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Thoughtless and Dishonest | The Nation

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Thoughtless and Dishonest

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What strange animal crouches at the bottom of Cate Blanchett’s throat? A languorous one, you’d think, nestling in velvet warmth—or so it sounds during the first moments of Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine, while the creature is being soothed throughout a flight to San Francisco in a bath of the first-class cabin’s best alcohol. The noise changes, though, at the luggage carousel, where the beast picks up its pace, if not its alto pitch. Suddenly it’s giving off a paradoxically assertive purr, as if it were not just content to reside in this smooth and slim blond host but must insist that it’s satisfied with her.

About the Author

Stuart Klawans
The Nation's film critic Stuart Klawans is author of the books Film Follies: The Cinema Out of Order (a finalist for...

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By the time a taxi has brought Blanchett (or Jasmine, as she’s called here) to an old street of whitewashed three-decker row houses, you can almost hear the animal trying to claw its way up her neck. Although the vernacular architecture to which Allen has delivered her is a beloved emblem of San Francisco—and in reality, if I’m correctly informed, no longer a refuge for renters on a low budget—the crowded starkness of the entrance stoop she discovers, and the presence of storefront businesses with names like El Jazz Caliente, make her hope she’s come to the wrong address. But there’s no escape, either for her or for that thing lodged in her voicebox. Variously baffled, frightened, defiant and angry, it takes to barking at people, warning them to step back from the woman in which it’s trapped. Eventually it even tries to burrow into her chest for protection, bellowing from its cave for another vodka martini.

If I were to revert to literal terms and speak of this indweller as merely an expression of Blanchett’s vocal skill, I would be missing the purpose to which she applies her virtuosity. Blue Jasmine is a study of a formerly well-kept woman who prefers not to know what’s inside her, having paid for years of comfort in the coin of willful ignorance and strenuous self-deception.

This means the film is also, of necessity, a study in the consequences of lying to others, a more common theme in Allen’s work. Match Point (2005) comes to mind, that cautionary tale of wealth and status achieved through fraud. As that film and quite a few others suggest, Allen is not overly optimistic about anyone’s morality, and yet it’s fair to say he seldom dwells on chicanery as a systemic problem of the kind that was exposed in the 2008 financial crisis and the Bernie Madoff affair. In that sense, Blue Jasmine is a departure for him. I can’t credit Allen overmuch for acknowledging, at this late date, a culture of criminality too blatant to ignore; but I admire, and am moved by, his decision to look at his new subject obliquely, through the experience of an enabler of the crimes: a woman who is fully individuated as a character and yet exemplary of the privileged class from which she has now been drummed out.

By means of the flashbacks that both disrupt Jasmine’s thoughts and structure the film, we see scenes of bygone luxury with her husband Hal (Alec Baldwin), ruler of shell companies with names such as Empire Solutions. In the present, we see Jasmine (or Jeanette, as she was originally known, even her name being a buried relic) come to San Francisco to camp out with her sister Ginger (Sally Hawkins), a woman previously dismissed as having settled for being short, brunette and working-class, but who is now useful as a source of shelter. In strides Jasmine, immediately occupying all of the cramped apartment’s conversational space with a nonstop account of what she’s lost to “the government.” (Not even Pap Finn could have chewed the word so bitterly.) She has arrived at Ginger’s with only her Chanel jacket, her Lanvin sweater, her Hermès bag, a simple pearl earring-and-necklace set and a few other salvaged items tucked into a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage. How a person so in ruin could have flown first-class, Ginger doesn’t understand, but the creature in Jasmine’s throat comes up with an answer: “Oh, I just did it.”

Like most of Blue Jasmine, this answer is meant to be a little funny, but not very. Allen directs Blanchett to play the sense of entitlement underlying this response—and the insolence of addressing it to Ginger, a grocery store clerk who is now going to be housing Jasmine—in a way that makes the line less a joke than a piece of sociological observation, of the sort that has always come a little too easily to him. He knows it; he has even apologized for it in the past, notably in the scene in Annie Hall where he meets and immediately offends the woman who will become his first wife, reducing her on sight to a stereotype. Stand-up comedians (Allen was a great one) make their living off of social caricature. Great filmmakers (Allen aspires to be one) have to go deeper—which is why, in the present case, he makes “Oh, I just did it” hint at traits beyond a Hamptons and Fifth Avenue–style carelessness. There is something cracked about it.

As the movie progresses, with Jasmine struggling furiously to right herself and yet hold on to her poses and illusions, the depth of the fissure becomes apparent—and so too does the cribbing that is another frequent aspect of Allen’s work. You do not need to have seen Blanchett onstage in A Streetcar Named Desire (Allen says he did not) to perceive the Blanche DuBois in her Jasmine: the delusional insistence on being her sister’s better, the thrilled animosity toward the man in Ginger’s life (a Stanley figure played by the appropriately hulking Bobby Cannavale), even the desperate hope placed in a gentleman caller (Peter Sarsgaard) who needn’t know too much about her past.

Too obvious either to ignore or to take credit for exposing, Allen’s borrowing in Blue Jasmine perhaps deserves the same defense that Brahms gave the big song in his first symphony, when detractors pointed out that it was highly familiar: “Any ass can see that.” I might justify Allen’s blatant copying simply for the way it allows Blanchett to be the ferocious mistress of a hundred emotional nuances. The voice is only a part of it. On a moment’s notice she can turn herself into a ballerina to please an eligible widower, or a championship wrestler to lay low an insistent suitor. When rising to an occasion, she can smooth her features into a mask of imperturbability, or when descending into turmoil can twist her lips until you’d think the camera had caught her in the midst of a cerebral incident. No movie can be without merit if it gives such opportunities to such an actress. But why is it appropriate—how greatly does it matter—that this magnificent Blanche has been recast as the complacent wife and abandoned victim of a younger, more handsome Bernie Madoff?

The best approach to that question might be oblique, in keeping with Allen’s method in Blue Jasmine. Let me address it by way of another recent release that focuses on thoughtlessly dishonest characters, also exemplary of their milieu, and their enjoyment of unearned luxury: Sofia Coppola’s The Bling Ring.

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