The art of the steal

The art of the steal

David O Russell has, of late, solidified his ranking on the list of Hollywood’s biggest hitmakers. Although he had already gathered a devoted cult-ish following thanks to a number of whimsical and thought-provoking earlier works like Three Kings and I Heart Huckabees, those had proved much more divisive than his last few efforts, comprising films that have garnered enough commercial and critical praise to be considered frontrunners in the Oscars race in their given years. If it was sports drama The Fighter in 2011, which won Christian Bale and Melissa Leo their first Academy Awards for their supporting stints, 2012 had Silver Linings Playbook whereby Jennifer Lawrence received her golden statuette for Best Actress—not counting the many nominations both films had going for them besides. What makes Russell exciting is the way he so willfully pushes genre expectations: The Fighter, although emerging from a long tradition of boxing films, didn’t confine itself to the formula, much as Silver Linings flirted with the boundaries of the rom-com. Convention-bashing continues in his latest, American Hustle, an exceedingly well-performed crime-caper comedy that, while paying homage to its influences—Scorsese clearly one of them—refuses to play by the rules, resulting in a riotous, unpredictable, absolute joyride of a watch determined to keep you in stitches throughout.

Starting with a disclaimer that reads, “Some of this actually happened”, an admission of the many liberties it will be taking with the truth, Hustle is constantly surprising. This is a film about deception and illusions—whether adopted for the benefit of others or our own selves—a theme captured deliciously by the wordless opening scene that sees a beer-bellied, circa 70s Christian Bale in front of a mirror, attempting to glue a bewildering comb-over to his balding head. Bale plays conman Irving Rosenfeld, who has been indulging in small-time scams, including selling forged paintings and running a fake loan racket, to boost his earnings from the chain of dry-cleaners he owns. But then he runs into a kindred soul in the form of the lovely Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), an adept swindler herself who can swerve in and out of accents, and the two soon join forces—in business and in love—expanding on the groundwork Irving had already laid to net in bigger fish. As their operations flourish, so does their relationship, and for a while, things are perfect.

Not for long, though.

First off, we have the obstacle posed by Irving’s wife, the loud, dotty Rosalyn (Jennifer Lawrence), who Irving describes rightly as the “Picasso of passive-aggressive karate”. Although fully aware of his romantic indiscretions, Rosalyn refuses to divorce him, choosing rather to take out her frustrations on innocent household appliances. But her manicured grasp isn’t the only thing Irving and Sydney are squirming under; their business is soon busted by FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper). Instead of locking the pair up, however, the power-hungry Richie decides to solicit their help in a sting operation involving a fake sheikh (a concept based on a real-life police endeavor in the US in the late 70s that was none-too-subtly titled ‘Abscam’) to nag bribe-seeking politicians, among who is the pompadoured New Jersey mayor, Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner). With all the ingredients laid out thus, it only remains to mix them up, which director Russell does with the abandon of a mad scientist, and all hell quickly, and very amusingly, breaks loose.

When you have so many story tangents competing for attention, and crosses and double-crosses taking place left and right, a pile-up is all but inevitable. Of course, Hustle does raise questions about the invasiveness of corruption and greed, and the fallibility of the American Dream, but the plot or the message are not the film’s primary concern by a long shot—it’s all, and only, about the characters, the colourful, motor-mouthed, manic personalities on screen who crash into

each other time and again. While lesser performers would have certainly sunk this messy ship of a script, it is buffeted by the efforts of such top-notch acting talent as we have here.

Bale, who has packed on the pounds for his role, extracts great vulnerability and poise from his conman, well embodying a crook with heart, a softer side of the actor that is rarely seen and which one suspects the weight gain has facilitated. Despite his less-than-attractive form, there’s something deeply appealing about how Bale portrays Irving, and one almost understands why the ladies love him. The versatile Adams, on the other hand, goes smokier and sexier than anything she’s done before, all plunging necklines, slit skirts and cool, appraising glances on the outside, but desperation and self-loathing underneath. And there’s very little I can say about the wonder that is Ms Lawrence without repeating myself—she is magnetic as ever here, a dazzling train-wreck you can’t keep your eyes off. Cooper and Renner both man their corners ably enough and don’t disappoint. There are also a few cameos punched in—those by Robert De Niro and Louis CK, to name names—that come as entertaining sideshows.

Aside from the casting, production design in Hustle is another triumph, the backdrops dripping with details that are lovingly evocative of the disco era, as are the cast—big hairdos, skeevy mustaches, gaudy shirts, thick jewellery et al—the nostalgic effect amplified by mellow lighting and free-flowing shots. Not to mention the atmospheric touch lent by the playlist, incorporating hits from back in the day, the work of composer Danny Elfman and music supervisor Susan Jacobs.

The stars then appear to have once again aligned in David O Russell’s favour, where audiences have lapped up his brand of dialogue-heavy, giddy dramedies with questionable moral centres—and why wouldn’t they? You might easily find a more complex and weighty meditation on the nature of crime than American Hustle, but I’d challenge you to find one that is as entertaining.

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