Cinema
The Devil's Own (15, selected cinemas) Private Parts (18, selected cinemas) Marvin's Room (12, selected cinemas)
The killing streets
Mark Steyn
Here we go again: another Hollywood film on 'the Irish question' — though, in this case, American reviewers were keen to emphasise that The Devil's Own is 'sympa- thetic' to 'both sides'. By 'both sides', they don't mean the IRA and the British or the Unionists, but the IRA and the warm- hearted New York cop who unknowingly rents a room to one of their trained killers. The Unionists have, as usual, been written out of the script, while the British are con- fined to a few early scenes and a shot at the Best Supporting Thug nominations. It is in this context that we first meet Frankie McGuire, a Belfast freedom fighter spurred to action by the killing of his own father.
The Brits, meanwhile, are living up to the noble ideals of English justice: on the streets of Belfast, their head man kills a wounded IRA chum of Frankie's in cold blood at close range. Possibly Tony Blair, who seems unable to distinguish between fact and fiction in Anglo-Irish matters, has already issued an apology. The rest of us may take a more relaxed view: after all, the IRA's shoot-to-kill policy has been far more exhaustive than the army's or the RUC's.
But the scene isn't really about shooting. Both sides have guns, but only• the British army has Simon Jones, a versatile actor but hired here solely for his sneer. As he dis- patches the freedom fighter, he lets loose one of his most lethal curled lips — and, in the shorthand of motion pictures, what else is necessary? The scene is efficiently shot by Alan J. Pakula, but it can never really thrill: young Frankie is in no danger because he's played by Brad Pitt. Now con- sider another young man driven to desper- ate acts of terrorism by the ruthless actions of government forces. Suppose the British made a film about the Oklahoma bombing in which Brad Pitt was Timothy McVeigh and Sneerin' Simon Jones played the head Fed who killed all those women and kids at Waco. No matter how much you explain that you're being 'fair' to 'both sides', cast- ing tells. In a thriller, star power is the only ideology, and politics is charisma: on those terms, thanks to Pitt's pretty-boy charm and plausible Belfast accent, the IRA can chalk up The Devil's Own as one of theirs.
If it's any consolation, once the action moves to America, New Yorkers may have even more cause for complaint. Frankie moves in with Sgt Tom O'Meara, an Irish- American NYPD cop who, as played by Harrison Ford, is not merely uncorrupt but positively saintly. While the other cops are ready to shoot the fleeing African-Ameri- can, kindly Sgt Tom finds a way to take him alive and discovers the young lad was run- ning away only because he was too shy to take the condoms he wanted to buy up to the store clerk. Impressed by his responsi- ble attitude to safe sex, Sgt Tom lets him go, no doubt slipping the fellow a couple of bucks towards his next packet of three. In a way, this is the only ideological moment in the picture: condom culture reigns supreme in America, to the point where it even has to be foisted on such unlikely recipients as the Irish Republican move- ment.
In Private Parts, New York 'shock jock' Howard Stern plays himself and does a very bad job. The real Stern hosts a radio show that includes such features as Bob- bing for Tampons. The Stern on display here wants to go to Hollywood and so has turned in a bland cookie-cutter biopic about a vulnerable, misunderstood young man eager to make it in showbiz. In British `shock jock' terms, it's about as dangerous as The Gloria Hunniford Story.
Marvin's Room is based on a play by Scott McPherson that scraped by mainly because of the author's very public struggle against Aids, which has since killed him.
'it all started with a simple game of fetch.' Aids is never addressed explicitly, but the piece deals with it in a sly, circuitous way. Practically everyone is ill: Diane Keaton has leukaemia, her dad is gaga, her aunt is confused, her abused nephew is in the nut- house, even her doctor's receptionist and brother seems to be some sort of mental patient. In other words, this is one of those feeling-good-about-feeling-bad dramas, as is emphasised by the opening — a leisurely tracking shot over the household's exten- sive medication, the sort of ham-fisted nudging which typifies Jerry Zak's direc- tion.
You've never seen so many fine actors struggle to dignify such soppy drivel: Keaton, Meryl Streep, Robert DeNiro try- ing to do comedy, Hume Cronyn (widower of Jessica Tandy) in the non-speaking, all- gibbering part of Keaton's dad. The only one who seems to be having any fun is Gwen Verdon as scatty Aunt Ruth, who is now (as she puts it) 'part-machine': every time she's hugged, the automatic garage- door opener goes off. Perhaps the author should have addressed his own situation directly: as it is, this seems a particularly nasty view of old age by a man who knew he'd never be around to experience it.
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