Amsterdam (2022 | USA | 134 minutes | David O. Russell)
Oh boy. David O’ Russell’s zany star-packed Amsterdam is a movie with so much going for it that nevertheless makes itself incredibly challenging to recommend. I sympathize with those who will find it simultaneously too much and not enough, or recoil from the ambitious sentimentality that animates its many excesses. I also groaned as it’s machinery sputtered and strained to draw meaning from madness. Yet! From its chaotic energy — a hallmark of a director who’s a monster on set yet consistently attracts the industry’s highest levels of talent — spring no shortage of genuinely laugh-out-loud bits and gonzo performances. Like most of his work, it’s a big-hearted mess that many will hate, but some might be able to forgive in spite of itself.
Set mostly in the early 1930s in New York, the story revolves around an intense friendship forged in the cauldron of the Great War (i.e., before they renumbered the World Wars). Christian Bale concocts Dr. Burt Berendsen from prosthetics, home perms, glass eyeballs, and a rucksack stuffed with personality quirks. A half-Italian, half-Jew (between this and Armageddon Time, it’s shaping up to be quite a season for Welsh actors as Chosen People), he’s working as a physician of last resort, patching up the war wounds of maimed veterans and concocting highly-effective pain killers in a cluttered downtown office. His war buddy-turned-attorney Harold Woodman (John David Washington), another fixer of sorts, is comparatively an island of stability and forethought. They become caught up in a vast conspiracy when their beloved old General turns up dead and his daughter (Taylor Swift) enlists them to find out the cause of his suspicious demise.
Their investigation, involving a gory autopsy run by a no-nonsense nurse (played by Zoe Saldana, truly every role in the film is a bold-faced name) and a skeptical assistant (Chris Rock, see what I’m saying, stars all the way down), quickly goes sideways and screeches into a flashback to the origins of their relationship. Burt was pushed into service by his wealthy in-laws, Park Avenue doctors who disapproved of his marriage to their daughter, hoping that some war medals would raise his station, or better yet, leave him dead on the battlefield. There, he’s assigned to lead an all-Black regiment who’ve been forced to fight in the uniforms of French soldiers because of the toxic racism of most of their fellow countrymen. Burt pledges to take care of Harold (and the rest of the squad), and Harold pledges to take care of him. Later, filled with shrapnel in the care of a French hospital, they make the acquaintance of Valerie Voze, a nutty nurse (Margot Robbie) who collects the extracted metal for her artistic pursuits.
When the war ends, the three of them run away to a magical flat in Amsterdam that serves as a fleeting cocoon of recovery, romance (Harold & Valerie; Burt remains true to his indifferent wife), love, and art. It comes to an abrupt end when someone has to call in a favor, the first of several appearances by a hilarious pair of birdwatchers (Mike Meyers and Michael Shannon) whose cover as international men of mystery is paper thin. In their own ways they each eventually return to their old lives, but like so many who’ve spent time abroad, especially in a place that feels constructed from fairy dust and dirty canals, that city and their time in in remain a powerful touchstone and a guiding principle.
Back in the present, the men find themselves chased by both the law and mysterious forces, calling in favors around town and bumbling deeper and deeper into a vast seditious conspiracy. We get guest appearances from Rami Malek and Anya Taylor-Joy as a pair of placid paragons of wealth; another side quest enlists the services of a war hero who remains steadfastly committed to the welfare of his veterans played by Robert De Niro. As the story sprawls ever wider and the stakes escalate ever higher (referencing a real-life conspiracy that rings too familiar), it’s easy to lose track of what it is exactly that the reunited trio are trying to accomplish. They characters themselves certainly do, but there’s such a manic quality to the performances and an madcap insistence on never pausing to catch a breath that it’s possible to roll with the confusion and marvel at the off-kilter deliveries of dry humor.
Your enjoyment will vary based on how much shambolic plotting you’re willing to tolerate and just how far off-the-rails you’re able to let the train skid without leaping to safety. The performances are, if not great, somehow weirdly entertaining. Emmanuel Lubezki films the whole thing like a magic trick: strange, low, coffin-height angles of disbelief as our inept heroes slide further into the confusing muck; heavenly light for the great general who refuses to exploit his station for anything but the common good; incredibly designed sets as fascinating curio cabinets; the eyes of Malek and Taylor-Joy like exotic creatures of privilege. Along with screaming at actors, David O. Russell is also known for long scripts and never saying cut. The latter are on unfortunate display as the story draws to a conclusion while bristling to connect the sins of the past with their parallels in our present. Straining to contrast the enduring power of love and art as a bulwark against the dark poisonous confluence of politics and wealth, he too often boldly underlines the worthy message with direct speeches and voice over. The movie doesn’t know how to quit itself and it suffers for overstaying its welcome, but for a while, like that wondrous city of charming canals and the good times between the bad dreams, there are a few sparks of something. I was kind of mad at it for being such a mess when I left the theater, but as time has passed I’ve softened and am willing to give it credit for taking some big swings that too often miss.
Amsterdam arrives in theaters on October 7; images courtesy 20th Century Studios.