The film takes the form of a mockumentary that treats every lazy show-business cliché as a piece of profound existential wisdom. In a bravura display of subtlety and understatement, the film's principal characters are introduced with graphics stating their names and salient characteristics. Richard Jeni's scheming Hollywood player, for example, is introduced thusly:
Jerry Glover
* President, Challenger Films
* Moron
* Liar
* Nickname—The Dwarf
* Wimp
Ryan O'Neal's producer, a sleazy, whoring, hypocritical amalgam of Jon Peters and Don Simpson, meanwhile, receives the following introduction:
James Edmunds
* Veteran Producer
* Slept In The White House
* Liar
* Academy Award Winner
* Scumbag
That isn't satire. Those are schoolyard taunts. It's the equivalent of taking out full-page ads in Variety decrying your professional enemies as poopyheads and stupidfaces. Ah, but schoolyard insults aren't the only weapons in Eszterhas' satirical arsenal. Apparently a small child explained the concept of "sarcasm" to him as well, since Jackie Chan is introduced as a "linguist" and a "scholar" and Stallone is hailed as a "superstar," "rocket scientist," and "brain surgeon."
But Eszterhas saves his most of his vitriol for women, who are uniformly depicted as star-fucking whores, ball-busting shrews, or most damning of all, Whoopi Goldberg. Then again, maybe I'm just being overly sensitive, since here's how Eszterhas sums up my oft-reviled industry:
The Media
* Hyenas
* Maggots
* Sluts
* Lowlifes
* Scum
Boy, has he got our number! That ought to silence the critics. But back to the hilarity. After witnessing the mess the studio has made of his film, Idle takes the only print of his $200 million movie hostage and threatens to burn it unless he's allowed to re-edit it. Idle quickly and believably becomes a national celebrity, popping up on Larry King Live and the front cover of a New York Times parody Eszterhas has hilariously re-titled New York Slimes. Get it? 'Cause they're so slimy! The grey lady isn't the only publication taking it on the chin: Eszterhas has cunningly re-dubbed Rolling Stone as "Rolling Phone" (which doesn't even really make any sense) and Newsweek as "Newsleak."
While O'Neal and Jeni conspire to get their blockbuster back, Idle goes into hiding and joins forces with angry black filmmaking team "the Brothers Brothers" (played by Coolio and Chuck D, who also provided the film's dreadful score). The brothers' wacky surname sounds suspiciously like a joke purloined from In Living Color, because it is, only this time, the Brothers Brothers are a parody, in theory at least, of the Hughes Brothers instead of the Smothers Brothers.
The Brothers Brothers subplot allows the filmmakers to explore satirical ground that makes the excess and duplicity of Hollywood seem positively virgin and untouched by comparison: the cultural differences between blacks and whites. See, white people be all, "I say, that new John Tesh album is quite delightful," and the brothers are all "I be straight kicking it in the hood, yo." 'Cause they're cool, ya dig?
In his zero-star review of the film, Roger Ebert adroitly compares it to the video tributes PR companies put together for retiring bosses. It has the smug, self-indulgent feel of an inside joke. If it were a winking video tribute/roast put together by Eszterhas' agent in recognition of the millions he brought to the agency, it'd be easier to accept uncritically, but it does not even begin to hold up to the scrutiny that comes with putting a real, live film before critics and audiences.
Smithee is a terrible, terrible film: smug, hateful, joyless, and condescending. Yet re-watching it a decade after it first crashed and burned, I found myself warming to it ever so slightly. For beneath all the childish taunts and heavy-handed jibes is a grudging admiration for Hollywood and the parasites and glorified con artists at the top of its food chain. Eszterhas might hate the Don Simpsons and Jon Peters of the world, but he also clearly admires their 24/7 hustle. Similarly, he depicts Evans as a creepy whoremonger who insists on being called "Daddy" by his well-compensated partners because "incest turns them on." But he's also drawn with a certain warped affection. Here and elsewhere, Evans comes off as a slickster so phony that he somehow transcends phoniness and becomes achingly, poignantly sincere. In a fakey, artificial, show-biz sort of way.
Smithee more or less marked the end of Eszterhas' career as a big-money Hollywood scribe. He then turned his attention to writing wildly self-indulgent memoirs like Hollywood Animal and The Devil's Guide To Hollywood: The Screenwriter As God! Though I wouldn't describe what Eszterhas does as writing: He's teasing mah dick! Also it must be weird for Eszterhas to now have a job where people don't cum on him. Sorry 'bout that, I had to shoehorn my Showgirls references in there somewhere.
Ah, Showgirls, Eszterhas' timeless masterpiece and the giddy apex of his lifelong love affair with vulgarity. I think Showgirls is one of the greatest films ever made, but like so many of its apologists, I give all the credit to Paul Verhoeven, a subversive genius whose filmography is as studded with warped cult classics as Eszterhas' is riddled with opportunistic crap. Yet Eszterhas deserves at least part of the credit for Showgirls. It is his glorious, glorious dialogue I find myself quoting constantly.
On the basis of Showgirls alone, I'd argue that Eszterhas deserves at least one more shot at big-time Hollywood filmmaking. Given Hollywood's warped ways, it seems somehow fitting that 13 years on, Showgirls, the biggest and most public failure in Eszterhas' checkered career, now stands as his greatest triumph. But I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for a Showgirls-like critical reappraisal of Burn, Hollywood Burn. It's an ugly duckling that stubbornly refuses to turn into a swan.
Failure, Fiasco, or Secret Success? Fiasco
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