White Nights

Taylor Hackford, that master of cheap, unabashed, sentimentality, is at it again. Late of “An Officer and a Gentleman” and “Against All Odds” (a two-movie set which already represented a decline in the level of his work), here he fashions his latest chef d’oeuvre, and rarely have I had the misfortune to witness a film so ill-conceived, so utterly misguided, and so inexpertly executed. I sat through this picture with a mixture of dread and astonishment (tinged throughout with a good deal of boredom) and wondered what the heck they were thinking about. The picture is so bad it is almost as if Hackford (I've often thought that that is a terrible name for a movie director—too much emphasis on “hack”—but now that I think about it, it may be just right.) were engaged in a bit of self-parody. Unfortunately, he has not earned the right to indulge himself in that fashion. The film is an incredible collection of bizarre juxtapositions and incongruities, which coalesce into one gigantic quagmire of mawkish cliches.

Let's start, for example, with the premise. Famed Soviet Ballet dancer who defected to the west eight years ago winds up (by an accident of modern engineering) back in the hands of the Soviets, who want him to perform again. For some reason (which is never ever, ever, ever, ever made quite clear), they make him spend his time with an expatriate Black American tap dancer (Raymond, played by Gregory Hines) who defected to the East several years ago. My, how ironic. Meanwhile, the Soviets want to keep Nick’s (the ballet dancer, played by Baryshnikov) survival and retention secret... oops! Except that they want him to dance in the big gala at the Kirov, so I guess it's not such a secret after all, except that after the gala, they have no intention of letting him return to his former Soviet life of stature as promised; instead, they want to give him a long "Debriefing." Their rationale for all of this is never ever, ever, ever, quite clear, but what a marvelous device for throwing the two artistes together, so that they may compare notes on oppression. Raymond, you see, has been touring the back roads of Siberia, doing a road show version of “Porgy and Bess,” and if you think the above plot premise is absurd, wait until you see Gregory Hines doing “Porgy and Bess in Russian.” Wow. I mean, is this a joke?

Naturally, Hines defected to Russia so that he could escape the oppressive effects of American society, which didn't want to give a dance job to a "grown Black man." In the film's most embarrassing scene (and maybe one of the most embarrassing scenes in all of movies) a drunken Raymond recites his litany of woes explaining how he wound up here in Russia, while performing a little soft-shoe to properly convey his frustration and rage. This goes beyond cheap sentimentality; it spills all the way over into pathetic unbelievable tripe. I find it hard to believe that anyone in America today (and I mean even the most downtrodden underprivileged kid) thinks he will get the good life by going to Russia (and this is due in no small part to movies just such as this one--more on this later). Of course, a dismayed Raymond has found that Russia is not quite the Elysian Field of artistic glory he had hoped; the Russians had used him for publicity it seems, and now they have banished him to the aforementioned back roads (until they use him as Nick's roommate). Meanwhile, Nick glowers and grimaces and scowls, as his fury and frustration at being back in Soviet clutches builds, and he tells Raymond a thing or two about oppression. Why didn't they just get the two performers to stand at a podium and debate for two hours—Hines talking about how oppressive America is and Baryshnikov explaining that, well, no matter what its problems, the good old US of A is head and tails better than the USSR, gosh darn it. Then they could have had Hines become convinced without the necessity of the ersatz epiphany of the tearful realization of what a mistake he's made. Sheesh! Let's face it... this is bullshit. I guess that Hackford figured that the film would resonate because of the inherent artistic connection between the two dancers, but you come away with the impression that the two of them have about as much in common as the Space Shuttle and a Matchbox car, the awkwardly staged dance sequences (duets mind you) notwithstanding.

Who are these people anyway, these poseurs? What exactly are they trying to do??? Hines, who has a mournful face (let's be honest: he looks like he's gotten punched in the eyes a few too many times) just can't make his character click; nobody as streetwise as he's supposed to be would have been so self-deceiving. And Baryshnikov, despite his astonishing body control and ability to move, is just not as commanding a presence as one would have expected. Maybe he is too short. The choreography, quite frankly, is pretty lame, never mind the fact that it was done by Twyla Tharp (except for the tap "improvography” by Hines). The dancing never explodes (which is the only thing that might have saved this picture) and Hackford directs it all with insecure skill, using a peculiar combination of Steadicam, dolly shots, and long lens, as if he weren’t quite sure just how to approach it. (Production notes: couldn't help noticing that the music was supervised by someone named Ramone and wondered if it is one of the Ramone brothers; there's a little irony for you). You know, they try to pretend that there is some artistic link between the two dancers, and maybe there is in real life, but the players don't seem to know it. Raymond hasn't a clue about what Nick is up to (he loses money betting that Nick can't do eleven pirouettes. Eleven! Come on!) while it becomes startlingly clear (perhaps the only clear thing in the movie) that Nick has the range to completely swallow up Raymond’s sphere of art. Maybe that's the problem, or at least part of it: the two never come across as equals in any way. Nick is the clear eyed one, and the classical dancer, whose abilities far outstrip those of his compatriot, while Raymond is portrayed as a blithering, misguided nitwit, whose tap dancing is nice, but just looks absurd when placed next to Baryshnikov’s skills, and who needs the smart Russian to tell him what a mistake he's made, and then to help him return to his own country (and face the anger and hurt he left behind). Whoever came up with this harebrained scheme? The writer, I guess. Even Raymond’s heroic gesture at the end is lame—something to do with drinking—and denies him even that much redemption.

And the film sweeps from pathos to bathos without a breath in between. The escape of the dancers is engineered by a former prima ballerina and lover of Nick's (now a bigwig in Soviet arts) whom Nick has not seen or communicated with in eight years. After the inevitable tears and bitter recriminations, she helps them, and Nick is actually forced to say, as they part for what is sure to be the last time, "I'll always love you," and he doesn't believe it any more than we do. God. Send this writer hack to cliche school. Meanwhile, at the very end, in an example of bathos that is the equal of the famous "You cut your hair" from “Ladyhawke,” Raymond says to Nick (who has risked his life to save Raymond and his wife, engineered their safe return to the warm bosom of capitalism, arranged for Raymond to be exchanged for some sneaky Commie rat spy—unlikely, to say the least), "Thank you." And we sit there in an amazed fog as the frame freezes on the two faces looking at each other, Raymond looking mournful (maybe because he had to wear that scraggly beard throughout the whole picture) and Nick looking cool and aristocratic, and perhaps a little puzzled, as if wondering what he was doing with this Black fellow anyway. Spare me. But the truly funny part of all this, the real irony, is the joke being foisted over on the moviegoer. Granted, we live in an age of increased east-west tension, and a heightened sense of patriotism, and this is reflected in the preponderance of movies with decidedly anti-Soviet views. What I resent about “White Nights” is its dishonesty; despite its trappings of artistry, and its supposedly elevated concerns with Truth, Art, Freedom, and Self-Realization, this movie is no less a blatant piece of jingoistic anti-Soviet propaganda than is “Rambo,” or “Rocky IV,” or the “Missing in Action” pictures.

The filmmakers just seem to think that because the picture is about dancers instead of soldiers, they can pass it off as a lot more "personal," and therefore "true." Because it ostensibly deals with artistic freedom, and not just freedom per se, they think they’ve risen above the cliche of the perils of the evil totalitarian state, when in fact they just go on to perpetuate it. This picture, as much as any of the ones just mentioned, sets us up to hate the Commie rats, and feel good about our country. It purports to show us just how underhanded and treacherous those Soviets are. But because there is a lot of dancing going on, they think they can do it without our noticing, and for this reason the movie is a jag. I’ll take “Rambo” any day, because (in addition to being a better made picture) at least “Rambo” is honest about its intent. So what are the "White Nights" of the title? Reference is made to them a few times, and as best as I can gather, it refers to summer nights in northern Russia, when the midnight sun makes it impossible to tell what is day and what is night. Now, there's an intense metaphor for political confusion for you.

What are we left with? A true botch, with a couple of pop hits already getting a lot of airplay. Funny that one of the central images (as well as a key to the escape) is Nick's portable stereo--his “ghetto blaster.” That’s where the film’s concerns may really lie--selling records. Taylor Hackford had better clean up his act, or maybe he should just take a long rest. The only scenes with any catch to them are the actual escape scenes—a little tension here (maybe he should be a B-movie director) –the rest bogs down in a numbing fog of melodramatic grandstanding, pointless debate, and idiotic platitudes; in short, it is boring. Only two things stand out in memory. First is the actor (I can't remember his name, but I do remember that it is unpronounceable) who plays the Colonel (chief Soviet bad guy). It is a nice characterization, very vivid, smoothly malevolent, and his commentary carries a lot more impact than any of the principals’. (I guess he is a better actor.) The other image is of the British Orient 747 which flies through the sky in the opening sequence. (That is, after the incredibly self-absorbed dance piece that opens the movie—talk about somber, I guess setting the tone for the whole picture—it too is almost a self-parody) before crash landing (actually, the crash sequence is pretty good too). I don’t know whether this is a model or real shots of the plane flying, but whatever it is, it looks quite majestic (made me wish the picture was about aviation instead of dancing), the blue and green and white offsetting each other perfectly as the plane glides serenely through the air. If only the rest of the movie could be as smooth.