Nicolas Cage, in serious danger of becoming an actor again, is a con artist who justifies his work because he doesn’t take people’s money – they give it to him (which is a pretty good metaphor for the movie itself, come to think of it: it cons you, but you allow it to). He’s also obsessive compulsive (which the film rather dubiously suggests is due to repression and guilt rather than, say, a chemical imbalance) and is a mess of tics and rigid habits (which the bratty young woman behind me – who also talked all the way through the film, natch, because these people are drawn to me like a Liberace Museum magnet is drawn to my refrigerator door – thought was hilarious; she shrieked with laughter every time Cage’s face twitched, like she was a two-year-old and he was the funny uncle who makes faces).
As Cage’s protégé, Sam Rockwell adds to his stable of cheesy sidekick roles, but he’s great fun, and his evident, teasing affection for his mentor is touching in a way. Into their lives comes Cage’s long-lost daughter, played by Alison Lohman, and this is where Matchstick Men becomes more than just a con-man caper movie. The relationship between Cage and Lohman is wonderfully awkward; despite its improbability, there’s real emotion in the quick bond between the two of them.
The breezy, swingin’ soundtrack helps to establish a hip, Rat Pack tone, and director Ridley Scott further plays with us by editing the first part of the movie in jumpy, disconnected jolts that mimic Cage’s tics (I was feeling kind of ticky myself after a while) and smoothes it out in parallel with Cage’s psyche. Clever as it is, though, I do wish someone had spent a little more time tightening up the script to eliminate some unbelievable plot points and out-of-character actions.
Shout out to two tchotchke touchstones: a bulldog with a vacant, drooly expression that barks when its head is unscrewed, and a hideous, Precious Moments-esque figurine/ashtray of a big-eyed Chihuahua with a halo and cherub wings (presumably targeted at chain-smoking old ladies who killed their rat dogs through years of second-hand smoke).
*******
So, anyway, I was up in New York over the weekend to see Avenue Q (courtesy of my father, who bought me tickets, and Amy, who hosted me), which is sort of an R-rated version of Sesame Street. Most of the characters are puppets, but the actors wearing and voicing the puppets walk around on stage and act alongside the puppets, which sounds weird but is pretty clever. It’s about a puppet who’s just graduated from college (“What Do You Do With a BA in English?”, he wonders in one song) and is trying to find his “purpose” in life while he gets to know his new neighbors (one of whom is Gary Coleman, played by a woman). Songs include, “It Sucks to Be Me” (in which characters argue over whose life sucks most, and then they all decide it sucks most to be Gary Coleman), “The Internet Is for Porn,” “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist,” and “Schadenfreude.” As those titles hint, it’s very funny, and unlike, say, Urinetown, it doesn’t wear out its joke. Two highlights: First, a pair of Care Bear-ish puppets called the Bad-Idea Bears, who love to suggest dubious notions (“You should buy some beer! Buy a case! It saves money in the long run to buy in bulk!”) and then, when their idea is accepted, wiggle ecstatically and shriek, “YAAAAAYYYY! More fun!” (I mention this mainly so that you will know where it comes from when I wiggle my hands and shriek, "YAAAAAYYY! More fun!") In the finale, the characters all figure out that, while your life might suck, “it’s only for now,” and then during the chorus, they interject other bad things that are only “for now,” and one of those things is “George Bush,” and I think I almost broke my hand, I was clapping so hard. It helps a little bit to remember that.
We also went to Coney Island, where we rode the Cyclone (a scary-ass, extremely old, wooden rollercoaster), ate Nathan’s hot dogs, stumbled upon a Brooklyn Cyclones (Class A minor-league baseball) play-off game (bleacher seats four rows from the field for $7 – good, clean, American fun), and, best of all, saw an honest-to-god freak show. Not, like, Lobster Boy-type freaks (although there was a Feejee Mermaid tucked away in a corner), but relatively regular-looking freaks who swallowed swords, ate fire, conducted electricity, contorted, ate bugs, and walked on swords. Click here for some of my photos.
Also, I almost caught a fish. (Amy and I were walking
along the river on Roosevelt Island when a man thrust a fishing rod toward
us and urged, “Hold this!” I took it, and he mumbled, mantra-like,
“Don’t pull; don’t let go. No pull, no let go,” as he climbed over
the railing to the stones below. I could definitely feel something
pulling on the line, fairly strong [as one imagines a fish would have to
be to survive in the East River], and after I handed the rod down to him
and he played the fish, I could see it splashing vigorously at the end
of the line. We waited, anxious to see the fish, but abruptly, the
fisherman began reeling in the line rapidly. He pulled it out of
the water – nothing. He showed us that the fish had bitten right
through the hook, pulled the wire straight, and taken off. So now
I have a “one that got away” story.)
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