Somewhere

While I could be very wrong about this, I believe Sophia Coppola's latest film Somewhere- a bit of celebrity introspection and navel-gazing minimalism about the emptiness of stardom- is actually a documentary on a week in the life of Mark Wahlberg. Or some actor I imagine is similar to Mark Wahlberg. Or an actor I hate as much as Mark Wahlberg.

Any way, I'd like to think his life is like this.

The film, it should be noted, does not star Mark Wahlberg, but a pretty good facsimile thereof. It's Stephen Dorff. The poor man's Mark Wahlberg. If there is such a thing. The indy, too cool for school, I'll never break out because I'm always posing as an asshole and scowl too much version of Mark Wahlberg. It's brilliant casting.

And it's a shitty film.

Because many moons ago, back in the second Golden Age of American cinema in the late 1960s and '70s, films like Somewhere were a dime a dozen. It mattered then, as we as an audience had not been inundated fully, sated like a trucker at an all-you-can-eat rib joint, to the existential malaise and inner sufferings of those poor, unfortunate chumps who get to show up on film sets for a living, ingest copious amounts of narcotics, fuck beautiful people, focus on right-brain issues, and spend their quiet time in soulful reflection knowing the adoration of millions await right outside the closed doors of their heavily secluded and well guarded compounds or hotels.

The argument is, according to Sophia Coppola, when every need or kink is provided for ahead of time or met on the spot, a person will likely fall into self-doubt or ennui.

Cue that teeny, tiny violin.

How can one such as I sit idly by, concerning myself with the plight of the impoverished, hungry, exploited, and victimized, when the fear of George Hamilton's Santa Fe chicken sandwich and Mimosa pitcher not being delivered in a timely manner at brunch looms like the sword of Damocles over us all? Why are there not more films about his lassitude and suffering?

If you're going to do a lazy, indolent cinematic glimpse into the trappings of fame, at least make your subject interesting, tragic or seedy. Say, the final weeks of Paul Lynde's existence. Veronica Lake's descent into ignominy and obscurity. Or the actress from Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, whose body was just found in her apartment a few years after she expired. Dig into the forgotten and fallen stars that Hollywood has cast off like so much flotsam of former popularity. I could care less about the emotional languishing of the flavor-of-the-month crowd. Give me the struggles of the once dominant, laid low by callous fan indifference and bad career choices.   

With Lost in Translation, Coppola explored a far more empathetic theme of existential crisis. Bill Murray's character, while self-absorbed, showed signs of humanity, irony, humor and awareness. His sexless tryst with Scarlett Johannson moved his persona further into the realm of likeability. We realized he wasn't just some faltering ex-star huckstering in Japan to keep his flame of celebrity alive. He became an actual human being to us. And a relatively fun one.

Dorff's character has none of those attributes. He's shallow, vapid, empty, soulless and dull. Traits we are to assume that he always possessed. He's holed up in the Chateau Marmont, an exclusive old hotel in West Hollywood for reclusive debauchery and the sort of trendy introspection he desires. He hires strippers to pole dance (they bring their own collapsible poles!) while he's doped up from a drunken fall in the stairwell (the only action scene in the movie). He falls asleep during these shows, as well as in the middle of cunnilingus with one of his many arbitrary lovers. How that is ever possible I need to know. I've been fucked up a few times, but come on. The scent of sea mist is bracing.

He dawdles around, drinking Coronas at cafes and parties in the hotel, waiting for his PR manager to call to send him off on his next junket. He dutifully obliges. No groans, no comment, just a lethargic willingness to go along. His one shining possibility is that he will find a new connection to his estranged daughter (Elle Fanning) who has entered his life quite inexplicably. Something about the mother needing space and time. That trite scenario even ends up going nowhere. Although, I found that aspect to be the most rewarding of the entire film. Fanning is actually engaging.

The actor's Ferrari is a major exposition. Dorff drives it around incessantly and without purpose, which is a clue in the film's opening that it will suck and be symbolically retrograde and derivative. Proving my point, with Mel Gibson in mind also, that all famous people need to have a driver.

You can't care for this fuck. Sure, he's polite to service staff members, is never deliberately cruel to his daughter and has his star tantrum meter in check. All this stems from never being challenged about anything.

I realize that this is part of Coppola's point in that the man's spirituality and self is being eroded by the sheer convenience and lack of conflict in his life. But is that the stuff of fascinating drama or documentation?

Yes, apparently, for some fellow film critics who found this whole 98-minute, theme-less, emotionally inert atrocity some sort of bold experiment in bringing back the European art film of a bygone era.

If you need pretense on this level (which I do, it sustains me) then watch Vincent Gallo's equally impassive The Brown Bunny from 2003. At least you get an actual hardcore blowjob scene in that one from the always game Chloe Sevigny. And Gallo plays a motorcycle racer, not a fucking spoiled Hollywood actor.

Sounds to me like Sophia has been watching or hearing too much about Entourage and thought she'd give it the Antonioni treatment.

In Coppola's inability to provide one moment of interest or meaning and shoot for the tragic languidness of our put-upon entertainment multimillionaires, she at least spared us some faux bonding ritual between the shell and his daughter. Thank Christ for that unresolved thread. 

But that is the very point of why you should never make a movie about such an innocuous fuck.

Nobody cares.

Maybe that's why Stephen Dorff was the perfect choice for this role.

Nobody cares what Stephen Dorff does.