I bet watching a virtuoso ballet dancer perform wearing a straitjacket would be pretty funny. If the dancer is really good at what he does, the jacket would not be a hindrance but rather a tool, a challenge to be taken on, a catalyst bringing the art to a new level. A lesser dancer might fail miserably without the free reign necessary to let one's limbs flutter about, but the virtuoso would seize these newly imposed limits, and working within them, create something impressively new and original.
The latest films from the Coen brothers reveal an expertise that functions just along those lines. Their films dance along the celluloid stage leaving us mesmerized, while the self-imposed straitjacket of a super-stylized finely polished look enhances the film as a whole rather than overshadowing themes. While some film makers (or the Coens themselves in their earlier days) might allow style to stand in for substance, director Joel and producer Ethan resist that urge.
With The Man Who Wasn't There, they offer something rare in today's irony soaked, music video visual culture: a movie that is thematically, spiritually, and philosophically complex while looking good, too. We may be hypnotized by the sharp shadows and perfect lighting that often speak more than the actors themselves, but we aren't rendered dumb by such eye-candy. We're forced to think as well whether we like it or not.
The film, which is shot entirely in black and white, evokes a ghostly postwar world in which Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton), our narrator, lives the life of a local barber who would like to do something more than deliver crew cuts to neighborhood children day in and day out. The sets are sharp and beautiful, echoing an era long past, and images bring us back to the films of the time rather than the time itself.
A picture-perfect recreation of the film noir genre of the late '40s unites with a plot that harks back to hardboiled pulp fiction thrillers of Chandler and Cain; the film exists from beginning to end as an endless eerie gray river of illusion and, more often, allusion. The Coens have never been shy about flattering those they admire with imitation, and with this film they have raised the art of homage to a new level.
The story, basically a murder mystery where we already know the murderer and a courtroom drama with no verdict, is confusing and elaborate. Shady men enter the fray and fade out just as quickly; suave lawyers offer grand speeches and sport smooth suits. People die, people get drunk, people sin, and people confess their sins. The pounding and complexly-wrought plot never ceases to turn and fold in on itself, constantly offering a new revelation or an even more bizarre twist. The voiceover promises us that things are not going to be simple, and that narration soon becomes necessary to guide us through the thicket of endless machinations and convoluted bumps along the story's jagged arc into the ether.
But the joy of this film lies not in the knotty plotting or the beautiful silver-tinged lens through which everything is seen. Rather, the pure human drama at every turn keeps us enthralled at every turn. Thorton, who plays Crane with a stunning, dry soulfulness, is so subtle and so quiet that the man's pain and longing is hardly noticeable at first. It slowly flows from inside out and beyond, like softly wafting waves of smoke from a smoldering cigarette. He wants more from life, takes but a weak half-step at change and is thrust backward with a swift tackle from an unforgiving reality that elects to kick him when he's down.
His relationship with his wife - played passionately as a well worn woman, at once calculating and heartbroken by Frances McDormand - keeps him in a deadening, static world, a mix of longing and laziness. His encounters with townspeople are cold and awkward. His voice rasps away sorely, tired and hopeless and his life is spent as if on a quest. Crane is searching for connection, searching for life, searching for humanity. But what does he find? A world that slows for no one and offers little comfort to those already suffering.
This film, as do most Coen brothers' films, is never far from the absurd. Clever verbal and linguistic flights of fancy pepper the story, giving what would otherwise be a painfully pessimistic film just a taste of freedom. It is almost as if the filmmakers wanted to make sure we wouldn't take them too seriously- "it is just a movie after all," they might say. That's right: just a little black and white film about life, death, love, marriage, truth, and the art of cutting hair.
