arms stockpiling, a liaison that
gives Patrick his first dose of both heartbreak and reality as the Troubles
begin to cloud the naïve Patrick’s rose-hued glasses. The Emerald Isle’s
religious discord plays a supporting role here and seems to serve as more of a
plot device in order to weed out characters that have elicited our sympathy and
trigger Patrick’s subsequent actions. It’s really all about Patrick and his
quest to find his mom.
So Patrick, now cross-dressing and
introducing himself as Kitten with greater frequency, heads for London, where
he meets a crabby Womble (Harry Potter‘s Brendan Gleeson), a suave sadist (Roxy Music’s Bryan Ferry), and a kindly magician (frequent
Jordan collaborator Stephen Rea). But anyone who’s seen a movie (or had a
pulse, for that matter) knows you can’t escape your past, and Kitten’s hard-won
deliverance arrives in a most unusual way.
The cast of Pluto alone is almost enough to recommend it: I haven’t even
mentioned Liam Neeson’s vital turn as a priest and
one of the UK’s
best utility players, Ian Hart, as a deceptively gruff cop. You know Hart; he
pops up in almost every other British film (he’s also a Jordan
regular) and kick-started his career portraying John Lennon in Backbeat. His partner is played by
Steven Waddington, probably best known for being mercifully plugged by Daniel
Day-Lewis in Michael Mann’s The Last of
the Mohicans (one of my all-time faves).
As Kitten, the lithe and delicate
Murphy makes for a stunning woman (far more attractive than the Snoopy-shaped
Gael Garcia Bernal in Almodovar’sBad Education). Kitten’s breathy manner
of speaking and innocent eyes scream absolute detachment, and even when Kitten
is being interrogated as a terrorism suspect, you suspect he doesn’t understand
the import of it, then wonder if maybe that aloof simplicity isn’t such a bad
idea considering all he’s been through. It certainly lends itself to one of the
film’s more whimsical interludes in which Kitten fantasizes about being a
vinyl-clad operative armed only with Chanel No. 5.
But that’s also
one of the problems with Pluto: the
silliness and seriousness don’t always jibe, and Jordan
isn’t entirely successful in sustaining either the comedy or the drama. All moviegoing calls for a suspension of disbelief on some
level, and Pluto‘s resonance depends
on the viewer’s ability and willingness to let go and accompany Patrick/Kitten
on his fairy-tale odyssey. Once the lights dim, however, you’re halfway there.
Breakfast on Pluto (R), directed by
Neil Jordan, is playing at the Little Theatres.
This article appears in Jan 4-10, 2006.
