Review: The Last Samurai (2003)

Cruise gets an A for effort, and an F for being the main stumbling block in this epic on the demise of the samurai way in 19th-century Japan.

Twenty-six years after his first starring role in Risky Business, Tom Cruise is still a solid box office draw as an actor, and as a producer he has given us behind some fairly decent efforts like Narc and Elizabethtown. However, as with so many of his other films, Cruise’s constant need to attempts to put himself squarely front and center while he flexes his acting chops detracts significantly from the fine efforts of his co-stars and the film as a whole.

Set in the second half of the 19th century during the Meiji Restoration in Japan, The Last Samurai attempts to chronicle the fall of Katsumoto (Ken Watanabe) and his band of samurai, men who have devoted their lives to serving Emperor Meiji (Shichinosuke Nakamura), a mere boy enamored with Western culture and resigned to being a puppet controlled by his advisors, led by Omura (Masato Harada). All this is seen through the eyes of Nathan Algren (Cruise), a burned-out ex-US Army captain who is constantly haunted by the memory of the atrocities he committed against the Native Americans during the Indian Wars. Algren is captured by the samurai, and a strong bond develops between the people of the samurai village and Algren, especially Katsumoto.

It’s not hard to see why many have disparagingly called this movie “Dances with Samurai.” There are more than a few parallels when you compare the general plotlines of Costner’s epic Western with “The Last Samurai,” but unfortunately the similarities end there. Where Dances with Wolves told an epic tale of love, loss, and the waning of the Native American way of life placing almost equal importance on all its characters, Edward Zwick seems contented with skimming the surface, letting the character of Algren romanticize just about every cliched ideal of the Japanese: honor, courage, loyalty, sacrifice, devotion to perfection in everything they do. Everyone in the samurai village is polite and dignified; and Katsumoto speaks remarkably urbane English for a man who probably does not travel outside of his village much unless necessary.

What is especially damning is that the focus is not allowed to stay far from Cruise’s efforts to portray Algren’s progress from a lost cause perpetually trying to drown his shame in alcohol to a truly enlightened man whose destiny has finally found him. Make no mistake: Cruise tries hard, very hard. In many other contexts, Cruise’s relentless drive and striving would be admirable, even when he doesn’t succeed. Unfortunately, acting is the one job in which you’re not supposed to even look like you’re trying, so Cruise’s efforts here are doubly bad: not only does he fail to be a convincing actor, he also also severely undermines the notable performances of his co-stars. Watanabe is mesmerizing as Katsumoto, Tony Goldwyn is effective as the equivocal Colonel Bagley, Timothy Spall and Billy Connolly are beyond reproach in their supporting roles, and even newcomer Shin Koyamada’s performance as Nobutada is worthy of mention. None of these people have half the screen time that Cruise is given; and he’s not even a samurai.

At this point, it’s necessary to point out that, despite its superficial approach, The Last Samurai, like Zwick’s earlier and far superior Glory, is steeped in historical background though there is much more fictionalization going on here. The battle set pieces are also gratifyingly down-to-earth and unembellished; no MTV-style acts of courage (e.g., 300) or commercial-like scenes of carnage (e.g., Gladiator). Zwick makes war look and feel like war. John Toll continues his previous exemplary work in The Thin Red Line and Braveheart here, giving the filming locations in New Zealand and Japan a pristine, rich look that befits the story.

In the final analysis, The Last Samurai is a serviceable almost-epic that would have benefitted substantially from the absence of Cruise. Cruise does have his moments: standing toe-to-toe with Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men; sly and playful in Mission: Impossible; and momentarily forgetting the prodigious chip on his shoulder in Jerry Maguire and Tropic Thunder. Sadly, The Last Samurai is not one of them.

[This review is also available as part of Counting Down the Zeroes, a very worthwhile project to compile reviews of quality films from 2000 onwards. Check it out.]

Review: The Hustler (1961)/The Color of Money (1986)

Human moves, kid. You study the watch, but I study you.

If properly handled, the drama of human nature can be explored just as fully and effectively on a modest scale as on a grander, more polished level. Robert Rossen’s The Hustler is a prime example; Martin Scorsese’s The Color of Money is not.

Despite the breezy jazz accompanying the opening credits, the world of The Hustler is consistently cheerless, peopled largely by ne’er-do-wells who are as mean as they look, hanging around in small bars and cheap pool halls, looking for the next hapless sucker they can work for some small profit. Every dingy detail is beautifully accentuated by Eugen Schüfftan’s black and white photography. (Schüfftan walked away with an Oscar for Best Cinematography for his work here.)

Into this world walks “Fast” Eddie Felson (Paul Newman) with his friend and manager, Charlie (Myron McCormick). Needless to say, we already know Eddie’s game: he’s the eponymous hustler. Like Eddie, however, we are unaware that the game is bigger than he is; we follow him through his first successful hustle in a small-town bar; we reckon we are going to see more small victories. That’s why we feel his fall as strongly as we watch him fall apart and lose in a most ugly way to Minnesota Fats (Jackie Gleason) and his backer Bert Gordon (George C. Scott).

With boyish good looks and cool arrogance, Eddie knows he’s got what it takes to win; he doesn’t understand why Bert insists he’s a born loser, and is further puzzled by Bert’s offer to bankroll him. But when he tells Sarah, whom he meets after his defeat, in an impassioned monologue—watch this part and you’ll see why Newman’s one of the greats—what it feels like when he’s winning, we know Bert’s right. Eddie’s going to lose, and lose big; for nothing that beautiful and pure can win in a world that’s perverted, twisted, and crippled. (To avoid a spoiler, I won’t reveal what role these adjectives play in the story.) Sarah seems to understand what Bert means; but she affirms that Eddie is a winner anyway.

The Hustler is not a particularly endearing film; its adherence to dreary realism is a serious obstacle to any entertainment to be had. But oh, the performances. This was Newman’s breakthrough role, and he deftly hits it out of the park. Gleason doesn’t get a lot of lines or screen time, but he exudes presence and authority when he’s on, obliterating even Newman and Scott. Scott is cold, cruel, and attractively loathsome as Bert, and Laurie turns in a solid, understated performance as the tragic alcoholic Sarah.

If Robert Rossen’s The Hustler is a study of human moves, then Martin Scorsese’s The Color of Money is a study of the watch. (To find out what that line means, you’ll have to watch The Color of Money.)

Eddie, probably twentysomething years older, is now a liquor salesman and bankrolling a young pool shark named Juilian (John Turturro). It’s strange, though, because after the events of The Hustler, we’d assume that Eddie would have left the pool hustling game forever.We are promptly introduced to Vincent (Tom Cruise) and his girlfriend-manager, Carmen (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio), and just as promptly, Vincent cleans Julian out with sledgehammer breaks and obnoxious infantile posturing, and Eddie can’t help but notice.

Eddie is clearly affronted by Vincent and Carmen’s audacious hustle—after all, he’s the original hustler—but it’s really not about the money. Eddie says it’s like watching a home movie: watching Vincent and Carmen awakens something in him. Now we see that Eddie is still the same born loser that Bert said he was; older maybe, but Eddie’s still Eddie, except now he’s not the one with the winning stroke; Vincent is. The old losing streak beckons to Eddie, and he answers. He’s going back into the game—as the new Bert—and Vincent—as the new Eddie—is going to do his winning for him.

Before making a choice to watch The Color of Money, you’ll probably wonder about two things. First, why a sequel? Most people who have seen The Hustler would agree that the story doesn’t really lend itself to a sequel. It’s true that Walter Tevis wrote two novels featuring Eddie Felson, but that doesn’t justify making a film sequel to The Hustler at all; Eddie isn’t Jason Bourne.

And secondly, why Scorsese? If you became a fan of Scorsese because of Mean Streets (1972), Taxi Driver (1976), and Raging Bull (1980) like me, you’ll probably approach The Color of Money with some reservations. Hollywood logic might say that a director who has dealt with gritty real-life material—in color and black and white—is more than qualified to make a sequel to The Hustler. But the minute The Color of Money starts, you know they’re wrong.

The Color of Money is not a bad film. Similar to The Hustler, the performances here are top notch. Cruise is pitch-perfect as the naive, annoying Vincent, and Mary Mastrantonio’s convincingly tough-vulnerable sexuality keeps up the tension in the relationship between the three. Newman expertly shows us how to pour new wine into old skins; he brings new depth and gravity to the older Eddie. Richard Price’s screenplay, while it strays from Tevis’ original storyline and lacks plot direction, is full of dialogue that ring true (perhaps more so than Sidney Carroll and Robert Rossen’s writing for The Hustler).

Unfortunately, Scorsese seems intent on making The Color of Money his most commercial work to date. Production values have comparatively far more polish, and Scorsese’s kinetic visual style shifts down quite a few notches. The biggest flaw lies in the handling of Eddie, who I think is the main focus of the film. Instead, we end up paying attention to everyone: Eddie, Vincent, and Carmen; even the side stories involving Julian, Eddie’s bartender girlfriend Janelle (Helen Shaver), and Amos (Forest Whitaker), a young small-time hustler who takes down an overconfident Eddie, seem as important as the story of Eddie. When every story is important, no story is important. The Color of Money hence ends up as a surprisingly pedestrian outing for a movie that should have been a heavyweight contender. (Nonetheless, in the 1987 Academy Awards, Newman won Best Actor, while Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio and Richard Price were both nominated for Best Actress in a Supporting Role and Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium respectively.)