Cinematic identity crisis

Disorienting tonal shifts and awkward comedy sink ‘Maps to the Stars’

Even during David Cronenberg’s body horror days, there was always something substantive underneath the shock. Deeper themes—both psychological and sexual—explored the link between biology and technology and how they juxtapose in often bizarre ways. “Videodrome,” “The Fly” and “Scanners” defined this early era of Cronenberg, one that was raw, clinical, violent and wonderfully unique. 

Cronenberg started growing as a director with adaptations of Stephen King’s The Dead Zone, William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch and J.G. Ballard’s Crash, breaking away from his body horror roots (though 1999’s “eXistenZ” briefly brought him back to the form, and you could certainly argue that “Crash” falls in there, too). Instead he transitioned to the realm of character-driven drama while keeping the thematic and stylistic sensibilities that are his signature—including his penchant for well-timed and gruesome head trauma.

Cronenberg seemed to peak about a decade ago. “A History of Violence” was a critical and box office success, one that compelled him to reunite with his star, Viggo Mortensen, for the not-quite-as-enjoyable but still worthy follow-up, “Eastern Promises.” But the third time wasn’t the charm for them. “A Dangerous Method” was a talky and tedious exploration of the relationship between Freud and Carl Jung that was technically adept (as always) but came up short of anything particularly memorable—except for Keira Knightley’s overwrought performance. 

Until now, Cronenberg has never tried his hand at being intentionally funny. What would it be like to see him defy his own conventions and branch out yet again to make a cutting, satirical comedy that stands alone among the dark skyline of his past works?

I’ll let you know when he makes that movie, but his latest, “Maps to the Stars,” isn’t it.

Set in the opulent meat grinder of Hollywood, “Maps to the Stars” follows an ensemble cast as their lives inevitably intertwine in ever more harrowing ways. We first meet Agatha Weiss (Mia Wasikowska) fresh off the bus from Jupiter (Florida). She meets a limo driver/actor, Jerome (Robert Pattinson), who takes her to the torched remains of her childhood home, and soon they strike up a romantic relationship.

Agatha winds up falling ass backwards into a personal assistant job for a fading but still popular actress, Havana Segrand (Julianne Moore), who is desperate to land a film role playing her own sexually abusive mother, also a once-famous actress.

To get over that baggage, Havana sees a famous television psychologist, Stafford Weiss (John Cusack) whose son, Benjie (Evan Bird), is the tween star of a movie franchise, fresh out of rehab and looking to make a comeback in the new sequel. Benjie’s mother, Christina (Olivia Williams), is his manager/personal assistant, trading in her parenting skills for the ass-kissing variety. But when estranged Agatha turns up, all of their dark secrets are laid bare.

Nothing sounds particularly hilarious about that, does it?

 Maps to the Stars” has been kicking around Cronenberg’s radar for twenty years, originally developed as a screenplay by writer Bruce Wagner. When the film didn’t happen, Wagner turned it into a novel, Dead Stars (Cronenberg is adamant that this film is not based on it). 

The script itself seems updated and dated all at once. This is not “The Player.” The satire is blunt, the dialogue simple, the metaphors of incest and immolation and the movie business are heavy handed, and the dark humor comes at the expense of characters you’re never sure you should like to begin with. Havana is a good example, a bundle of desperate white girl problems (like eighteen thousand dollar shopping sprees) who is beset by very real demons. She seems utterly sincere in one moment (like when she learns a rival actress’s son has died in a terrible accident) and then winds jumping for joy like an asshole in the next scene (when she realizes his death landed her the role she wanted). It’s too obvious. And that’s after we’re supposed to think Havana trying to squeeze out a constipated dump—as she makes small talk with Agatha—is hilarious. Kudos to Moore’s bravery, at least.    

Cronenberg should have jettisoned the overtly comedic elements. The film vacillates between drama and satire with the finesse of a drunk driver, muddling any clear sense of tone. Benjie rips his manager with vulgar and racist insults one minute, and the next he’s a vulnerable kid, struggling with the same ghosts that haunt his sister. Havana is clearly a victim, someone we’re supposed to empathize with on some level, yet she hasn’t grown up because hardship really only comes when she’s not getting everything she wants. Stafford is a Zen shyster goofball who’s imbued with a real fear that his troubled daughter will destroy their family and his career. Did I mention most of them are seeing ghosts? All things considered, the comedic barbs feel shoehorned in. 

Is this a psychological horror film? Is this a comedy that has no idea how to be funny? Is it trying to make us uncomfortable with ideas it never shoves in our face? (If so, David O. Russell’s “Spanking the Monkey” does all of those things better; not that they have anything else in common.) I have no idea what “Maps to the Stars” is trying to say about the inherent absurdity of Hollywood that hasn’t already been said in better, funnier films. Worse, the seeds of a truly dark story about familial dynamics and the hierarchy of a famously cutthroat business are subverted by the baffling narrative choices. I’m glad Cronenberg feels like he’s getting out of his element. Unfortunately, it feels like he’s out of his element. This is his (admittedly fucked-up) version of Spielberg’s “1941”—a misguided comedy that would have been better had the director just stuck with his strengths. Cronenberg does dystopian well. But that is at odds with almost everything funny, unless you’re Terry Gilliam.

“Maps to the Stars” looks great thanks to the vibrant cinematography of Peter Suschitzky (“The Empire Strikes Back”), and Cronenberg always knows where to put a camera to accentuate the distanced perspective that makes his films feel somewhat chilly. Howard Shore provides a subtle but effective score that is almost a special effect unto itself. 

But neither those efforts nor the performances from his fine cast, succeed in unifying the film, though they often elevate it. Julianne Moore is superb, disappearing into Havana like an Olympic diver who barely leaves a ripple. Mia Wasikowska isn’t given as much to work with but mines everything from Agatha, crafting a memorable and lingering character. Robert Pattinson is typically subdued, but I didn’t think of Edward Cullen once. And it’s still fun watching John Cusack be John Cusack. Olivia Williams gets the short straw with her thankless Christina, and Evan Bird is believable as a Bieber-esque douchebag who is still, seemingly, a thoughtful kid at heart.

I still love David Cronenberg. I’ll always be interested in his next thing. I’m no fair-weather fan. Hollywood loves movies about itself, even though they often come off as smug and out of touch. “Maps to the Stars” finds itself in that company, and while it’s certainly weirder, it misses its mark all the same. 

For more from Joe, read up on "Fifty Shades of Grey" and the best films of 2014.