THERE╒S nothing quite like biting the hand that╒s failed to feed you, and there╒s no American director more willing and able to take a finger or two off Hollywood╒s smooth hands than Robert Altman. He╒s been fed on scraps ever since Popeye cost a lot and returned very little way back in 1980. The Player (Odeon, Leicester Square etc, 15) is unquestionably sweet revenge.
Revenge, however, would not have been quite enough even for a man who is so bitter at the cards he╒s been dealt by Tinsel City. The film is better than that. It is not only the most accurate picture of what you have to do to make films anywhere near Los Angeles these days. It is also the most entertaining and intriguingly made ironic comedy that╒s been produced thereabouts for some considerable time.
Just as McCabe And Mrs Miller, way back in 1971, suggested that the West was won not by noble pioneers but by corrupt entrepreneurs, and Buffalo Bill told Americans a few years later, in the midst of the nation╒s bicentennial celebrations, that the hero of legend was a fake, The Player says that America╒s most popular export is largely fraudulent.
Thus Tim Robbins╒s beautifully modulated ambitious studio executive is no ordinary villain. In fact, he╒s better than some and certainly more intelligent. A man for most seasons in any ordinary business.
But he╒s corrupted by the system, just as the system has corrupted Vincent D╒Onofrio╒s tortured writer who sends him increasingly threatening notes after his project has been turned down. This is a world within which it is impossible to conduct yourself straightforwardly without being kicked down the studio steps.
It is also a world in which you are only as good as your last murder. When the executive blunders into a compromising position on the death of the writer, the studio no longer wants to know him and the unhappy happy ending ╤ he╒s ruined but he may just be the better for it ╤ points the moral. Make for the exit before you become one of ╥them╙, pitching Out Of Africa meets Pretty Woman, or Ghost meets The Manchurian Candidate.
One of the truest strands of the story has Richard Grant╒s self-consciously eloquent British director trying to sell a socially conscious movie, insisting on no compromise, and then making a hopelessly camped up version that╒s compromised to the hilt. It may seem absurd, since the man╒s an obvious fake even before he changes his tune to suit the circumstances. But it╒s the kind of thing that happens every day in this neck of the woods.
As for the stars ╤ from Cher to Bruce Willis, Julia Roberts to Jack Lemmon and Whoopi Goldberg to Rod Steiger ╤ you don╒t have to imagine they are having a good time. They clearly are, whether playing cameos or just being themselves. And Goldberg╒s version of a Hollywood cop who, like Reagan, thinks real life is like the movies, is another shrewdly funny blow. Only the agents are missing because, says Altman not entirely convincingly, you can╒t parody a parody. Someone someday should have a try.
All in all, The Player is a movie which holds up for further inspection the fact that Altman never does quite what we expect, that he╒s capable of renewing himself even at a late age because he╒s never really given up on his principles, and that he has a vision of the world that╒s several times more accurate than most film-makers if you look behind the stories he tells.
