There is accounting for taste–there has to be–and so I begin this review of Breakfast on Pluto by acknowledging my career as a cross-dressing musical artiste of the 1970s. A very brief career: I was in fact oblivious to that era’s trend, or (if you prefer) world-shaking cultural upheaval of gender-bent pop music. Congenitally square, irremediably straight, I would have missed the whole thing, except for having been assigned to hop around a stage nightly in hermaphrodite drag, as the pet androgyne in a Chicago production of Volpone.
Because of that experience (and maybe a few others), glitter rock and the territory beyond were not alien enough to me to seem enticing. Neither were they so charged with immanent meaning as to promise liberation. To this day, I can name only one song by David Bowie; and yet a fictional tribute to him, Velvet Goldmine, is by far my favorite Todd Haynes movie, not because I love the music and fashions but because Haynes does. They bring out the fantasy and irresponsibility in him; they make him playful. On the evidence of his other films, I’d guess that Haynes doesn’t trust those tendencies in himself any more than he believes that fabulousness is an adequate program for young gay men when they’re isolated and beset. On that last point, as a practical matter, I’d have to agree. But since I have no practical reasons for going to the movies or listening to music, I continue to watch Velvet Goldmine for its value as escapism and to enjoy glitter rock (through its effect on Haynes and others) as a contact high.
Neil Jordan’s latest feature, Breakfast on Pluto, happens to skirt Bowie’s music, even though much of the film is set in London during the early and mid-1970s. You hardly even get disco. But in telling the story of Patrick “Kitten” Braden (played by Cillian Murphy, who wears lip gloss as if he’d been born for it), the movie throbs, or lilts, or sometimes bounces along perkily to the many pop tunes that are, as Kitten might say, the soundtrack of her life. It is not a serious life, or it is as little serious as she can make it. Isolated and beset as a child, and for that matter as a grown-up, Kitten feels she would have more than enough troubles to ignore even if she could avoid the guns-and-bombs aspect of Irish politics, which she can’t. So her program is to let her favorite tunes carry her along as she drifts through various showbiz careers: cross-dressing musical artiste, theme-park dancing animal, magician’s assistant, peep-show girl-on-a-swing.
Based on a novel by Patrick McCabe (who has collaborated with Jordan before, on The Butcher Boy), Breakfast on Pluto takes the form of Kitten’s memoirs, which she dictates in voiceover to an infant she’s pushing in a pram. Experience addresses itself to Innocence, and to you, a presumably innocent member of the audience: You get an upbeat and even whimsical tale, sometimes commented upon by twittering animatronic birds, about abandonment, brutality, loss and impoverishment.
In outline, it’s the familiar story of the outcast child–a girl, born in a boy’s body–who runs off from her pious small town and winds up walking the streets of the big city. Many of the motifs are familiar, too, from earlier Jordan films, starting with Mona Lisa and The Miracle and running through The Crying Game, The Butcher Boy and even Interview With the Vampire. Slim, endangered beauties (of whatever gender) are forever sauntering through Jordan’s movies–along resort-town piers, down the London streets–trailed by hurt children or sad-eyed men, while a pop song cries out their emotions for them and the IRA prepares to set off another bomb. There will be Irish landscapes and absent blond mothers and a few fairy-tale creatures, and at some point Stephen Rea (Jordan’s signature actor) may perform a magic trick. As a summary of such Jordan stuff, Breakfast on Pluto flirts at times with auteurist self-reflection, while at other moments it threatens to become a social-issues report; but it rises above both categories, thanks to its conjunction of Innocence and Experience. While Kitten’s narration lends imaginative buoyancy to the tale, Jordan’s eye for detail (especially in the Irish settings) makes concrete and credible every fried sausage, dangling cigarette and snarled conversation.