You'd think as a director Nicolas Cage, a member of the Coppola clan, would be better equipped to handle the ins-and-outs of a straightforward character driven drama, that he'd not let things get too self-indulgent or weighed down by
unnecessary, heavy-handed exposition. You'd think he'd know to get his actors to pick up the pace when things are slagging and tone things down when they
get too over-the-top. You'd certainly think he'd refrain from cliches like having a pivotal character say "My luck is finally turning around" and then cutting to that character's death in the very next scene. Well, you'd be wrong. 'Sonny,' Mr. Cage's directorial debut, is about the eponymous 26-year-old
former male prostitute (played with sensual swagger by James Franco) who
falls back into his old ways when he returns from a three-year stint in the army to the home of his New Orleans madam mother (an exhausting Brenda Blethyn)
and her new hooker Carol (Mena Suvari, doing her best in a sorely underwritten role). At first, he tries for the "square" life in Texas with an Army buddy of his, but faster than you can say Bible-girl-drinking-cough-syrup, he regresses into his mother's needy bosom and turns tricks bedecked in early-'80s gigolo finery. And then...well, not much happens. Franco modulates his performance well -- you believe this kid knows nothing much more than how to sexually satisfy
middle-aged Southern women, and you believe his sudden outbursts of
confused rage. As the movie stagnates in its final third, however, not even
Franco can save the stultifying dialogue in John Carlan's script. (It's unfortunate, actually, how poorly written much of this movie is, since Carlan -- a gigolo in his great-grandmother's Texas harem from when he was, no kidding, nine-years old
until he turned 17 -- quite literally lived the story from the inside-out.) Ultimately, however, the fault for this movie's faults lies squarely on Cage's shoulders. He can't seem to decide whether he's making a broad comic allegory or a poignant, "small" drama, and he paces the scenes so slowly that the movie feels twice as long as it actually is. Scenes that beg for another take play on much too long; other scenes are cut short before they've really fully played out. Cage does have a striking sense of color and composition, yet simple dialogue scenes are too often staged too awkward by half. I've often thought that Cage is the kind of actor who is dependent on a strong director, someone to reign in his self-indulgent tendencies and push him to
explore less well-trodden territories (see the great 'Adaptation' for a recent example). The same, it appears, is true of his own direction.
C
unnecessary, heavy-handed exposition. You'd think he'd know to get his actors to pick up the pace when things are slagging and tone things down when they
get too over-the-top. You'd certainly think he'd refrain from cliches like having a pivotal character say "My luck is finally turning around" and then cutting to that character's death in the very next scene. Well, you'd be wrong. 'Sonny,' Mr. Cage's directorial debut, is about the eponymous 26-year-old
former male prostitute (played with sensual swagger by James Franco) who
falls back into his old ways when he returns from a three-year stint in the army to the home of his New Orleans madam mother (an exhausting Brenda Blethyn)
and her new hooker Carol (Mena Suvari, doing her best in a sorely underwritten role). At first, he tries for the "square" life in Texas with an Army buddy of his, but faster than you can say Bible-girl-drinking-cough-syrup, he regresses into his mother's needy bosom and turns tricks bedecked in early-'80s gigolo finery. And then...well, not much happens. Franco modulates his performance well -- you believe this kid knows nothing much more than how to sexually satisfy
middle-aged Southern women, and you believe his sudden outbursts of
confused rage. As the movie stagnates in its final third, however, not even
Franco can save the stultifying dialogue in John Carlan's script. (It's unfortunate, actually, how poorly written much of this movie is, since Carlan -- a gigolo in his great-grandmother's Texas harem from when he was, no kidding, nine-years old
until he turned 17 -- quite literally lived the story from the inside-out.) Ultimately, however, the fault for this movie's faults lies squarely on Cage's shoulders. He can't seem to decide whether he's making a broad comic allegory or a poignant, "small" drama, and he paces the scenes so slowly that the movie feels twice as long as it actually is. Scenes that beg for another take play on much too long; other scenes are cut short before they've really fully played out. Cage does have a striking sense of color and composition, yet simple dialogue scenes are too often staged too awkward by half. I've often thought that Cage is the kind of actor who is dependent on a strong director, someone to reign in his self-indulgent tendencies and push him to
explore less well-trodden territories (see the great 'Adaptation' for a recent example). The same, it appears, is true of his own direction.
C