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The Aviator
(2004)
Dir. Martin Scorsese
As the credits began their advance, I expected to see Martin Scorsese’s Oscar acceptance speech proudly inserted into the thank you section. If nothing else, this movie is proof that he really wants that shiny man. It’s difficult not to see this movie as a sell out, but a Scorsese sell out is a far different thing than, say, a Sum 41 sell out. First of all, he deserves to have the official distinction of best director or best picture at some point in his career; if vaudeville-Richard Gere is going to top the baroque insanity of Gangs of New York, then I say do what you have to do, Mr. Scorsese. Additionally, The Aviator, while flawed and not as brilliant as his earlier work, is enjoyable and worthy. (Based on recent standards, at any rate.)
Stories of over-the-top ambition and determination, when successful, are a delight to experience. As viewers of The Aviator, we are belted into the copilot’s seat to celebrate along side Howard Hughes as the Spruce Goose finally and triumphantly defies odds and takes flight. Scorsese’s adoration of early Hollywood (literally) colors the pleasing scenes of Hell’s Angels production and the Hughes-Hepburn courtship. The replication of Technicolor’s two and three-strip dye transfer process of the 1930’s gives the film a beautiful old fashion look and adds to the delight of the unabashed nostalgia.
The major problems I have with the film are the representations of Hughes’ obsessive behavior and the neat and tidy explanation that is offered up for that behavior. In the early stages of Hughes’ illness, inconsequential compulsive acts are played for laughs. Then Scorsese over-dramatically stages Hughes’ self-imposed quarantine with grand expressionist lighting tricks, ultra close-ups of Leo’s tortured brow furrows, and an immense collection of urine-filled milk bottles. Ultimately, this sort of representation is limited. I’d rather not see neurosis epitomized on film in such a straightforward way. I believe it diminishes the inward terror of these states of mind. Can we return these topics to the realm of metaphor? Go on; give neurosis back to the horror film.
The origin of Hughes’ compulsive behavior is illustrated right off the bat. The opening scene is of a young Hughes, standing naked in the middle of a candle-lit living room. He’s given a loving sponge bath by his mother as she makes him spell the word “quarantine” and gives peculiar warnings about how his life is in peril. The simplicity of this explanation is laughable and, I feel, diminishes the rest of the movie. It would’ve been more convincing and realistic had the “cause” of his psychosis remained a mystery. Look past these weaknesses, and I believe you’ve an entertaining film. It’s grand in scope, a touch safe but not weak: a perfect Academy Award formula.
If that opening scene and its implications still don’t sit well, just think of it as a symbol of how Scorsese’s maid will have to clean the Oscar as it sits upon the mantel. R-A-G-I-N-G-B-U-L-L.
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