User Reviews

This review contains ** MINOR SPOILERS **.

I commend this film especially to: those of the Vietnam War generation; those who read and enjoy Southern fiction; those who keep wondering who and where America is.

I rate this a "7" out of "10". More for its vignettes, its people, its postcards from the South; and less for a single story from start to finish

The central character, Barlow, is a failed writer, and a Post-Traumatic-Stress-Syndrome Vietnam veteran to whom no attention is paid

In this regard, he is like the vast majority: untreated, unidentified, forgotten. He is remarkable for other vices, other problems, but not for the disrupted sleep, the nightmares. He shouts "Corpsman" even when he imagines surprising his estranged children with a buy-me-love present that their Mother won't even pass on to them. There is no attempt to explain the symmetric scarring on his back.

The townsfolk know him as an erratic man, a heavy drinker, a divorcee who is chronically behind in his support payments. He works from time to time as a housepainter. He paints carefully, and fills the air with erudite quotations from the great thinkers, philosophers, and Southern novelists who are without equal in any other part of the USA.

There is much to criticize in this film. Professional reviewer Roger Ebert has put his hand on many of the flaws, as have IMDb members. I urge you to surmount those flaws, to slog through them as Barlow no doubt slogged through the inhospitable jungle of Vietnam.

Find what is worthwhile in these 110 minutes. For me it was a mix of the most thought-provoking (and usually unnerving) themes and styles of at least three films: Nick Nolte's WHO'LL STOP THE RAIN (1978); Robert De Niro's JACKNIFE (1989); and Darren Aronofsky's REQUIEM FOR A DREAM (2000).

What is going to happen to this wastrel? In real life, probably nothing would. In film, the pieces are set before you; we expect something will emerge, especially as heavyweights Debra Winger and Rosanna Arquette do not usually show up unless there is something to be accomplished. But will there be enough energy for a true change? For a "quantum jump"? After all, people really don't change much, especially adults. Epiphanies are not a dime a dozen. That Hollywood sells them to us at a rate of one or more per film is part of what makes them true dream-merchants.

Here is where the "scrapbook" aspect took over for me. I did not care so much for the issue of how valid was the plot. I did not bring a videocam to the party. I brought an old-fashioned Kodak "Brownie", to take simple snapshots of each milepost along the way. These produced a fascinating story evolution. There are, as you would expect, stories, plural, interwoven. The story of Barlow is determinative.

When you rent this film, you may want to bring your own "camera." Especially at the mid-point, and near the film's end, the photos for the scrapbook of YOUR life may tumble quite rapidly one after another.

Good writing evidently comes from the heart as this picture tries to tell us.

Arliss Howard, as the painter who wants to write, experiences rejection upon rejection letters from various publishing houses.

His personal life is in the tank as well. Separated from his wife, played quite well by Debra Winger, who again shares her term of endearment, the Howard character has trouble with the bottle and is constantly smoking throughout the film.

Angie Dickinson appears as his mother and Roseanna Arquette offers fine support as a town lady.

Everyone within the family seems to be running. Are they running from this film? What's the point of all this? This question is really never answered. Does life change when personal tragedy strikes? Of course, but the theme is so emotionally attached, that it is never really realized.

While I'm as happy as anyone that Pvt. Cowboy of "Full Metal Jacket" is alive and well and married to Debra Winger, I wasn't as thrilled with this film that he -- or rather, actor Arliss Howard -- decided to star in, co-write and direct.

I was at Cannes in 2001 when he premiered it; my feeling was that while it wasn't a complete disaster, it came close. But I do believe it serves a valid purpose: as an effective demonstration that some people can act, others write, and still others direct -- but very few can do all three at once (Orson Welles and Jerry Lewis being two notable exceptions).

"Big Bad Love" probably looked good on paper. The basic premise is okay: boozy backwoods writer with hyperactive imagination and Vietnam past struggles for literary acceptance (think "Barfly" meets "Five Easy Pieces," set in rural Mississippi) while coping with nagging ex-wife, p***ed-off mom and goofy- but-lovable friend.

But Howard overdoes things from the very start. Instead of working in an honest, straightforward manner -- as Bob Rafelson did in "Five Easy Pieces" -- he tries to prove he's a movie director with jump cuts ("if Soderbergh can do it, why not me?"), grammatically funky titles (too cute to be entertaining), surreal flashbacks (more powerful 30 years ago in "Midnight Cowboy"), and confusing fantasy sequences (Richard Lester cornered that market half a century ago with the great "A Hard Day's Night;" Howard fails to improve upon it here).

In the wake of such recent cinematic failures as Ethan Hawke's "Chelsea Walls," Kevin Spacey's "Albino Alligator," and Nicolas Cage's "Sonny," I find it ironic that the actor-turned-director bandwagon continues rolling, and that these and other young stars continue doing what the majority of their more experienced forebears never managed: taking the directorial reigns of a motion picture. But hip Hawke, Academy-Award-winning Spacey, successful Cage and lesser known but respected Howard all stumbled when finally given their shot, despite the masterful tutelage of Weir, Nichols, Coppola and Kubrick . Gee... maybe

filmmaking isn't so easy after all!

The problem lies in the basic approach. Unlike the successful debuts of more experienced actors-turned-directors, such as Clint Eastwood ("Play Misty For

Me") or Charles Laughton ("Night of the Hunter") -- who was smart enough not

to act and direct his first time out -- "Big Bad Love" (terrible title, incidentally, taken from the writer's book or not) functions not as a dramatic narrative, but as an artsy actors' showcase.

Eastwood transcended his career by considering himself a director first, actor second. Not so here. As Jack Warner might have said, this is what happens

when the inmates take over the asylum, the result an incoherent exercise in

student filmmaking and pull-out-the-stops method acting (undoubtedly more

enjoyable for the performers than us).

To his credit, Howard assembles an excellent cast (though all have seen better days and parts): Debra Winger, Rosanna Arquette, Angie Dickinson, Paul Le

Mat. Le Mat plays best friend Monroe-- or Billy Green Bush's Elton to Jack

Nicholson's Bobby in "Five Easy Pieces." Unfortunately, with he and Howard

moving and speaking like the mountain men in "Deliverance," the charm factor

is somewhat limited, not nearly approaching the oddball friendship Rafelson

depicted three decades ago.

The tragedy is that these fine actors could have brought much more to the table. But without a strong leader, they flounder; scenes drag on endlessly, no one

seems to be in charge. This movie wants to be about redemption, but it's too lifeless for us to care. Even the "American Beauty" montage at the end lands with a dull thud. To paraphrase one of the "fantasy" scenes: cliches, blah. Film school tricks, Actors Studio emoting, blah, blah. Meaningless voiceover,

growling Tom Waits soundtrack, unending literary recitations, blah, blah, blah.

SPOILER ALERT*****

An effective post-mortem might begin with what should have been a major scene: the writer opens what he believes will be another rejection letter, only to learn he's finally going to be published. A triumphant, joyous moment, right? But do we see or feel elation? Teary-eyed wonder? Heartbreaking relief? Not even close. He lifelessly retrieves his discarded typewriter, goes back to work, and the audience couldn't care less.

Now let's backtrack 35 years to a similar scene in Francis Ford Coppola's "You're a Big Boy Now." Peter Kastner's nerdy teenager opens an envelope to find a letter from the woman he worships, Barbara Darling. In the blink of an eye, his whole world changes. Clutching the cherished note, Kastner deliriously rollerskates -- almost flies -- through the streets of Manhattan, heart soaring. We share in his jubilation. It's one of the high points in the movie, and a perfect example of externalizing internal emotion. This is what we call cinema, Mr. Howard. You may want to study it a bit before trying something like this again (and where the hell were all those wacky fantasies when we needed them?!?!?)

If I seem to be coming down hard on a decent guy and a project many people consider worthy, it's only because I care about good filmmaking, and Howard as a potential filmmaker. One must analyze failure if one wishes to succeed, correct? And I'd honestly like to see this guy succeed (at least there's nowhere for him to go but up).

But even if he never directs again, I'll always respect Arliss Howard as an actor. Even in a secondary role, he was fantastic in "Full Metal Jacket." He immersed himself in the part. And sometimes -- without uttering a single word -- he expressed all the pain, humiliation, anger and confusion missing from "Big Bad Love."

But "Full Metal Jacket," of course, was the work of a master; this is the product of a beginner. But don't take it too hard, Arliss. Hang in there, baby! If

simultaneously acting and writing and directing was easy, everyone would be

doing it. Right?

And don't forget -- no matter what, we'll always have Pvt. Cowboy.