The Caveman's
Valentine
Written by George Dawes Green (based on his book)
Directed by Kasi Lemmons
Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Ann Magnuson, Damir
Andrei, Aunjanue Ellis, Tamara Tunie,
Peter
MacNeil, Colm Feore and Anthony Michael Hall.
(now playing at extremely select theaters - hunt
for it!)
* * (Two
Stars)
Based on George Dawes Green's 1994 Edgar Award winning
novel of the same name, 'The Caveman's Valentine' is anything but the electrifying
side of compelling entertainment a lauded piece of literature would require
- - - or at least suggest. As if trying to evoke some deeply classical
state of being, all the names in the film are long, threaded descriptors
(without actually describing anything). Samuel L. Jackson plays Romulus
Ledbetter, Feore plays David Leppenraub, MacNeil plays a character called
Cork, Ellis a girl called Lulu; even Ledbetter himself has a fictionalized
arch-enemy that seems to inhabit only his mind as he worries day in, day
out that a Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant plots to control the world from the
top of NYC's Chrysler Building. Everyone feels the need to use these names
half a dozen times a minute, especially Jackson whose main goal, besides
a curious mixture of befuddled self-preservation and creative detective
work, seems to be to shout the word "Stuyvesant" at the top of his lungs.
In the opening sequence of the film, he rants and raves on a bench near
his home, a structure that, inside and out, appears to be a cave in a Manhattan
park. Someone in the crowd which has gathered says to him: "Happy Valentine's
day, caveman" (as if to immediately drop the obtuse title's hopes and dreams
to a casual inference that we are expected to add meaning to over the course
of the film). The direction headed is not a good one. Early on, though
the imagery is connected and well etched, we buckle for a series of conventions.
After finding a frozen corpse
atop a tree outside his cave, Romulus becomes obsessed with the idea that
fab photographer David Leppenraub is responsible for the death. Leppenraub
(another grimy slither from the great Canadian actor Colm Feore) takes
photographs which depict angelic young men experiencing pain among still
life props (Isn't that the international signal that someone i guilty of
murder?). To get properly suited up (literally), Romulus enlists the help
of Bob, a businessman he passes on the street. Played by Anthony Michael
Hall with the same kind of arrogant nerdiness stuck forever in his persona
from his John Hughes days, this character never really registers as a fitting
piece of the film's world. Romulus, who has been to Julliard (but evidently
didn't quite follow through, as they say), displays a rare knowledge for
a Russian composer, which results in his admittance to Bob's penthouse
apartment. Once there, it is only a matter of time before the heavily milked
trend of audience satisfying (and nausea inducing) irony appears and saturates
us with its insincerity. On the bench of Bob's piano (an instrument he
recognizes by year and brand name), Romulus makes sweet love to the black
and white keys as he transcends the genius locked in his half crazed, dreadlock-clad
helmet. Moments later, his hair is cut, his face shaved and a new suit
has been applied to his body. Now he's ready to stick his nose where it
doesn't belong.
Kasi Lemmons is a wonderful
filmmaker. Her movies (she's made one other, 1997's 'Eve's Bayou') tend
to have a dreaminess to their storytelling, weaving settings and optical
effects into a fast paced editing scheme. Here, her seemingly new, almost
fresh faced style is wasted on a story that is equal parts cliche-ridden
and predictably open-and-shut. My assumption (though I've not read Green's
novel) is that the book was interested, for the most part, in Romulus's
ability to keep straight a world of facts, organizing them (as in music,
which is mathematical) and still carrying on his occupation as a mentally
damaged, hallucinating lunatic. It comes through in the film, but less
as a struggle to maintain elements than as a byproduct of how strong Jackson
is as a performer. Giving a performance that is streaked with upstaging
the rest of the cast and loud, scenery chewing dialogue reading is the
norm for Jackson. From his first appearance in Spike Lee's 'Jungle Fever'
through his Oscar nominated turn in 'Pulp Fiction' up to and including
last year's seemingly obligatory re-make abomination, 'Shaft', Jackson
is no stranger to obliterating the viewer with his lively face and commanding
vocal tone. In 'The Caveman's Valentine', he wreaks the same havoc, but
leaves only himself in the memory as the somewhat forgettable film drags
on. Instead of indexing the facets of the narrative, we earmark the levels
of his character, the loud pitches and quiet moments, the visually alluring
man contrasting with the dirty, unkempt vagabond. While this may seem like
an interesting watch, all we really take away from the film, besides the
volume of Jackson's Romulus, is the quivering Lemmons, desperately trying
to breath life into this tired story.
What made 'Eve's Bayou'
so
enchanting - and what is missing from 'The Caveman's Valentine' - is the
way Lemmons understands how a setting can envelope characters and define
their actions and moods almost to the point where it is out of their reach.
The deep south enriched the young woman in 'Eve's Bayou', but its devastating
effect on her father became entwined so in her experience that the film
must begin with her wrongful notion that she has "killed her father" (meant
figuratively and literally). We can see Lemmons attempting such a feat
here, setting the film in the harsh New York bustle that makes Jackson
a loon to the masses and a genius to select members. It defines his madness
while isolating his talent. Adding another setting, Leppenraub's creepy
farmhouse in upstate New York, only makes Lemmons' job more fateful. Here
we are supposed to find Jackson challenged by space and its relation to
his perception of paranoia: did Leppenraub murder the insubordinate young
man who refused to pose for a picture? Is the question defined by how Jackson's
world collapses on him daily? Is Stuyvesant really trying to take over
the world?
The fact that not a single
one of these questions seems to linger or even stay interrogative as Jackson's
detective work resonates without interest makes 'The Caveman's Valentine'
an encapsulated tedium with a violent, unnecessary struggle within left
sitting in the cold like the corpse in Manhattan park. Lemmons does her
best to flavor the film with pizzazz but she never finds the true nature
of what Green and Jackson seem to have in mind. This is a story about balancing
contradictory mental elements that comes off as an obsessive inner-citywhodunit
without a single interesting twist.
home
2001