It’s hard to decide which
image best encapsulates the weirdness of The
Manipulator, a thriller with Mickey Rooney as a psychopathic movie
professional holding a woman hostage in a warehouse and pretending she’s the
star of a movie he’s directing. One contender is the long sequence of Rooney
dressed as Cyrano de Bergerac, complete with plumed hat and prosthetic nose,
while he spews reams of faux-poetic dialogue. Another possibility is the shot
of Rooney rocking back and forth in a chair, his eyes bulging in madness, as he
screams the lyrics of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo.” Yet perhaps the winner is the
scene in which Rooney slathers his face with garish harlot makeup, sweeps his
wispy hair into a Caesar style, and minces his way through a verbal affectation
so stereotypical it would give Paul Lynde pause. Clearly imagined as a tour de
force, The Manipulator instead comes
across as a tour de farce.
It’s not as if Rooney was incapable of good work in
the later years of his career, even though his eccentricities often
overshadowed the charm that made him one of America’s biggest stars during the
1930s and 1940s; one need only revisit his performance in, say, the TV movie Bill (1981). Yet it seems late-period
Rooney needed strong directors to keep him under control, and he’s allowed to
run wild in The Manipulator. To be
clear, The Manipulator—sometimes
known as B.J. Lang Presents—was never
destined for greatness. It’s a claustrophobic and far-fetched lark with an
inherently repetitive storyline, essentially a one-man show that doesn’t go
anywhere.
Nonetheless, actors live for these kinds of opportunities, since
being the primary focus of an entire movie allows for rare levels of multidimensional
characterization. Alas, that doesn’t happen here. Rooney’s character is loopy
from beginning to end. Plus, to be blunt, playing crazy actually lowers the degree of difficulty for
flamboyant performers—any random thing they do is permissible. The challenge in
a role like this one is going deep and small, but Rooney does the opposite,
despite fleeting moments that convey a peculiar sort of vulnerability.
In any
event, the story is laughably threadbare. We never see B.J. Lang (Rooney)
kidnap Carlotta (Luana Anders), and we never learn how he came into possession
of a warehouse filled with movie equipment. Myriad scenes comprise tight closeups
of Rooney screaming at the camera. Similarly, many scenes feature Fellini-esque
dream imagery—naked people dancing, grotesque partygoers participating in orgies,
and so on. Unpleasant flourishes juice the images, whether visual (e.g., strobe
lights) or aural (e.g., discordant electronic bleeps). Accordingly, the tone is
all over the place. Much of The
Manipulator is designed to horrify, but some scenes drift into broad
comedy, like the where-the-hell-did-that-come-from bit of Rooney doing a
Chaplinesque dance within sped-up camerawork. The sum effect is as perplexing
as it is wearying. Anders’ nonexistent acting range doesn’t help, and neither
does the disappointment of watching the fine actor Kennan Wynn enter and exit
the film so briefly and so pointlessly.
On some level, The Manipulator is fascinating simply because Rooney displays so
many wild colors, and there’s a kernel of satirical edge to the premise, which
echoes Billy Wilder’s Sunset Blvd.
(1950). Mostly, however, The Manipulator
is 85 minutes of sadism and screaming and strangeness.
The Manipulator: FREAKY
No comments:
Post a Comment