I ♥ Huckabees (2004)

David O. Russell

USA

106 min, color, English

A pretentious mess that is sure to cause self-induced orgasm to any pseudo philosophy junkie and the perfect film to claim to like and understand if you want to pass yourself as a deep-thinking modern man to the intellectually challenged moronic products of today's lib-arts "education" you call friends, I ♥ Huckabees is as prosaically pedestrian as it is vulgar and dull. I am constantly amazed how seriously deluded the "artistas" of Hollywood are these days. That anyone could possibly believe that this "satire" was more than meaningless drivel is hard to fathom. What really annoys me is that there's going to be no end to discussions about the film's supposedly profound existential messages.

In case the above paragraph did not make my position sufficiently clear, I think the film sucked, to put it in post-Dickensian lingo. It sucked existentially as no film of that nature has sucked before. Its suckiness is only exceeded by its straight-faced auto-suggestive narcissism. The suckdom of this film was profound.

Albert (played by the perpetually repulsive Jason Schwartzman) is a leader of an environmental group of no consequence whatsoever. His penchant for penning atrocious "poetry" and staging outrageously dumb acts of civil disobedience (e.g. placing a tree in a parking lot) is sure to impress youngsters brain-washed by the French post-materialist propaganda — the intellectual poverty of Derrida and Foucault that masquerades under various guises in women's studies, peace studies, ethnic studies, and whatchamacallit studies in college — people who have come to believe that theory is substitute for practice, and that one can change the world only if one fervently believes in whatever nonsense happens to strike one's fancy on that particular day. Their credo is meaningless action and the inevitable product is uselessness.

So this Albert guy is not accomplishing much unless you count his amazing irritation skills which he puts to constant use with great success. Consequently, the guy is being forced from the leadership position by Brad (Jude Law) who is your typical corporate suit: suave, handsome, with a stunning wife, great career, all of that carefully concealing a massive ever-expanding emptiness that rivals the dark matter in the universe. Yawn. We have not seen any of this before. Why can't people get it to their thick skulls that it is quite possible to be successful and happy. In case you missed that, let me repeat: it is fine to be successful and enjoy it! In fact, it's positively better than being a failure and hating it. As for the corporate types, didn't American Psycho offer a more nuanced and intriguing look at that lifestyle?

Albert, being the total-ass loser that he is, hires two "existential detectives" to help him unravel the mysteries of mind, the universe, and the algorithm that airlines use to price their tickets. This they do by zipping him in a body bag where he can imagine chopping off his rivals' heads in gruesome detail. That's called therapy. I do it for nothing every night. The detectives are a bit on the weird side, what with all their insistence that life is essentially good and everything. Still, Albert wants to find out if there's anything more to a series of coincidental meetings with an African dude.

As the investigation proceeds, an apparently random element inserts itself in the form of Mark Wahlberg who, along with Jude Law and Naomi Watts, creates the one bright ray of light in this fiasco. This guy has been confused by an alternative theory of everything peddled, appropriately, by a French woman whose philosophy is like our existential detectives' except that she believes that everything is meaningless. Turns out there's liberation in nihilism, sex, and watching your rival fall from grace when he pukes during a corporate meeting (because, you see, he has become too disgusted with himself when the emptiness of his life was pointed out to him), when his wife leaves him for a firefighter (because he refused to entertain her egocentric descent into ugliness), and when his entire house is burned down by Albert. Yeah, the bad guy gets what he deserves, and Albert is liberated from the tyranny of his pathetic childhood memories of being neglected and unappreciated. Of course, we are probably supposed to believe that his atrocious poetry recitals are not actually driven by his idealism but by his self-destructive impulse, the desire to constantly validate his own worthlessness that his uncaring parents had imprinted upon his impressionable brain. Albert seeks his failures, he sets them up and makes sure they are as painful as possible. So the French lady (who, no surprise there, turns out to be part of the detectives' team) teaches him the meaning of life. Of course, I learnt the meaning of life from Monty Python, and I don't remember it being phrased in terms of how well your rivals are doing. I thought it was more about how you are doing. But I am shallow, and I admit it.

By the way, have you noticed that all reviews that claim the film to be cerebral and then sneer at the underprivileged and comedically-disabled who fail to enjoy it, never actually tell you what its deep meaning is? You know why? Because there is none. The film is inch-deep, shallow, and dull. The dialogue is boring, all expletives notwithstanding. You will get more depth out of watching a Pokemon episode. I am willing to bet that the script came about when one guy came up with the idea of existential detectives and then a committee brainstormed the story that would somehow involve them. This is not a masterpiece, it's a buffet with free refills on carbonated drinks.

Oh, and make sure you don't miss the vomit-inducing scene of Law breast-feeding Schwartzman. Yeah, I have heard that in Asian cultures men sometimes act as substitutes for their wives and allow babies to suck on their nipples (it's true, I swear... it does not make it any less weird, but it's true). But I somehow doubt that this was a nod to the otherwise respectable Asian cultures. Freud must be weeping with joy in anal heaven or wherever the fuck he is. I have heard that the director got interested in Zen Buddhism and this is supposedly the result of his personal meditation. I hate to be the one to break it to him, but understanding Buddhism takes a bit more than cribbing from the Cliff's Notes for a weekend. This film exemplifies the sort of shallow narcissistic new-agism that many call spirituality. Once the director has lived with Zen for two decades, he can perhaps venture to express himself. But, of course, at that point he would not want to. Mr Russell wants to teach us, but Zen's essence is that everyone is self-taught. If his film was meant to be a Zen riddle whose meaning we have to ponder in silent meditation for years, he has failed. This cliché is the sound of one hand clapping. I sure hope Mr Russell never gets to make another self-indulgent film again. Pity, of course, because I liked his Three Kings quite a bit.

October 31, 2004