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In 1924, William Randolph Hearst (Hermann), magnate
of the Hearst newspaper syndicate, hosted a weekend party
aboard his yacht. It was one of those classic mythical Hollywood
gatherings, attended by Tinseltown royalty, powerful studio
moguls, and pop writers intent on joining a club of stars.
So, during the course of one weekend, much food was eaten,
much illegal alcohol was drunk (Prohibition was a real bitch,
wasn’t it?), much illicit activity occurred (behind closed
doors, where probing eyes couldn’t judge), and, in the end,
something went horribly wrong – one of Hearst’s guests died.
Peter Bogdanovich’s The Cat’s Meow attempts
to recreate that weekend and posit an already fairly popular
theory as to the how’s and why’s of the, dare we say, “murder,”
aboard Hearst’s yacht that weekend. Bogdanovich has requested
that reviewers not reveal who gets shot in the film, despite
the fact that the identity of the unfortunate guest is a matter
of public record, so we’ll comply with that and just say that
the film is constructed in such a way that the events leading
up to the killing achieve a kind of karmic inevitability.
When it finally happens it’s like a piñata splitting open,
letting loose an assortment of action and reaction. It’s safe
to say that this is my favorite film so far this year.
For years, we’ve ruefully wondered where Peter Bogdanovich
went. In Paper Moon, What’s Up, Doc?, and especially
The Last Picture Show, Bogdanovich proved to be the
70s reigning master of merging a jaded outlook on life with
the sentimentality that finds saving grace in the good in
people. But then that talent seemed to disappear for a while,
being drained in a number of subpar films, as well as that
interesting late-90s stream of TV movies. But now, the cynic
with a heart of jello brings that long-lost quality back in
The Cat’s Meow. This is a film that, like many Hollywood
exposés, lays bare the backbiting and the scandal of fame
and fortune. But, in true Bogdanovich style, there’s more
to it. It’s less a condemnation of Hollywood product than
a reflection of a society whose very survival is dependent
on that product.
There’s this idea throughout The Cat’s Meow that having
a private life is something to be ashamed of, that these characters,
real-life and larger-than-life at the same time, consider
an existence away from the cameras as a kind of weakness.
They are afraid that they will lack any kind of purpose when
the cards are laid out and business can’t protect them from
the simple definition as “people,” without the word “famous”
tagged on.
As Charlie Chaplin, Eddie Izzard illustrates this
idea beautifully. He digs deep to find another side of The
Tramp, one that points at the frustration caused by living
life in the public. This Chaplin is a man whose film persona
is bigger than himself, and he finds it impossible to shake
a public perception that insists he be who they know and love,
his celluloid alter ego. His most recent film reaped cold
reception precisely because he tried to stay behind the camera
for once, to work as a serious craftsman. And the public wouldn’t
have it. Izzard understands the toll this would take on a
man who defines himself as the public does, whose happiness
rests solely on how happy his audience is, a bunch of strangers
that determine his course in life. It’s that old Hollywood
adage, you’re only as good as your last picture, and this
harsh truth stands tall throughout Izzard’s performance. Eddie
Izzard is, in fact, only one member of an amazing cast that
aims high and never misses the mark. Despite the true-life
characters here, none of these performances are imitations.
No, they avoid that altogether, instead creating the characters
from scratch, not letting what we know get in the way of what
they want us to know.
Kirsten Dunst’s performance as Marion Davies, the
Hollywood starlet and mistress of Hearst, perfectly captures
the silent-film-flapper aura, the charisma and the inscrutability
that make a star. With this role, Dunst proves once and for
all that she is the foremost actress of her generation. Her
Marion is a vital presence among the other characters; she
uses her youth to challenge everyone around her, and Dunst
uses her own youth to channel a free spirit who wants everyone
else to share in that freedom.
If Dunst’s Marion represents young Hollywood’s insistence
on a good time, then Joanna Lumley’s performance as
novelist Elinor Glyn is a study of restrained dignity and
quiet morality that seems to sometimes crave a common life
even in the wake of her fame and fortune. Lumley erases any
memory of Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous with her incredibly
measured and mature presence, the quiet, reserved center in
a world gone totally mad. The same can be said for Cary
Elwes, who, as legendary movie producer Thomas H. Ince,
has never been better. His is a performance of reaction, one
that uncovers Ince’s desire to have some kind of effect on
the world around him, to somehow change things, even if just
temporarily. He wants control, and his job as producer allows
him this position. Elwes give us a look inside a very practical,
financially driven man who sees his legacy slipping away,
who sees the power in Hollywood gradually creeping out of
his hands and into the hands of art. And Jennifer Tilly,
who has made a career out of playing mousy, slightly annoying
characters now uses those qualities to deepen her role as
gossip columnist Louella Parsons. Tilly manages the part perfectly,
outwardly playing Parsons as a star-struck “commoner” who
looks to these people to provide her with the vicarious thrill
of fame. But we get glimpses of the inner workings of Parsons’s
mind, and that is where the brilliance of Tilly’s performance
can be found. She very subtly shows how Parsons gains the
trust of others, how she fools them into slipping up and benefiting
her bid for a stardom by proxy.
But the heart of The Cat’s Meow has got to be Edward
Hermann as Hearst. Hermann has always had a special talent
for playing powerful men brought down by their own self-doubt.
His Hearst has it all: money, power, a young, beautiful mistress,
and a wife who doesn’t mind. But his power is only comfort
food. His mounting paranoia throughout the film is only heightened
by his fear of losing everything, and his role of host is
only a way to calm that fear. But it doesn’t work. Hermann
shows us how Hearst perceives himself as outsider to the circle
of Hollywood, and how he only becomes more disappointed when
he realizes that his power doesn’t have the effect he thought
it did. It’s a terrific performance that thoughtfully confirms
what we already know: that mighty people are people nonetheless.
— Cole Sowell
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