By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
Humans and their stories, my oh my. Somehow, the familiar themes just keep coming around, again and again, ad infinitum. Of course, most of them have already been captured and processed by Shakespeare. From the bitter young man to the crazy old king, from the flirty young thing to the malicious old crone, we're well covered with the bard. What's nice is when a story comes along that, were he alive in blue jeans and a baseball cap, Bill would surely steal and rewrite. It sounds crazy to say this of a Neil LaBute movie, considering the dubious auteur's semipathetic thumping of his own hollow chest, but Nurse Betty moves like a classic. Unlike In the Company of Men (which touched a few nerves) and even less like Your Friends and Neighbors (which anaesthetized them; wow, people unhappily copulate; how interesting, Neil), LaBute has wisely ditched his own choppy bombast in favor of a crackling script by John C. Richards and James Flamberg. The resulting piece resonates upon the American condition, deliciously detailing the whimsy, violence, intolerance, and shallow fantasies that fuel this nation. Oh yeah, and it's funny.
Our heroine here is a wispy blonde named Betty (Renée Zellweger) who deftly pours coffee at the Tip Top Cafe, somewhere in the sticks of Kansas. Since Betty is obsessed with her own version of Oz--in this case, a cheesy L.A. soap opera called A Reason to Love--she's in dire need of exploring her own "Dorothy" side. In her mind she's already off to meet the wizard of love, the show's Dr. David Ravell, a sexy heartthrob played by a mediocre actor called George McCord (Greg Kinnear). Betty's world, tiresome and hopelessly lacking in inspiration, is aptly summed up by her birthday "celebration," which consists of a cupcake with a candle in it, a photo shoot with a cardboard cutout of Dr. Ravell (purchased by a coworker "on the god-damned Internet, where else?"), a blow-off from her best friend Sue Ann (Kathleen Wilhoite), and thinly veiled insults from her husband's secretary, Joyce (Sheila Kelley), whom her husband's been sloppily schtupping. Ironically, her wretched spouse, Del (LaBute regular Aaron Eckhart) summons the tornado that ends up whisking Betty away. A sleazy car salesman (and typically facile portrait of the American white male), Del is the antithesis of his beleaguered wife's television hero. He explains that "these actors are mainly models...which are mainly faggots...and the rest are assholes." Poignantly, he punctuates his decree by munching Betty's cupcake...uh, literally.
But the storm is already on its way, in the form of Charlie (Morgan Freeman) and Wesley (Chris Rock), two outsiders who have blown into town with a mysterious motive and attitude to burn. Clearly a master and ward, Charlie soon approaches Del with a stealthy resolve and a score to settle, but Wesley, a seething definition of the word "uppity," is much less patient, catalyzing one of the two gratuitously ugly segments that bookend the movie. Quick as a flash, effeminate investigative reporter Roy (Crispin Glover) and domineering Sheriff Ballard (Pruitt Taylor Vince) are on the case, but Betty has already blocked the grisly experience from her memory and swiped one of her husband's cars to head west. Her mission: to find her true love at the mythical Loma Vista Hospital in Los Angeles.
Because there's a clever hook in nearly every scene, it would spoil far too much to reveal more of the plot, except to suggest that the writers were clearly influenced by both Thelma and Louise and The King of Comedy, the former for feminist empowerment, the latter for delusional play-acting. (There's quite a bit of Soapdish in here as well.) But those movies only hint at the charm of this quirky and astute adventure, which actually bears a closer resemblance, in tone and gratification, to Terry Gilliam's The Fisher King. LaBute, like Gilliam, has a much more balanced approach to our national ennui and insanity than Ridley Scott (Thelma) or Lawrence Kasdan (Grand Canyon). While The Fisher King wore its mythic subtext on its sleeve, Nurse Betty couches its archetypes in everyday conventions, which are likely to render it quite the accessible crowd-pleaser.
Another reason Nurse Betty is so much more satisfying than In the Company of Men or Your Friends and Neighbors is that it lacks LaBute's trademark queasy, almost confessional tone. Stewing in their own juices (women are "meat and gristle and hatred, just simmering," and love is, yawn, "a disease"), those films were provocative without being productive, oozing with cheap, rushed infatuation on one hand, playing cutesy and mean on the other. Men at least wrapped up with an interesting sense of agony, but Friends was mostly a cranky puppet show, and it made LaBute seem about as generous and sexy as Woody Allen. Here, enhanced by some perfectly focused set design from Charles Breen, the characters are fleshed out as people, rather than just warring ideologies. When Charlie and Wesley are stalled on the road, the younger man shouts, "I will shoot that bitch like she scratched my car!" but this time the misogyny seems like a scar on the soul, not a festival of loathing.
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