Megalopolis

Tropic Sprockets by Ian Brockway

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American legend Francis Ford Coppola directs the epic “Megalopolis,” a film several decades in the making. It is sprawling and colorful and has many philosophical and political ideas, but in execution, the film comes off as soapy, noisy and confusing with sounds, colors and images of violence crowding the frame seemingly at random. There are great stretches in the film where not much happens and viewing feels tedious. Yet at other times, mainly later in the film, there are passages of imagistic beauty. This is Coppola’s kaleidoscopic Jack-in-the-Box, too much of a political dream for most, with all of its jangling loose ends, noise and ennui.

Cesar (Adam Driver) is a visionary architect who knows he is a genius, ahead of his time. He has been accused of poisoning his wife. For unexplained reasons he has the power to stop time. Mayor Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito) is the regressive Status Quo politician who vows to stop Cesar’s plans for an idealistic utopian wonderland, free of polarity or strife.

A war begins for the future-world soul of New York City, labeled in the film as New Rome.

Cesar spends much of the film sulking around like Bela Lugosi in a black cape. He sweats and frets. More often than not, he puts his hands to his temples in perpetual vexation. Whether or not this is the director’s intention, one is reminded of Kylo-Ren from the Star Wars Saga. He is pursued by Cicero’s daughter (Nathalie Emmanuel) who wants him to stay honest. Cesar is also pursued by a ultra-greedy reporter (Aubrey Plaza). Jon Voight is an aging ineffectual president who acts as a toddler and Shia LeBoeuf is a bigoted and spoiled Trump-like bully who wants power for power’s sake.

Many of the characters parade and spin in and out of the film without rhyme or reason. Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman cackle together. Most of the female cast undulates like snakes. Night-club scenes and golden landscapes jostle together in confusing rhythms only to become listless by repetition. There are gladiator scenes and American Idol contests that lead to no end.

The dialogue and gestures are expressly pronounced and stilted as if from a soap opera.

Aubrey Plaza, who is usually compelling, either lazes on the bed or becomes a dominatrix.

All elements from the set design to the actors seem in stagnation.

Yet underneath the dramatic stillness, there are some images that carry the power of a dream.

A moon merges into a fist, recalling the moon-cloud image of Bunuel’s “Un Chien Andalou.” Talia Shire blends into a blooming rose and oceanic rocks become nude women which in turn transform into fetuses, oceanic yin yang symbols of human karma, containing our creation and destruction. The split-screens too are masterful, showcasing geometry coupled against the sharp angles of New York skyscrapers and florid flowers connecting with golden birds which become exceedingly feminine. In a very sparse few scenes, the men are weak and simpering. Coppola celebrates the cult of the Female.

The film has other vibrant imagery: war, Nazi marches, a tree stump carved into a Swastika. All this is compelling. But at two and a half hours with only Cesar skulking around in a black cape followed by an hour of soap, it melts into a fever dream, with too much dream and not enough fever.

Write Ian at ianfree11@yahoo.com