Few movie
misfires are as glaringly bereft of the calculus of success as Brian DePalma’s The Bonfire of the Vanities (1990); an unscrupulous
bastardization of the rather dark and cynical first novel by Tom Wolfe
transformed into something of a foul-mouthed freak show from which no
reputation, either in front of or behind the camera, escaped unscathed. Wolfe’s
novel was an insidiously perverse deconstruction of New York’s power broker set
driven to excel in the go-go 80s. Regrettably the Michael Cristofer screenplay
takes Wolfe’s story to task, only to emerge as a whacked out travesty,
effectively diffusing any potential the film may have had as a dark and
brooding social critique. Instead, it plays long in the tooth as a
tongue-in-cheek folly in faux screwball comedy.
DePalma, along
with cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond chose to enhance the garishness of the
exercise by incorporating obscure camera angles and in-camera lens effects.
These occasionally warp and stretch the actors’ facial expressions. But DePalma
has remained steadfast in his defense of the movie, claiming media ‘over-hype’
plus a few ‘minor’ mistakes in pre-production are largely to blame for the
film’s failure. DePalma has also said that The
Bonfire of the Vanities isn’t really as bad as all that – citing time as
the necessary healer for most its artistic wounds.
Some movies do
indeed improve with the test of time. But The
Bonfire of the Vanities isn’t likely to be one of them. Regrettably,
twenty-two years removed from its colossal thud at the box office hasn’t turned
the vinegar into fine wine. In fact The
Bonfire of the Vanities is easily one of the worst movies ever put forth by
a major Hollywood studio – its only true competitors for the top spot arguably Ishtar, At Long Last Love and Waterworld:
distinguished company, indeed! For starters, Bonfire lacks narrative cohesion. Worse, its performances uniformly
register as pure lampoon. The question therefore remains whether DePalma’s real
intentions were to do a faithful adaptation of the book or merely a bad spoof of
it.
Cristofer’s
screenplay opens on an elaborate time lapse of the Manhattan skyline viewed
from just beneath the ledge of a stone gargoyle atop the Chrysler Building.
After the main titles we arrive at a very swank black tie book signing for the
new novel by famed journalist, Peter Fallow (Bruce Willis); a one-time ‘has
been’ turned man of the hour after penning his juicy exposé on one of the
highest profile cases in recent years. The subject of the book is Sherman McCoy
(Tom Hanks), a high ranking Wall Street bonds broker who lived extravagantly in
a penthouse on 5th Ave. with his superficial wife, Judy (Kim Catrall) until the
evening when he obtusely telephoned his own home instead of another number to
inquire about his mistress, Maria Ruskin (Melanie Griffith).
Maria is a
devious, heartless, oversexed vamp, indulging the affair with Sherman behind
her own husband, millionaire Arthur’s (Alan King) back. Picking up Maria from
JFK airport for their latest tryst at the apartment of Maria’s close friend
Caroline Heftshank (Beth Broderick), Sherman accidentally takes a wrong turn
and winds up in the South Bronx. Navigating his way through this ‘war zone’ - the
only Caucasian face for miles - Sherman and Maria come to a dead end beneath
one of the on ramps that will lead them back to the main highway. The path is
blocked by a tire. However, as Sherman attempts to move it out of the way he is
confronted by a pair of black youths (Troy Winbush and Patrick Malone, the
latter as Henry Lamb). Panicked at the prospect of being mugged – or worse –
Maria runs over Henry, sending him into a coma.
Afterward, Maria and Sherman drive to their prearranged rendezvous where
she encourages Sherman to remain silent about their ordeal.
Regrettably,
Maria’s ‘don’t ask/don’t tell’ policy
is about to have dire repercussions for all concerned. For Fallow, an alcoholic
on the verge of losing his career and thus his livelihood, is just ripe enough
(literally and figuratively) for the story. Fabricating his own ‘hit and run’
scenario for the scandal sheets, Fallow is instantly transformed into the
hottest writer in the business. Worse for Sherman, Henry’s mother, Annie (Mary
Alice) tells the Reverend Bacon (John Hancock) that before her boy slipped into
a coma he identified both the make of the car and the first two letters of its
license plate. Bacon, who is as unscrupulous as he proves cagy in fanning the
flames of racial divide for personal profit, seizes the opportunity to confront
district attorney, Abe Weiss (F. Murray Abraham) with the particulars of the
Lamb case, pressuring Weiss to make an arrest. The scapegoat need not be guilty
so long as he is ideally positioned to bear the brunt of the black community’s
incredulity. So Weiss orders assistant D.A., Jed Kramer (Saul Rubenik) to frame
Sherman McCoy for the crime under the pretext of serving justice. The irony of
course is that justice is, in fact, being served by the indictment.
However, no
nonsense Bronx judge, Leonard White (Morgan Freeman) isn’t buying Weiss’ faux
righteous crusade and marks his contempt over Weiss’ desire to win re-election
at all costs. None of this matters to Sherman who has already been identified by
NYPD detectives Martin (Barton Heyman) and Goldberg (Norman Parker) as the
owner of the Mercedes that struck down Lamb. The ensuing firestorm wrecks
Sherman life and career. It also strips him of his dignity. After his
sycophantic friends become playfully amused by his self-destruction – coming to
regard him as nothing better than a figure of fun – Sherman goes slightly mad,
chasing his guests with a twelve gauge shotgun until he’s cleared the room.
Judy leaves
Sherman high and dry. But Fallow, tinged with an ounce of remorse, takes it
upon himself to do some real investigative work for a change – especially after
Sherman off-handedly confesses that he was not the one driving his car the
night Lamb was run down. Fallow learns from Caroline of an installed wire
taping system in the apartment Sherman and Maria used for their hideaway. Their
conversation has been captured for posterity on cassette and it absolutely
reveals that Maria was the driver of the car. Fallow turns the tape over to
Sherman’s attorney, Tom Killian (Kevin Dunn) who informs his client that it is
inadmissible and privileged unless Sherman can say with a degree of certainty
that he deliberately intended to record it.
To this, of
course, Sherman cannot attest. So Killian wires him for sound to elicit a
second confession from Maria. In the meantime, Arthur has died while getting severely
drunk with Fallow. Sherman’s attempt to get Maria to talk at Arthur’s wake is a
disaster when she discovers the wire hidden beneath his overcoat and drives him
from the chapel with shrieks of contempt and betrayal. Jed, who has been
eavesdropping, corners the supposedly grieving widow and thereafter coaches her
on what to say on the stand in Judge White’s courtroom.
But Sherman,
having been pushed into a corner for so long, has finally decided to stand up
for himself. After Maria perjures herself Sherman plays the tape in court for
all to hear. Judge White asks Sherman how this confession was obtained and
Sherman plainly lies that he intended to tape their conversation all along.
Caught in her own web of lies Maria faints dead away. Killian, Reverend Bacon
and D.A. Weiss are chagrined and White dismisses all charges against Sherman. The courtroom attendees, mostly angry faces
expecting Sherman to be convicted of the crime of manslaughter, now accuse
White of racism. White responds that an obfuscation of the legal system for
political gain or even for mere profit is a far greater indictment, perhaps
even a moral sin that he will absolutely not tolerate in his courtroom.
Witnessing
Sherman’s exoneration Fallow feels vindicated for his part in this three ring
fiasco. Our story ends with a return to the beginning; Fallow surrounded by the
same sycophants who championed Sherman’s downfall, now utterly praising his
hard cover novelization of the crime. Having become a gluttonous media
celebrity in a world completely ignorant of the truth, Fallow concludes by
misquoting the Bible; “for what does a
man profit if he gains the whole world but loses his…oh well, there are other
perks!”
The Bonfire of the Vanities is so inanely
glib, so irreverently ridiculous in its approach to the Wolfe novel that it tragically
misses the novel’s mark for delicious cruelty. Cristofer’s original script
called for Henry Lamb to eventually regain consciousness and suggest that the
whole scenario had been concocted; an even more bizarre outcome not in Wolf’s
original. This version was shot but did not test well with preview audiences.
Arguably, Bonfire does not fare any
better in its current form. Barely
recouping a third of its $48 million production costs the film was an
unqualified critical disaster too.
Artistic
liberties are half the film’s problem; only partly responsible for its
disappointing failure. Blame must also be ascribed to the cast – none rising
above the drivel they’ve been given. It’s baffling how an actor as gifted as
Morgan Freeman could deliver such a stilted tirade as he does during the final
moments of Sherman’s trial – his oration so vacuous and preachy that it grates
on one’s social conscience instead of liberating it from the constraints of
this morally bankrupt social injustice. Tom Hanks and Melanie Griffith are
mismatched connubial milquetoast at best; her whiny scheming harlot and ill fit
for his equally whiny scared little rabbit routine. Hanks’ Sherman McCoy is a
petulant buffoon wholly at odds with the stoic, angst ridden character in
Wolf’s novel.
Bruce Willis’ ego
proved something of a challenge that neither DePalma nor the movie could
satisfactorily tame. And yet, left to his own accord Willis gives the most competent
performance in the film. Kim Cattrall is a shrill and unsympathetic harpy – a
walking cliché with a very bad dye job. The rest of the cast use up their screen
time strictly for laughs (which they rarely get) and grossly overplay their
hand in a sort of one-upmanship to be the very best of the worst. Bottom line: The Bonfire of the Vanities is a
painful excursion: two hours of pointless, spineless tedium.
Warner Home
Video’s decision to release The Bonfire of the Vanities to Blu-ray is curious
indeed, particularly given the movie’s near universal panning by the critics
and especially since the Warner backlog of catalogue titles still in absentia
on hi-def yield an immediate and most obvious embarrassment of riches that have
yet to see the light of day. The Bonfire
of the Vanities was one of WB’s very first DVDs too. Bizarre! There’s no
point in comparing the two. The Blu-ray easily bests the DVD. The 1080p
transfer is very crisp indeed with refined colors, improved flesh tones, solid
contrast levels and a very good rendering of grain. This disc would be impressive
if not for a very curious anomaly that appears roughly two thirds into the
presentation.
Immediately
following the scene where Fallow is seduced by Caroline and given the tape of
Sherman and Maria, the image begins to wobble uncontrollably; not from side to
side (suggesting sprocket damage) but from some video based noise (akin to
viewing an old analog broadcast with an antenna while a plane is flying over
one’s house to obstruct the signal). I am unable to quantify exactly how or why
this anomaly exists but it does and is quite distracting for several long
moments. A similar anomaly also occurs on WB’s recently minted Blu-ray of Ice
Station Zebra and again, at roughly the 2/3rd mark in that film. Very odd!
The audio is
5.1 DTS and quite adequate, yielding good solid bass and some nice
directionalized effects. Otherwise, Warner has gone bare bones on this title
with nothing more than a trailer to offer as extras. It’s just as well. The
film is hardly deserving of anything better. Not recommended!
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
0
VIDEO/AUDIO
3
EXTRAS
0
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