David Fincher’s
red-herring thriller “The Game” failed with most mainstream critics. I loved
it. I just saw a different movie.
“Game” is a deceitful movie about the
deceit of movie-making, the Hollywood button-pushing that we know is fiction,
but that we get sucked up into: Drama, action, comedy. The edits, camera
angles, lights, sound effects: We know it’s fake, but we buy in bulk. We get
involved. The plot: Michael Douglas is soul-dead San Fran multimillionaire
Nicholas Van Orton who accepts a “gift” from his baby brother (Sean Penn), a
vacation that comes to him at home and office, a personalized attack that crushes
and removes every instinct Nic has built, bought, and forged, starting with a
TV with its own mind and running past a crashed cab in deep water. The plot is
preposterous, of course, but it’s on purposefully so, this beautiful nasty
meta-film of a film stars a man who has bought into his own Hollywood thriller
by choice, we the audience running with him. By choice. Douglas -– the symbol of
amoral America during the 1980s –– is perfectly cast as a vastly
unlikable man who we root for quickly. We are him. A
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
The Game (1997)
Labels:
1997,
classic,
conspiracy,
David Fincher,
filmmaking,
Hollywood,
meta,
Michael Douglas,
Sean Penn,
The Game,
thriller,
wealthy
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