Bringing Out the Dead

Written by: Paul Schrader and John Connelly Starring: Nicolas Cage, Ving Rhames, Tom Sizemore, Patricia Arquette, John Goodman

There are a few things Scorsese should no longer be allowed to film. Billiard balls, for one; just look what he did with "The Color of Money," in which he became so enamored of the hypnotic click-clack of balls on the smooth green felt that he completely forgot that he was making a movie. Probably gangsters, too, because--as in "Goodfellas" and "Casino"--he is so obviously thrilled with their renegade lifestyle that he neglects his audience. We can add to that list "rain swept city streets," because, in this latest opus (which has been the subject of absolutely unjustified acclaim) he is obsessed with the way cars look as they move along the shiny streets. It is hard to overstate just how annoyed I was by this picture; suffice it to say that I walked out before it was over. If I had had to spend one more second looking at Cage's unshaven, self-pitying face I would have screamed. It's not Cage's fault, I suppose, that he sleepwalks his way through the picture like a zombie.

Scorsese probably made him stay up for three days in order to accurately portray the effects of sleep deprivation. (Unfortunately, those effects make for very poor drama.) And that's too bad, because Cage is capable of bringing real vitality to a picture (even some that aren't any good otherwise). But in this case he is buried, along with his co-stars. The only one with any zest, with any spark at all--in short, the only one who seems to be enjoying himself at all--is the irrepressible Rhames. But he can't carry the picture alone.. Nominally a portrait of Cage's burned out, sleep deprived, druggie paramedic (there, doesn't that make you want to rush out and see it?), who hasn't "saved anyone in months" (sob) and is haunted by the image of a young woman who died on his watch, the movie is nothing more than a long, painful slog through some really unpleasant real estate, at unpromising times of the night. Even the daytimes are overcast and drab. And the problem with drab, overcast days and unwashed, drug-addled characters is that they make for very drab, overcast movies. After a while (say, fifteen minutes), I didn't give a shit what happened to Cage, or any of the sorry souls he stumbles across on his rounds.

In fact, I wanted to smack him and tell him to get his act together. Naturally all this takes place amid a lot of flashing lights and the aforementioned rain-slicked streets. Scorsese is obviously laboring under the impression that blinking traffic signals are a matter worthy of some serious attention. Maybe he should make a film about them, because he sure hasn't made a decent one about humans. Cage never gets beyond his wallow of self-pity. In Hollywood terms, he has no "arc." But unless we see him actually struggling to get out, there is no drama, hence no interest. Why should I care about his problems if he doesn't seem to? His big nod towards positive action is trying to get himself fired. Ha-ha. Scorsese does provide him with someone to save, a drug-addled (hmm... coincidence? I think not), victimized waif played by the capable and cruelly underused Arquette.

But Cage's character doesn't seem to like her very much, and she doesn't seem to like him either. Is that what passes for romance in Scorsese's New York? Apparently. But then, as I said, I walked out early. It is possible that in the closing minutes of the picture Cage emerged from his stupor, Arquette got over her addiction, they fell happily into love, everyone in the city got healthy, and the sun came out. But I doubt it. (2/9/00)