Relax and Succumb to 'Nightmare Alley'
Let's not call it a review! Comments from T. Bloom on critics' inability to see past spectacle
One of the most frustrating aspects of film criticism is the temptation to speak empirically about matters which are extremely subjective. "Fails to engage the viewer" simply means it failed to engage one key viewer... or that the viewer themselves failed to engage. "Nothing below the surface" is often, likewise, just a measuring stick of a how deep a critic was willing to delve, and not necessarily a valid judgment of the art itself.
These especially bother me in cases where reactions are very mixed, because clearly there's something that certain viewers are responding to. If a critic is curious enough to figure out what that is, their overall review carries a lot more weight, even if it's still ultimately negative. If they're aware enough to recognize their own personal biases and even make reference to them, that helps readers intuit what their own experience is likely to be.
Anyhow, obviously this post is brought to you by my combing through critics’ reviews for Nightmare Alley — which are mostly quite positive, but even the some of the decent reviews show a lack of willingness to engage with anything but the surface details… which they see as a failing of the film itself, and then still offering a relatively favorable review on the basis of those details, damning with faint praise. This strikes me as especially ironic because of the warnings that Bradley Cooper's character receives re: his mentalist act, about falling for his own con, believing too strongly in his own powers of perception.
At this point, Guillermo Del Toro has made enough films that everyone has a different idea of the overall quality of his work, and what his true potential may be. Each new movie arrives pre-judged based on criticisms of the previous one, or the genre he happens to be working in. And of course I'm not immune to this either, and admittedly went into his new one with some reservations because of how little I connected with The Shape of Water, despite its unique thrills and pleasures.
Weirdly, Nightmare Alley is exactly the film I've been waiting to see from the person who made Pan's Labyrinth. The sets and surfaces are so lavish that I can see why it's tempting to imagine that's all there is, and the characters are so opaque for long stretches that I understand why someone might find it difficult to invest in them as real people… up to a point. And even though I'd loved watching this movie, up until the final moments I was still preparing to walk away without feeling something vital and tragic about its main character in a way that broke free of the script and all the set dressing.
I won't give any spoilers, but I received that feeling thanks to the film’s very last lines, which are delivered in tight closeup and make the reality of that character (and everything they represent) feel inescapable. It was a very slow burn up to that point, and by then it seemed the movie had fully exhausted all its tricks. This final moment carries an emotional payload that a lesser director and screenwriter might have skimmed right past. It gives the entire movie the structure of a long, well-told joke — the kind that lulls you into forgetting to expect a punchline, or tricks you into thinking you already know it. And it's a very cruel joke, which I know is simply not going to sit well with some.
Something about that resolution, and the timing of this film's release amidst endless drear and darkness, felt weirdly powerful to me. It's a shame how many people will only be able to experience it through a comparative lens, whether because of the original movie/novel, or Del Toro's previous work. But at least the work is out there, and people only go see it for the actors and the visuals (all of which are terrific!) it will still leave some kind of impression. How could it not?
In cinema, spectacle is often viewed as an indulgence, a deception, a compensation for something lacking in other areas. It’s seen as a distraction from what is vital and true about a story, instead of a means to achieving those truths. Because most film reviewers are men, this kind of excess is generally considered pardonable or even desirable in the realms of action and sci-fi, somewhat less so in horror (where women and LGBTQ+ creators have found more creative inroads), and regarded with outright suspicion in musicals and period dramas. Essentially, one’s reaction to being stimulated in certain ways may have more to do with identity than one is prepared to admit; our preferences are not always as personal as they feel.
From the beginning, Del Toro’s work has confounded genre and gender expectations. Consequently, each of his movies ends up serving as a mirror in which viewers accidentally view themselves, encountering frustrations and dissatisfactions which interfere with their enjoyment of the experience. When a film has its own priorities, or zigs where you hoped it would zag, it’s tempting to blame the filmmaker for not delivering the expected, superior product that exists in your imagination. Bad movies have betrayed us so regularly that it becomes difficult to extend any trust to artists who seek to tinker with the formula. There’s an element of surrender to appreciating unusual films, and too many critics have resolved not to go down without a fight.
I’m choosing not to comment at length about Nightmare Alley’s particular pleasures and challenges, which are all well-documented elsewhere. Just know there was a five-minute span of this movie when my hands basically didn't leave my face, because the tension was driving me out of my mind. I think that's what connected me to the experience of watching Pan's Labyrinth that first time, before I knew how it would all end. That film, too, is remembered best for its creative vitality and lingering visual presence, but it's very easy to forget the original experience of watching it, which felt like trying to wriggle free from a hellish trap lined with razor-wire — a feat which proves more possible for viewers than for the film's heroine, and at the end we are released to go on with our lives... in the very same world where all the film's most hellish atrocities took place.
As someone who’s made a living from reviewing movies, I'll be the first to verify that film criticism is a con job. It's just a matter of persuading people that you should be paid to indulge in entertainment (!!) and that your opinions about it are a product that can be sold. Perhaps this movie strikes a little too close to home for critics who are unconscious of how deeply they've fallen into the big sideshow game — as if there was nothing to a magic show except spotting how the trick works, and then telling everyone.
The questions we ask of artists are also ones we should be aware enough to ask ourselves. In the meantime, nobody has to believe magic is real to appreciate the craft or enjoy the spectacle. Our tears, laughter, or amazement are not necessarily signs that we have been duped: they simply reflect a need that’s been met. By observing and studying this phenomenon in others, we may sometimes uncover a fresh, unexplored need in ourselves.
This is something Del Toro understands implicitly; in fact, he’s just made an entire film about it. Step right up!
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