By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Heather Baysa
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Simon Abrams
By Alan Scherstuhl
Levinson's best movie since Diner (1982), Wag the Dog has a premise in some ways as old as the 1978 thriller Capricorn One, in which a manned flight to Mars turns out to be staged. Here the event that's faked is a war, but the process that's being dummied up is our democracy, and the victim is the American public. Yet the movie doesn't become a heavy-handed, moralistic fable; it's a waggish tale, not a finger-wagging horror. Levinson takes viewers so far inside his satiric vision of a D.C./Hollywood image-making corps that it's hard not to get caught up in the team spirit. The movie says that this is the only genuine spirit left in the U.S. -- and it threatens to leave actual corpses in its wake.
After a Camp Fire Girl-like teen blows the whistle on the President's Oval Office misconduct, D.C. spin-doctor Connie Brean (Robert De Niro) decides that the Chief Executive needs to galvanize support for a Gulf War-type conflict in tiny, mysterious Albania, a nation that is, as he terms it, suitably "shifty, standoffish." (And speaking of mystery, we see only the President's back, never his face.) Brean knows that what Americans recall from past wars are images, slogans, and merchandising; his plan is to deliver this stuff on the airwaves. That's where Hollywood producer Stanley Motss (Dustin Hoffman) comes in. Brean and presidential aide Winifred Ames (Anne Heche) enlist the legendary Motss to craft a scenario of terrorism in Albania and a suitcase bomb coming into the U.S. through Canada to gear up Americans for war.
What's original about the movie's take on the spin-doctor is that Brean isn't a James Carville or a Lee Atwater. Brean scarcely projects any personality, much less a colorful one, and he won't take credit for his successes -- he just wants to do his job and disappear. He's the political functionary for an age in which no one plays the posterity game; everybody realizes that the nation's attention span has shrunk to minutes, that Americans' collective memory bank is virtually depleted. All he cares about is results. Brean cherishes only his professional reputation.
In the movie's early going, when Brean advises the President's advisors to plant questions about Albania in the press and then "deny, deny, deny," he could be counseling George Bush on Irangate. But there's one huge difference: Brean urges his clients to deny a controversy that doesn't exist, and then, once it's actually been fabricated, to 'fess up to it. De Niro turns in his canniest performance since his sizzling cameo in Terry Gilliam's Brazil (1985). His Brean is a treasure trove of comic surprises and a font of evil wisdom. At one point a CIA agent (William H. Macy) figures out the scam. "Two things I know to be true," Macy's spook says. "There's no difference between good flan and bad flan, and there is no war." Macy does one of his deadpan specialty numbers as the self-righteous agent; in one terse scene, he electrifies the character, giving him the lightning certainty of a human lie detector. But when he faces Brean, the poor guy doesn't know what he's up against. De Niro's understated knowingness envelops all the people around his character -- whether they're from the CIA or the motion picture academy -- like a hilarious existential blob.
While Motss, the Mr. Fix-It of the back lot, responds to snafus with the high-pitched snarl, "This a walk in the park," Brean sits back and assumes a browsing position. Actually, he's speed-reading every situation.
What distinguishes Motss the archetypal mogul from Brean the ultimate insider is that Motss wants to leave a legacy: He still believes in history, even if only the history of movies. Unlike Brean he hates his anonymity. After all his years in Tinseltown, he's still annoyed that an Oscar isn't given for best producer (simply accepting the Oscar for best picture, as producers traditionally do, wouldn't be enough for Motss), and he's outraged that nobody knows what a producer does. He's not solely an image-maker -- he's a showman. Hoffman's acting here may outdo his peak work in 1982's Tootsie. He takes a leap of sympathetic imagination with an unsympathetic character, imbuing him with egotism and tunnel vision that are simultaneously appalling and grandly touching. Nothing in the universe can compare to the travails he has suffered while making movies, like having had to finish a new version of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse after three of the horsemen die.
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