We Love To Be Lied To

American HustleDirected by David O Russell
Three Stars

By Rollan Schott

David O. Russell’s “American Hustle” is a shallow film full of beautiful surfaces, all dressed up for the disco, as it were, with nowhere to go. That may be the heart of the film’s chintzy charm. There’s something cynically gratifying about escapism of this quality, as if an efficient hoarding of accessible hedonism. This tale of con men and women and political corruption in New Jersey in the 70’s doesn't have much to say about anything – strange for as topical as so many elements of its plot are – but satisfies a nostalgic fantasy for classic Hollywood film making. The subject, really, is the lost craft of cinematic pop art.

For that reason it shouldn't be surprising that the main characters of “American Hustle” spend so much of their time putting on an act. Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale) and Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams) begin a romance posing as underground financial consultants who collect on service fees for loans they do not secure for their clients. Irving is overweight and greasy, with a comb-over Sydney refers to affectionately as “elaborate”, but he carries himself with a sure-handed dignity, the kind of confidence that puts him in league with women like Sydney, who is beautiful and graceful but also jaded and misplaced in most social circles, and ruthlessly self-sufficient and determined, equipping her to navigate rooms full of men who obliviously present her with opportunities to survive.

The two are busted by Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper), an ambitious FBI agent who offers the two a way out if they’ll help Richie and provide the necessary insight to tackle a larger fish. Irving and Sydney agree, somewhat reluctantly and without options, but Richie can’t keep a lid on his aspirations. He wants to bust another four con artists, then he wants to tackle a politician, a mayor in New Jersey subtly named Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner), then more, and then more still. Irving and Sydney are stuck. The ball’s in Richie’s court, but the game changes sharply when Richie begins pursuing Sydney as well.

This may seem like a lot to give away, but “American Hustle” is a whirlwind of plot shifts and realignments. Not mentioned yet is Irving’s wife Rosalyn (Jennifer Lawrence), an archetypical loose cannon whose drunken imbalance threatens to crash the whole affair into chaos. The setup presents an opportunity for Mr. Russell to suspend the motives of many people in limbo, particular Sydney, who is certainly lying to somebody and Irving, at some point re-positioned to the sideline, who is either winning or losing, not that we even know what the game is.

Mr. Russell keeps his audience at a formidable distance for much of the proceedings. Whether or not you enjoy it will hinge upon whether you feel drug along and toyed with or involved in an intriguing game of cat and mouse, con-artist cliché gamesmanship. This film is drunk on style, heedlessly surface-heavy, one of those Capital-‘M’ “Movie” types. Its all-star cast is pleasantly kitsch and stagy, posing ceaselessly, gliding cool and glamorous through lavish sets awash with saturated colors and punctuated with timely music. For as well executed as it all is, there’s a kind of hedonistic indulgence to absorbing it all in a superficial stupor. This is high-dollar junk food.

Like many a great Dylan song, “American Hustle” seems to be about more than it probably is. It promises depths that are probably not there. At some point around the ninety minute mark I found the sugar rush wearing off prematurely. Mr. Russell spends a bit too much time denying us any real impetus for our embattled heroes. One grows weary of the waiting. Irving and Sydney dawn their poker faces, put on a show, and dare us to buy into it, attempting to fuel a fantasy like the romance and intrigue of the classic Hollywood adventures “American Hustle” is so much designed to resemble. I remember what James Cagney said about the art of performance: “Stand up straight, look ‘em in the eye, and tell the truth.”