a review by Jeffrey Overstreet
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The Man Who Wasn’t There is the perfect title for this story of a barber and a husband who has withdrawn so far into himself that he’s created a black hole.
The film stars Billy Bob Thornton in what may be the greatest exhibit yet of his talent and yet it may also be a performance that no one remembers ten years from now. His brilliance here is in his restraint and control, playing a man who speaks in rare statements as brief as his name…Ed Crane. Ed is a barber, but he’s not very proud of it. He’s married to a woman named Doris and he doesn’t seem very excited about that either. In fact, Ed is not excited about anything. The ongoing monologue that narrates the film frames everything in Ed’s sullen, apathetic perspective. And as that perspective is the lens through which we see the story, we feel detached, and even apathetic, by the conclusion.
Thus, The Man Who Wasn’t There is also the first Coen Brothers film which, in my opinion, is almost unpleasant to watch. In their commitment to Ed’s point of view, they doom the picture to a dull, depressing, negative tone that eventually leaves us cold and uncaring. What plays out onscreen is a series of crimes against human beings, but because Ed’s conscience is so lazy, we aren’t given time or reason to fear for their lives or mourn the evils that transpire.
The evils are common, and reminiscent of the Coens’ noir classic Blood Simple. This time, though, the central character is the jealous husband, not the romantic lovers. Ed deliberately commits a crime both to punish his wife and her employer, Big Dave, for having an affair. But he’s too lazy to be motivated out of jealousy; he doesn’t seem that concerned, or even fond of, his wife. It is the notion of making money off the affair that appeals to him. He sees an opportunity to get rich when an ambitious entrepreneur (Coen regular Jon Polito) invites him to be a “silent partner” and invest in the wave of the future…dry cleaning. Smelling money, the only thing that can wake his slothful spirit, Ed takes advantage of his scandalous knowledge and blackmails Big Dave into giving him some of his fortune. This sneaky maneuver leads to a downward spiral into confrontations, bad law enforcement, a dead body, and Ed trying to comprehend that his own haircutting hands could be capable of heavy crime.
Doris is the only character who acts out of passion. And thus she has the opportunity to bring life to the story and meaning to the picture. Unfortunately, even though she had an affair, and despite a moment when she actually seems fond of her husband Ed, in the end these passions don’t amount to much, and we’re left wondering if she really cared about anyone at all. She is clearly sinking into some sort of internal pit as well.
Because the film is narrated by a dull and foolish thinker, I was not emotionally engaged by the movie. I instead spent my time enjoying the rich black and white photography and the references to other film noir classics (this is a worthy tribute to the genre, technically speaking.) I was also impressed by the excellent performances from Thornton and Coen regulars Frances McDormand and John Polito. Tony Shaloub provides the film’s most energetic scenes, and I found myself disappointed at the brevity of his appearances. Richard Jenkins provides another memorable supporting role as the closest thing Ed has to a friend, Walter, a guy who slouches in a front porch chair in the evening and teeters on the brink of intoxicated sleep all through their slow conversations. Birdy, Walter’s teenage daughter, is played by Scarlett Johanssen, an odd newcomer who’s husky voice and adolescent beauty are an interesting mix. She brings a temporary note of grace and beauty to the film, but Ed’s perspective eventually sours our view of her as well.
This all goes to prove the film’s central point, made by the attorney who steps in to defend the accused in the film’s courtroom scenes: The more we look at something, the more we actually change it. Throughout the film, Ed, who seems the most inactive figure of all, causes continental shifts in the lives of those around him, merely by observing. Ed’s personality keeps the law enforcement from considering that he might have had a part in criminal activity. And at one point in the film, someone shines a light on Ed as though he’s being hunted; his apathetic stare in return causes the seekers to pause, turn around, and leave. Perhaps they decide he’s just not worth going after. It goes to show just how each of us affects the world in our own small way, no matter how little we care.
As Ed listens to Birdy playing Beethoven in a piano showroom-one of many dark wonderlands created by the cinematographer-we see a brief glimpse of his soul. He suddenly has an ambition, a desire. It’s not just a sexual thing, in fact it might not be that at all. It’s the fusion of the youth that he sees and the beauty of Beethoven. “He wrote this after he went deaf, you know,” Birdy says. It’s a perfect contrast to Ed, who has lost his conscience, and might yet strain to compose something worthwhile with his life.
As Coen films go, The Man Who Wasn’t There has fewer outrageous, side-splitting moments. Its sober mood recalls Barton Fink, but it lacks the depth of characters and complex symbolic language that made that film a classic. These flaws, as I have said, are probably due to the fact that we are seeing through Ed’s tinted lens. He’s as strangely inhuman as the aliens mentioned in the local tabloid, only he’s more like one of those X-Files human corpses that gets left behind by its alien inhabitant, a rubber suit. You’ve heard of a “vacant stare”; now you know what it’s like for the person staring.
The Coens are being accused of a preoccupation with style in this film, and it is true; their central character prevents them from getting emotionally involved tin the story. Their attention to period piece and genre details is incredible. Roger Deakins’ cinematography is exquisite, the black and white photography dazzling in its range from blinding white flashes to black holes. One extraordinary scene features light spilling down to a table, where Ed and Doris sit and listen to their attorney, and the light seems to conceal Ed entirely from view; only his ghostly outline emerges occasionally, so that we almost forget he is present.
You could argue that boredom drives Ed to crime, but I think Ed is something more monstrous than a bored barber. He has no dreams. And when he does have a glimmer of passion, he only pursues it when it can be turned to his selfish gain. This feeble notion about becoming the manager for a mediocre teenage pianist leads him to the most emotional moments of the film, and they’re little more than resentment and frustration. It’s as though we aren’t seeing him follow a dream so much as seeing him try to dream something, before it’s too late. His chance to be redeemed is fading. Perhaps his current existence is just the physical remnant of a dead thing; as he observes, hair keeps on growing after death.
Once the opportunity has passed, Ed reverts back to what he was, forever to be The Man Who Was Almost There … for a Moment or Two.