Something came unravelled when I brought Elle MacPherson's character into such sharp focus in the Faithless Trophy Wife post. I realized how shallow she was, and then I saw why she had to be. The film is not cleverly spare; it is willfully simple-minded. Or, is it? Let's say it is. Let’s say that, to the extent that Mamet draws these characters simply, consistently, he reveals less about the human condition than about himself, his prejudices. It's not that the world of men is like that; it's that Mamet wants it to be like that.
If we decide to question the premise, Hopkins' contribution to the film becomes all the more striking. In his portrayal of Morse and Morse's interactions with the other underdeveloped people, Hopkins treats Mamet's characters with more respect than Mamet does?! I'm breaking new ground, here. It is exhilerating. I guess that’s why we do these, Gess and I. I wish I could see the original screenplay from which this was taken. Suddenly, the ending makes sense to me, where it never has, before:
Charles Morse is finally rescued, and they clamor around him on the dock. The Faithless Trophy Wife stands apart, abashed, her mind a tangle of conflicting emotions. She watches as they unload Bob’s shrouded corpse from the ’copter. Morse is making his way through the throng. First, he passes the innkeeper. Morse turns, gives him a long look, and speaks in reprise: “Why is the rabbit unafraid?” he reminds him.
A look of understanding passes between the two men, and Jenkins grins a crooked, scarfaced grin. “Hmp! Because he’s smarter than the panther!”
Morse, the humble victor, arrives before his spoils. He presses her dead lover’s watch into her palm—a watch with an inscription that belies her faithlessness—in a gesture that makes clear his knowledge of the transgression. She looks down in surprise. Her face collapses.
Gently, now, having dealt this blow, Morse raises a grimy hand against a barrage of reporters’ questions. “We are all put to the test.” He stops. “…but it never comes in the form, or at the…point…we would prefer. Does it?”
“Mr. Morse,” another interjects, “The other men. Your friends.” It is a question.
“My friends,” Morse repeats, without inflection.
“What happened to them, sir?”
Silence.
“How did they die, sir?” prods a female reporter.
“They died,” says Morse, huskily, “saving my life.”
There’s a moment, like Rutger Hauer’s final moment in Bladerunner, when Hopkins blinks, falters. His eyes flicker heavenward. Now: Is Morse acknowledging the unfairness of it all? Or is Hopkins lamenting the paucity of material his fellow actors have been given, to work with?
It’s important for me to take issue with this simplicity, I think.
Ta-DAA!
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