Voter Fraud
Barry Levinson hasn’t made a movie of note since 1997’s Wag the Dog, and even that was less a work of substantial relevance than a bit of lucky timing based on someone else’s better novel. Granted, it had its moments, but Levinson’s gentle satire felt overstretched. Everything since then — well, it’s better to pretend that Levinson has been off woodshedding. Just the thought of Envy, Sphere, Liberty Heights and Bandits is enough to send one scrambling for signs that maybe the guy was overrated all along. (Then again, Rain Man and Toys ain’t exactly waiting for their Hall of Fame induction ceremonies.)
Levinson’s return to the political realm, Man of the Year, is no heroic comeback, though it’s better than the trailer makes it appear. (The ads give off the acrid stench of surrender; nothing waves the white flag harder than scattershot scenes of Robin Williams in overdrive to remind people why they ever liked him.) Buried beneath its pale satiric surface is a not-bad idea: What would happen if an outsider candidate, a TV comedian played by Williams, became a White House insider? But Levinson is too distracted to make any kind of point. He loses his audience and his purpose in a tangle of conspiracy theories and crackpot notions that sink the movie just when it begins to transcend expectations. In short, it would have been great if it had stopped, oh, 12 minutes in. No such luck, though you should feel free to walk out when Laura Linney shows.
Nothing against Linney, a fine actress who brings substance even to meaningless roles. But her appearance here, as a worker at a voting-machine manufacturer ruled by despots more concerned with profit than with precision, throws the movie out of whack. What could have been something prescient and relevant ventures deep into nutjob territory that even Oliver Stone has abandoned for higher ground. Is the movie about the absurdity of the election process or the corruption of politics by moneymen? Either one’s a no-brainer gimme, but Levinson isn’t satirist enough to pick an idea and stick with it, let alone give the left what it’s been waiting for.
Williams’ Tom Dobbs, the comic turned candidate, is meant to be an amalgam of Jon Stewart and Bill Maher — both of whom exist in this movie’s universe, which makes the casting of Daily Show commentator Lewis Black as Dobbs’ gag writer more than a bit befuddling. Dobbs is neither incisive nor funny; he’s the kind of softball comic who compares politicians with diapers, more Jay Leno than Stephen Colbert.
At first, Dobbs’ campaign recalls that of Michael Dukakis, not Willie Stark. Dobbs is an earnest candidate slow to crack wise on the long trail, much to the chagrin of his manager (Christopher Walken, doing Christopher Walken) and campaign staff. But during a televised debate, as the Republican and Democratic candidates keep agreeing with and smiling at each other, he cuts loose and goes on a protracted rant that proves he is indeed an alternative candidate, not just an outsider but a loose cannon capable of blowing the establishment to bits. Which he does — sort of. Turns out, Dobbs gets elected, but only because of a computer glitch that Linney’s character, Eleanor, brings to the attention of her boss (Jeff Goldblum, a tad scarier than usual). To cover the error, he has Eleanor injected with enough illegal drugs to make her look like a less than trustworthy source.
Had Levinson chosen to make, say, Mr. Dobbs Goes to Washington rather than venture into Parallax View terrain, maybe Man of the Year would have been tolerable. Williams, despite his occasional shticky asides, plays Dobbs with considerable restraint. Dobbs is precisely the kind of role that Williams needs after a litany of bombs and embarrassments; there’s some meat on these bare bones. But the writer-director has nothing to say about politics. His idea of a radical position is taking the stance that all politicians say the same thing, which is nothing at all, much like the Man of the Year itself.
