Revolutionary Road - Review

Director: Sam Mendes
Writer: Justin Haythe
Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio/Kate Winslet
Runtime: 1 hr 59 minutes

This is a fantastic movie, if you're in the mood to see a self-indulgent director wax on and on about a subject he doesn't understand, using characters he doesn't like, in order to tell you that your life is a pathetic waste of time.

Oops. Sorry. That line is probably better suited for Sam Mendes' earlier film, American Beauty. This time around, Sam Mendes uses Revolutionary Road not to ridicule you, but your parents and grandparents.

When I saw American Beauty ten years ago, I laughed at the kudos it received. Audiences and critics took it as a stunning look inside the heart of the American family. Though written by an American, it was pretty obvious that the film was directed by a Brit. The absolute contempt for American suburbia rolled off the screen in waves. "Your life is a meaningless bore," the film said. Again. And again.

Time moves on and now Sam Mendes has returned to tell you that not only is your life a joke, but your parents' lives were jokes, too.

Revolutionary Road takes place sometime in the early '50s. Here's the movie: two happy people get married. After two minutes of on-screen happiness, we fast forward to see them ten years later. The husband, Frank Wheeler (Leonardo DiCaprio), works a lousy office job and wears a grey flannel suit. The wife, April Wheeler (Kate Winslet), stays at home but always wishes she'd become an actress. They have two kids and a nice house. They fight and cry, fight and cry, fight and cry. End of movie.

I wasn't bored by the film. I spent the whole two hours merely amused at a British theatre snob once again attempting to dissect a world he does not understand, but thinks he does. His contempt for Americana (and his own characters) is written on the screen in big block letters. It's so obvious that it`s hilarious.

There is nothing remotely redeeming about this film. Scene after scene, you are bludgeoned over the head with the theme that life west of the Atlantic is a pathetic charade. Everybody cheats on everybody. Your neighbours secretly hate you. All business men drink martinis at lunch and bang their secretaries. The only character who sees the reality of all this is a lunatic, who confronts the leads and says their lives are hopeless. They agree.

I was stunned to see that the movie wasn't based upon a play. It's based on book, but I thought a play had surely been made of it because the film has a lot of play-speak like, "I think we're both under a lot of strain...I think we're both under a lot of strain." Yeah. Heard you.

Mendes: studying hard
Poor Mendes. He's still directing theatre, but trying ever-so-hard to direct movies. The lighting in every scene is right out of the text book. Every single shot has a patch of complete black and a patch of complete white. Good composition, Mr. Director, excellent use of the grey card. A daub of backlight here, a soft key there, a wonderful use of the bay window for fill. Nicely done. Wake me when the director of photography is done giving you lessons on five-point lighting technique.

No handheld shots for Mr. Mendes. We wouldn't want to interrupt the lovely flow of perfectly framed images. Oh, and tell the costume designer we'll need a lighter shade of green for Ms. Winslet's dress, because it isn't quite complimentary enough to go with the red curtains.

Nitpicking? Probably. But he deserves it. What an utter, feeble snob this man is, to think that people won't recognize a lame message film when they see it. As the movie rolled along, I couldn't resist talking to myself as his symbolism pummeled me in the face. A few examples: "Leo runs, runs, runs down the suburban street, but alas, there is no escape, as the same boring houses go past him, there is no escape from the evil suburban trap, so we run with no hope until...fade to black...the darkness...the nothingness...for five seconds....roll credits? Nope! Cut to another depressing scene."

And: "The bay window, with a suburban house across the road. The tail of a Cadillac. Americana. But look! Blood on the floor, damaging the rug. Hmmm. Bay window + suburban house + Cadillac = blood on rug. Hold the image for five seconds in case the audience doesn't get the point. So that's what it all means. Thank you, Mr. Director, for helping me see the futility of a life lived with mortgage rates."

Ain't that America?
I had a lot of fun with this film. I can honestly say that I've never seen a movie where a director hated each and every one of his characters with such transparency. He despises them all, and relishes their obtuseness and ignorance. One of my favorite scenes involved the lunatic and the leads. The lunatic berates them in their own home, insults their sexuality, parenting skills, their very existence. (There's some more play-speak here, as the lunatic's mother says, "He's not well...He's not well." Yeah. Heard you). He insults April Wheeler in ways that would cause me to beat the hell out of a man who ever spoke to my lady like that, in my own house or anywhere else.

What does Frank Wheeler do instead? He agrees with him. "Maybe the lunatic's right. Maybe we are hopeless." This from a character who supposedly fought in WWII and felt "alive" when he made his first charge on the enemy. Right.

Mendes doesn't understand America. More, he hates the place, and delights in insulting its people, its culture, and its heritage. The man has watched so many similar films about suburban angst from his director`s chair in London's West End that he actually came to believe them. Ask yourself honestly, do you really think an English theatre director knows anything about suburban American life, or will he fall back on every tired cliche he`s ever seen and heard? "Everyone in the 'burbs wishes they were somewhere else. They're all lying. They're all pathetic."

News for the snob: the June Cleaver stuff you've been sneering at while rubbing elbows at opening night parties? Many people love that life. They're not searching for a dream, they're already living it. But you wouldn't know, because you don't know any of them. Never met one, never spoken to one, never lived with one. And don't want to.

The British snob is still trying to understand America and failing badly. It reminded me of William Goldman's story, when he saw The Great Gatsby and thought that Francis Ford Coppola had written a magnificent script based on an American classic, but the English director didn't get America and took a crap on it.

Same thing here, except this time the script was a joke, too.

I'm still giggling.