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Streaming The Man Who Wasn’t There Online.
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There’s a lot of talk about Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle here, which would seem out of state, quantum mechanics and cinema not being usual bedfellows. But the Coen Bros., weird boys that they are, fit thing together nicely. And Heisenberg’s theory, as illustrated here by a lawyer named Freddy Riedenschneider (and how reach it’s taken so long for the Coens to effect the deliciously warped Tony Shalhoub in a movie? He chews scenery like it was a dinner roll, and nearly runs off with the film’s second half) neatly encapsulates the best method to study a Coen Bros. film: the more you contemplate at their movies, the less you’re drag to understand them. A Coen flick is mostly a visceral experience, not to be taken too seriously intellectually, no matter how distinguished you assume you should.
“The Man Who Wasn’t There” begins with a exquisite shaded and white shot of a… barber’s pole! It’s a ravishing fragment of Americana, but also a symbol of the intertwining of gracious and atrocious to follow. Ed Crane, second chair barber, is played by Billy Bob Thornton. His wrinkled puss and slick hairdo are rendered in caricature by the crisp cinematography of Coen stalwart Roger Deakins. Cigarette constantly ago, Thornton is a recount of immobility, more obliging to quiet photography than motion pictures. He’s a man of limited ambition, stuck in a loveless marriage, and beset from all sides by yammer mouths and chatterboxes. Thornton, an actor who usually relies on a symphony of tics and eccentricities to originate his characters, does none of that here. He remains mild and poised, barely even using his distinctive say, except in the ever-present narration. The do is unbelievable. Impartial like when Seize Reiner strapped the overly physical James Caan to the bed in “Misery”, not allowing Thornton to work to his strengths makes him collect the character in other, more surprising, ways. This is coupled with the bonus conclude of keeping the audience on their toes, as they know that all that kinetic energy can bounce up at any moment. Thornton is in every scene here, and he carries the characterize quite easily on his slim shoulders.
The rest of the cast, as is the case in any Coen Bros. film, is wildly eccentric and spot-on. Made up of a mixture of the Coens’ stock company and some game newcomers, they all whisper pretty performances. Frances McDormand (Mrs. Joel Coen) leads the group of Coen regulars. She is, as always, a wonder to recognize. Her character, Mrs. Doris Crane, was lacking in redeeming qualities, but McDormand is such a ball of mesmerizing energy that you tend to forget that she’s playing such a hateful woman. Jon Polito is ample as usual playing an effete entrepreneur looking to hook an investor for a unusual invention called “dry cleaning”. And Michael Badalucco plays Ed’s annoying brother-in-law/employer, a motor mouth who’s less annoying here than in the other roles I’ve seen him in.
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The newcomers, besides Thornton, are lead by James Gandolfini, TV’s Tony Soprano, as Stout Dave Brewster, Doris’ boss and paramour. Stout Dave is exiguous more than a plot here, but Gandolfini is such an overwhelming and charismatic presence, he manages to gain something spicy out of nothing. Scarlett Johansson gets to be the innocent Lolita pursued by an older man, a role she conceded to Thora Birch in her other film role this year, “Ghost World”. Ed and Birdy’s relationship is handled with less tact than the similar location was in that aesthetic film, but it is detached within the boundaries of pleasant taste (uh, for the most section anyway) . Also, it allows for repeated playings of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ (hardly a film noir staple, that!) . And it’s worth mentioning again the beautiful work of the underused Tony Shalhoub. He gets one lengthy speech in an intensely lit jail room that’s a wonder to peep, for not only his acting but also the interaction between character and lighting.
“The Man Who Wasn’t There” is not as crowd glowing as the Coens’ biggest hit, last year’s “O Brother, Where Art Thou? ” (which was hurled into the zeitgeist by “A Man of Constant Sorrow̶ 
. Those of you in the general population, please don’t request to leave the theatre humming a catchy tune like you did then. Those of you in the Coen Bros. Army will certainly bag a kick out of this flick. There are moments of levity here, all played remarkably straight (my favourite: a half-drunk lawyer, who’s constantly falling asleep while giving a client advice), but also moments of shameful Coen-style oddness. The movie would have ended a half-hour before it did in the hands of other directors, but the Coens go one step further, and give us a last half hour that will have you scratching your head even while grinning madly. Unbiased don’t accumulate too caught up in trying to figure out what it all means, or you’re prance to demolish it.
After the crowd-pleasing knockabout comedy of the 30s-set “O Brother, Where Art Thou? ” - a cheery, Current Deal proposition which played out like “I Am A Fugitive From A Chain Gang” under the direction of the Keystone Kops - the fresh Coen brothers movie adopts the grimly fatalistic tone of a 50s noir thriller, its brooding shadows cast by both the Second World War and the resulting paranoias. If “O Brother” was the “before” photo of an America singing its device out of a Depression, then “The Man Who Wasn’t There” is the snapshot labelled “after”. It’s frigid and dusky, and is clear to do off as many visitors to the Coens’ world as “O Brother” attracted.
Thornton, his nicotine-stained voiceover containing enough tar to merit a Government health warning, is Ed Crane, a small-town barber forever sweeping up after those around him. The most passive of active smokers, Crane barely moves for himself until the one counterfeit proceed he makes to slay off his wife’s lover and position off a chain of events leading to his enjoy demise; it doesn’t arrive as too mighty of a surprise when this hero goes out not in a hail of bullets, but sitting down to die.
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One of the immense joys of a Coen movie is that they cast, just down to the minor roles, people who can act to the extent that it’s a pleasure to use every moment of a longish film in the same room as them. (Even in the non-speaking roles, the brothers cast animated faces.) “The Man Who Wasn’t There” offers - aside from the more-than-capable Thornton, McDormand and Gandolfini in the lead roles - a supporting cast including Tony Shalhoub as a preening peacock of a lawyer, Jon Polito as the contented dry-cleaning entrepreneur who sets the sage in (so far as one could call it) motion, and Michael Badalucco as Crane’s verbose brother-in-law, getting the movie’s most sure, “O Brother”-style laughs in riding around on the befriend of pigs and winning pie-eating contests for the befriend of his young cousins.
Otherwise, the humour is muted and deadpan, existing in throwaway asides: this is a runt town whose hotel, we learn, names its suites after operas. The film’s funniest lines are those ascribed to other characters passing (unintentional) comment on the motionless hero: “Is he awake?,” asks a physician at Crane’s bedside, honest after a road accident sparked by a young girl’s assertion that the emotionless Ed is actually “an enthusiast”.
The major talking point may be the seek of the film. Whatever the ins and outs of the technical process whereby the brothers arrived at this quality of film stock, Director of Photography Roger Deakins here has access to aesthetically purer blacks and whites than any seen on the cloak in the last forty years, and he makes principal spend of the tonal palette this facilitates: you accept a depth of field which allows an unbelievable engage of the distance between a cloak and a woman’s face, or of the detail apparent when Ed submerges his wife’s razor in her bath water, shaking hundreds of tiny hairs to the bottom of the tub.
This sense of depth also applies to some of the themes apparent in the writing. Characterised by his lawyer as “the original man”, Crane is often framed in one-man-against-the-mass shots, walking against the slump of the crowd. This, I assume, ties into the behind 40s/paranoid 50s concept of “a novel man” as someone destined only to stand composed - or, perhaps more expressively, doomed to do his beget thing - while everyone else, their collective stock raised by the prosperity of the post-War lisp years, gets rich quickly around him. This was a period in which, if the McCarthyites didn’t accumulate you, the Commies would; if the Commies didn’t come by you, the A-bomb would; and if the A-bomb didn’t bag you, the Roswell aliens certainly would, so Ed’s fundamental fatalism is perhaps entirely understandable. More importantly, “the recent man”, in the Coens’ eyes, is a sensitive type - Crane bemoans the fate of chopped hair - with no sure outlet for what he’s taken from life’s hard knocks until it’s unbiased too late; his tentative and trembling relationship with a young pianist (Johansson) is exactly the sort of relationship the doomed hero of a 50s thriller would select up in the hope, for him as for us, of a last-reel redemption which invariably won’t follow.
This notion of a hero unable - or unwilling - to do anything about his scrape, and the Coens’ trademark emotional reticence about such plights, means the film won’t be for all tastes, but there’s something undeniably compelling about the manner in which the filmmakers have humanised the traditional “what if a tree falls in a forest” riddle and wrestle with the resulting heart-broken conundrum that haunts “The Man Who Wasn’t There”: what happens when a man who talks to nobody has nobody left to talk to?
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