Geraldine Viswanathan and Margaret Qualley in Drive-Away Dolls
DRIVE-AWAY DOLLS
Just what is it going to take for Joel and Ethan Coen to end this silly separation of theirs and get back together? An online petition? A generous gift basket? A promise to reconsider the merits of Intolerable Cruelty? Whatever is required, consider me on-board, because even though it's merely been six years – merely! – since the Coen brothers last teamed up for The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, I'm not sure how much more of this breakup I can handle.
Granted, following the announcement of their (please God let it be temporary) decision to pursue solo projects, the siblings have delivered only one feature film apiece. Yet despite its impressive craftsmanship, Joel's 2021 The Tragedy of Macbeth felt stilted and weirdly emotionless; I never imagined that a black-and-white, 105-minute take on my favorite Shakespeare – starring Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand, no less – would be something I'd have no interest in watching twice. And dishearteningly, in a 180-degree tonal shift, Ethan's raunchy road-trip slapstick Drive-Away Dolls is far worse: obnoxious, self-conscious, excitement-free, and completely void of laughs. Even more damagingly, you're assaulted with echoes of other, immeasurably better movies the Coens partnered on: a little Big Lebowski here; a little Ladykillers there; a note-for-note replay of composer Carter Burwell's Burn After Reading theme. So you're not only bummed by what's in front of you, but routinely reminded of entertainments you'd rather be watching, even for a 20th time.
After some busy setup, lesbian besties Jamie (Margaret Qualley) and Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan), in 1999, trek from Philadelphia to Tallahassee for some R&R, initially unaware that their rented car's trunk is holding a mysterious suitcase and hat box wanted by a few very bad men. The rest of Drive-Away Dolls concerns the villains' attempts to secure their belongings while über-horny Jamie and über-uptight Marian bond, and as shaggy-dog stories go, Coen's and wife Tricia Cooke's narrative is perfectly satisfactory. What is isn't is in any way engaging, and I hesitate to say that's primarily because Qualley and Viswanathan, gifted comedians though they are, share zero discernible chemistry. Both are so firmly entrenched in their stereotypes – Qualley nattering a mile a minute with a Holly-Hunter-in-Raising-Arizona twang, Viswanathan making repression inseparable from a waking coma – that you never for a second believe these women as friends, let alone potential soulmates. They're also such abject cartoons that nothing involving Jamie and Marian feels remotely at stake. Yet here the co-stars have company, as Coen and Cooke don't appear to have much on their minds beyond mockery, and perhaps setting a record for the most dildos yet seen in a non-pornographic movie. Congrats, folks: You win. If only the phalli were funny.
Playing a vaguely malevolent crime boss, the sleek, insinuating Colman Domingo preserves his dignity, and Bill Camp, as a car-rental manager named Curlie, has an ideal deadpan for Coen comedy. Yet even these ace character actors are stuck playing one note each, and whenever Drive-Away Dolls isn't wholly losing the thread via lesbian make-out parties, visits to redneck bars, incessant nods to Henry James, meaningless slow-motion dog-track racing, and hallucinatory '60s imagery involving an uncredited Miley Cyrus, the other performers look stranded. Given the collective senselessness of those detours, how could they not? You watch Beanie Feldstein grimace and bark as a pissed-off cop, and Joey Slotnick and C.J. Wilson as Fargo-esque squabbling heavies, and Pedro Pascal and Matt Damon in appearances that scream “Why?!?”, and can't believe that this thing is only 84 minutes long, because it feels like forever. I'd imagine that Ethan and Joel are still seeing each other at family functions and on holidays. But I'm praying they soon reconnect for the rest of us, too, because while they've frequently produced magical work together, I'm not feeling confident about the Coens' long-term cinematic success while apart.
ORDINARY ANGELS
It may be counterintuitive to suggest, but I wonder if the worst thing to happen to Hilary Swank's career was that second Academy Award. When Swank won for Boys Don't Cry in 2000, it felt like an exciting new talent had arrived. When she won again for Million Dollar Baby five years later, you could sense people cooling to her. How dare she have more Best Actress Oscars (at the time) than Meryl Streep?! Ever since, it seems as though Swank has largely been an afterthought or a punchline – The Office devoted an entire B-plot to the question of whether she was “hot” – and she certainly hasn't amassed the roles or respect her talent and trophies merited. Happily, though, Swank is still out there giving it her all, and director Jon Gunn's Ordinary Angels provides her with a winning showcase – even if this true-life drama, like so much on the performer's résumé, doesn't particularly deserve her.
Playing a hairdresser and unruly alcoholic who decides to turn her life around by helping a struggling widower (Alan Ritchson) pay the bills and care for his critically ill five-year-old, Swank's character may be Sharon Stevens, yet she's really Erin Brockovich – taking no guff, refusing to back down, and playfully warring with a begrudging partner who, just like Albert Finney's incredulous attorney, is named Ed. Not to sound like a monster, but I wasn't terribly moved by the presentation of the little girl's plight. The film consistently leans toward the obvious and sentimentalized, and its climax features so many levels of contrivance and lump-in-the-throat do-goodery that, true event or not, I didn't buy it for an instant. Plus, despite his imposing physique, Whitson doesn't appear to possess the emotional resources to make his grief-stricken figure internally alive; even when commanding a scene, he tends to fade into the background. (Until I learned that he was the star of Prime Video's Reacher, I presumed that Whitson was a country-music star I hadn't heard of making his acting debut.)
Yet I admired screenwriters Kelly Fremon Craig and Meg Tilly (!) for smartly daring to view Sharon's tireless helpfulness as its own form of addictive behavior, and to the movie's and its star's credit, this is how Swank tackles the role: as a boisterous, benevolent soul who, even though she doesn't realize it, is inherently an utter mess. While I wish that Gunn's well-meaning inspirational drama had explored this and other paradoxes more thoroughly, Ordinary Angels is still decent enough, as well as a solid reminder of what Hilary Swank can do when given the opportunity. Maybe a third Oscar won't happen. I sure hope renewed appreciation for her skill does.
