Gesundheit?
From left: John David Washington, Margot Robbie, Rami Malek, and Anya Taylor-Joy
Because Margot Robbie is in everything remotely nostalgic at the moment, I watched Amsterdam under the impression that I was watching a Damien Chazelle flick — which says interesting nothings about his career trajectory, or maybe even his values, next to David O. Russell’s. They’re not that far apart. Chazelle, it has been deduced, likes to use music as a cinematic platform, whereas O. Russell likes to mine the musicality in dialogue. This worked exceptionally well in The Silver Linings Playbook, where it even underpinned dance scenes; in a fashion I probably appreciated in the minority, in American Hustle; and not so much in Joy, which was (as I recall) about a lady that patented a revolutionary cleaning device. Chazelle is currently marketing Babylon, which a delightful critic has already described as “either a love letter or a suicide note” to Hollywood. O. Russell is here, in … Amsterdam, profusely swearing that this movie is not a swing for an Academy Award nomination, or anything so deadly serious as (psh!) critical acclaim.
I hate when I watch movies acutely aware of the director’s motives, or what I presume them to be, which is symptomatic of not watching quality releases at the theatre anymore. I can pause these things, rewind them, and in those commercial breaks (mostly imposed by app notifications) I can repeatedly ask myself what certain creative decisions mean. The last time O. Russell was a part of the active broader cultural conversation, people were questioning the merits of letting him make a new movie every year, and wondering whether those movies were so musical they were (perhaps even) too fucking loud.
In a new world, where adults formulate worldviews with TikToks as chisels, I imagine the director suspects he will only be allowed to indulge himself artistically if his story is fundamentally about something. So Amsterdam is a post WWI-murder mystery with contained, careful deliveries of camp and a sinister undercurrent of neo-Nazi involvement, which it does its best not to land on your nose. In this vein, with this contemplation, it reminds me of The Plot Against America, even though its own witch-hunt precedes the rise of the Third Reich. But it’s a David O. Russell movie, not a geopolitical romp. Style is therefore draped all around an absolute Rolls-Royce of a cast, with Robert De Niro (who has helped O. Russell build several rocket ships) offering a wildly charismatic set-piece some levity, maybe even some control.
Amsterdam is drizzled in honey — to the extent that its most gorgeous work happens during the night-time, when it affords brown faces their gorgeous glow and lights up the avenues like Christmas lights raised in autumn. Taylor Swift is present for just about long enough to prove she could lend real gravity to a period piece someday. When her character, a lady with a case, is shoved to her demise under the wheels of a truck, it’s up to a pair of war veterans (a quite cantankerous, New Yorky Christian Bale, and the appropriately smooth dab of butter that is John David Washington) to converse about the dastardliness of the affair for two ethereal hours: with a worldly, possibly lethal nurse played by Margot Robbie, perhaps more than one G-Man, bumbling cops, fascists-in-disguise, and a De Niro character whose existential purpose seems to be getting everyone else to pipe down already.
All that style is easy to appreciate, for being so deftly rendered. You can almost dip your finger in Amsterdam’s jar and taste each scene; you don’t actually, because when someone falls down or the dialogue turns it’s your face the camera’s angled towards. Whenever opportune, O. Russell swirls towards fresh developments and hot leads, and I guess finds it useful to focus the dialogue on abstract banter designed (I think) to throw your armchair sleuthing slightly off the scent. Zoe Saldana’s role, as romantic reprieve for a protagonist whose marriage has faltered since it began, is a tragic waste of talent — but then again this movie is just shuffling all sorts of acting genius around a pack of cards. Michael Shannon could break a traitor with a simple roll of his sleeves. Mike Myers, who ought be granted British citizenship just for the vibes, is our Man On the Ground. Rami Malek continues to hold the tension in a scene like a stiff drink holds an ice cube: like his particular brand of awkwardness is in fact basic physics.
I see myself returning to this movie in a few years for vaguely the same reasons I’ll return to American Hustle. I’m not sure it knows what it is, other than a display of what razzle and dazzle you can put together with a vision in the night, a murderer’s row of talent, and a considerable stash of resources.
