The Blankest Face

     I have nothing against Freddie Prinze Jr. as a person. I respect him for not milking his father's death for self-grandizing PEOPLE MAGAZINE covers and not pulling dated James Dean-aping theatrics like DiCaprio. On talk shows, he seems an amiable enough guy; actually, he seems like a bit of a dork. Yet, after several feature films, he has failed to reveal any actual acting ability. There is something so plastic about his performances that he sometimes makes Matthew Lillard--he who seems to mock his lines rather than interpret them--look like John Cassavetes. But it might not be his fault. His three main starring roles--She's All That, Down to You, and Boys and Girls (hereafter refered to as the trilogy)--are all rather superficial relationship films, lacking any real insight into the whole boy-meets-girl cannon. Of course, these are not the only romantic "comedies" that fails to fulfill either of its generic title. The teen-film, which these films also largely fall under, is rather under-utilized for any real sentiment. But there is such an unfounded sense of awareness about modern relationships within the attitude of these films, particularly the most recent two, that I'm left feeling as though I have missed something. Why do I find myself reaching for my Say Anything video as a cleansing ritual after suffering the confounding over-confidence these movies have in themselves? It is like the films are all implied, that it is up to the audience to fulfill the emotional duties of the narratives. But that should not be necessary; the filmmakers are supposed to tell us the story. This is Hollywood filmmaking after all, not counter-cinema. Maybe these films are the first wave of unintentionally interactive films; interactive out of sheer necessity to find emotion. In a popular culture driven by the fruit-roll up boy bands and blond, jailhouse starlets, Freddie Prinze Jr. may be the first of a new breed of screen star.
Cultural figures have always been formed out of the public need to project, to turn these figures into apparitions of the cultural values of the period: The Beatles, Elvis, Sylvester Stallone as Rambo, etc. But these cultural assumptions are based on a role in existence prior to their becoming symbols. With Freddie Prinze Jr., there is no such foundational role from which to operate from. He is the first interactive actor, where the performance is so devoid of human emotion that the audience is encouraged, even obligated, to project their own emotions on to the character to find any kind of connection with the text; to inform the film rather than react to it. Prinze, in the trilogy as well as in I Know What You Did Last Summer and its sequel, becomes not an actor but a canvas.
      The first time I saw Mr. Prinze in a film was the I Know What You Did Last Summer film. From the first moment he was required to act--I think it was fear--after those crazy kids run over the fisherman in the suit, I thought there was something wrong; his line reading was as wooden as the dock he leaves his boat at in the film. True, the slasher film is not usually conducive to great probings of the human condition, but the sheer flatness of it went beyond ironic, post-modern, self-aware whatever and into amateur night at the local community college coffee bar. His character--all blue-collar, boy of the sea just like his dad--was troubled by his inability to dither his time away like the Ryan Phillipe character and, due to class issues, unable to maintain his relationship with the university-bound Jennifer Love Hewwitt. But, from Prinze, it all came out like a plaque-removal procedure. Never the less, the movie made lots of money, not all of which can be attributed to Hewitt's ever-prominent cleavage. Freddie also had a role in the dark comedy The House of Yes. He plays the rather dopish younger brother of Parker Posey and Josh Hamilton, who are part of a Kennedy-obsessed family stuck together in their mansion during a rainstorm. Freddie's character is neurotic and a virgin, and somehow convinces Tori Spelling to sleep with him. Here, Prinze's performance is not all that different from his others, static and bald, yet it almost fits. Then came the I Still Know What You Did Last Summer-thing, where you get to see more of the brooding, fishboat-working character. The movie is pretty silly, but there is a scene where a determined Freddie pawns off some sentimental thing he got for J.L.H. to get a gun. A gun in the hands of Freddie is like watching Grace Kelly skinning rabbits with her teeth: it just doesn't fit. Freddie's stern look at the pawnbroker either means he is serious or he is selecting meats at the deli. It's up to the audience I suppose.
      A few months later, Freddie P. was hot commodity because of She's All That. The Freddie character suffers from being the most popular boy in school and being accepted to too many Ivy League colleges. His rather unbelievable-to-begin-with relationship with Jodi Lynn O'Keefe is over as well, just adding to the misery. Essentially, it is just a bunch of rich white kids in high school. Most of the scenes are saved due to Rachael Leigh Cook who is great and natural and knows that less is more (compared to Prinze's less is nothing). Freddie even made me laugh a couple of times, like the scene in the boho-artsy joint where he does an impromtu-performance piece. It starts out well, making fun of all that pretentious avant-garde theatre that no one watches, then, with the so-hip its out of style-again hackey sack bouncing between his sneakers, Freddie starts going for serious character revelation: "Don't drop it, Zac Don't let the ball drop, Zac." Too much pressure for Freddie, what with the prom and all. And being smart and athletic. I started laughing, but I don't think I was supposed to. This occured in another scene too, where Freddie's dad discovers his secret stash of--university acceptance letters! And I was hoping for dope or pornography. As Freddie attempts to tell his dad that he might not follow in his footsteps, Freddie gets angry. This essentially means that Freddie talks the same way as usual, only louder. And a lonely laugh echoed through the theatre of mostly-adolescent young girls. But Freddie became all famous and got on the cover of some magazines and became Harvey Weinstein's own Pygmalion (on which the film was based). Wing Commander, an attempt at making a sci-fi teen film I guess, was dumped out quickly. No one saw it, and I haven't even rented it, so I can't say anything about his performance. Apparently, Freddie did it because he likes computer games; his buddy, Matthew Lillard, did it for the money.
Then came part two of the unofficial Prinze-trilogy of youth experience. That was Down to You, an annoying film about--a bunch of rich white kids at university! Here, Freddie's soul-mate is played by Julia Stiles, a quirky energetic actress who does her best but keeps ending up looking like a blind bird repeatedly throwing itself against an already blood-soaked wall. There is no reason these two characters should even be together other than that they are so vacuous and unnecessarily-angst ridden that they deserve each other. This time Freddie gets to show his chops in a scene where Julia tells him she slept with another guy. Prinzey even gets to use the f-word. It sounds terribly wrong, and these characters are so lifeless that making love to either of them would probably leave paper cuts. There is another scene in a tunnel where the young lovers are faced with that thing all young lovers are faced with in obnoxiously earnest films, the unplanned pregnancy. I can't remember what happened, either it was a false alarm or there was an abortion, because she wasn't pregnant by the end. Anyways, the whole thing leaves Freddie with that dazed, "what's my line" look that he uses for, well, everything. Later, Prinze gets to show off his lip-synching skills into a wooden spoon as Barry White croons in the background, an image so bizarre and disorientating, that its seems like some kind of early-Soviet editing experiment. The film is a bore and completely limp of any sense of purpose. Voice-overs, easily found post-graduation jobs, I think they even break the fourth wall (the way that all the worst movies about this period of life repeatedly use despite constant failure): it is how to make no one care about a film 101. Freddie is so perfect for such a bland, frigid film that it is impossible to see anyone else in the role.
      The final film of the trilogy is Boys and Girls, a wonderfully sociological title that is wasted on a film that is as aware as it is funny (i.e. not at all). This time, the scene is--a bunch of white kids in both high school and university! At least Freddie was kind enough not to make us care about him on either coast of the United States. Freddie's soul-mate this time is Claire Forlani who was playing the same age about six years prior in Mallrats. The two of them spend most of the time as friends. Boring friends. There is some stupid plot-thing going on where Freddie ends up sleeping with Claire, thus giving the film that oh-so enticing tag-line "Sex changes everything." Since this is a Freddie Prinze film, it really doesn't change anything other than Freddie gets slapped before resorting to that facial state that looks part-catatonic, part-marijuana high. Is it regret? Is it agreement? Is it Freddie mesmerized by the catering table off-screen? I think Freddie had a scene of great emotional resonance in this one, too, but I sure can't remember it. There is an obligatory montage of moody music and sad-looking pretty people, and a scene where Claire's roomate kisses her. Maybe it is supposed to be shocking, but it is more offensive because of its sheer incohernce with anything else in the movie. It is a tepid film, with Forlani's energy wasted in reaction to Prinze's video store cut-out range.
      So, let us look at all these films, exempting House of Yes, because Parker Posey is great. All are essentially sterile, unintriguing, and annoyingly sincere without giving the audience any reason to care for the characters other than that they are on screen. But, there is the occasional moment of value, something that is too gosh-darn pleasant to not melt even the bitterest of hearts like my own. It is not unlike listening to the top forty countdown of New Mickey Mouseclub orphans and various other offspring of Swedish musician/producers. Freddie Prinze Jr. is making the equivalent of teen pop music in film. Maybe I miss something by not being a girl between the ages of 12 and 14. Perhaps Freddie Prinze Jr. is the ultimate boyfriend, so devoid of personality he can become anything to anyone; sexy, but safe-sexy. He is essentially a blank face, an entity for any girl to be sucked in to the romance of first love within the confines of a plodding romantic comedy, something just slick and smooth enough to pull them into the next variation on young, affluent, white kids in love. And maybe I'm just too old to put in the effort.