By Nicholas Ware
Twitter
On the Road, the new film that most know--thanks to Seth MacFarlane's lame little song--features Kristen Stewart's naked breasts, is an adaptation of Jack Kerouac's classic beat novel of the same name. You may think it crass of me to mention Kristen Stewart's breasts at the top of my review, just as I thought MacFarlane's whole Oscars act was crass, but the truth of that matter is that the kind of film On the Road aspires to be is much more "the one with Kristen Stewart's naked breasts" than "the one that has strong dramatic performances" or "the one that keys in on the existential and universal angst of young people." On the Road is an exercise in taking a great controversial, iconoclastic piece of literature and removing all the meaning from the controversy, all the yearning from the sex, drugs, and (in this case) jazz. It's the artistic equivalent of turning Lady Chatterly's Lover into a softcore porn.
The meager story that On the Road manages to tell is a loosely autobiographical one centered around the toxic friendship between Keroac stand-in Sal Paradise (Sam Riley) and his unreliable but strongly charismatic pal Dean Moriarty (Garret Hedlund). Moriarty is a cad, half con artist and half hapless id monster, who spends his life enjoying the generosity of others without being capable of generosity himself. Paradise is a talented by aimless young writer whose world is opened by the irascible Moritary, but whose limits are tested by constant betrayals and disappointments. Other characters flit in and out of Paradise and Moritary's life, chiefly Kristen Stewart as Marylou, part-time wife to Moriarty and part-time lover to Paradise. However, far more interestingly drawn and acted characters to the central three lurk in the margins. A short visit to Old Bull Lee (Viggo Mortensen) and Jane's (Amy Adams) home leaves the impression that a much more interesting film would ditch the dim, sex-crazy stoners and settle for a deeper look at the longingly sad, frazzled stoners.
It's not unfair to say that sex (with girls, with boys, with both at the same time) and drugs (particularly "grass") are important parts of the beat's counter-cultural movement. But they were in service to the movement, they weren't the movement itself. As a film, On the Road seems to have all the maturity of a teenager who comes to a novel like its source material much too young. All that sticks out is the acts, not their meaning. Sex scenes last three times as long as important, character-building conversations. Moments of levity like Moriarty driving down the highway while Marylou gives both he and Paradise handjobs are played with all the giggling gravitas of a middle school sleep-over (not that the image can hope for much more than that). The beats weren't particularly kind to women in their writing, but the film is even less so, failing to portray them as anything more than jealous blow-job and baby machines. It's a strange, half-ripe adolescent male fantasy that ends up extremely off-putting.
While On the Road tries to squeeze some dramatic heft into its last act, the whole lot of nothing in the preceding hour dooms it to mediocrity. It may resonate for fans of the already-problematic source material, and adaptations always pique curiosity There are a few fleeting moments to like, and director Walter Salles gives the film the same kind of Instagrammy palette that worked well in The Motorcycle Diaries. However, the lack of strong acting from the leads and strong vision from the rest of the creative team makes On the Road a trip not worth taking.
On the Road opens Friday, March 29th at the Enzian. Rated R for strong sexual content, drug use, and language. Run time 2 hour 4 minutes.
On the Road, the new film that most know--thanks to Seth MacFarlane's lame little song--features Kristen Stewart's naked breasts, is an adaptation of Jack Kerouac's classic beat novel of the same name. You may think it crass of me to mention Kristen Stewart's breasts at the top of my review, just as I thought MacFarlane's whole Oscars act was crass, but the truth of that matter is that the kind of film On the Road aspires to be is much more "the one with Kristen Stewart's naked breasts" than "the one that has strong dramatic performances" or "the one that keys in on the existential and universal angst of young people." On the Road is an exercise in taking a great controversial, iconoclastic piece of literature and removing all the meaning from the controversy, all the yearning from the sex, drugs, and (in this case) jazz. It's the artistic equivalent of turning Lady Chatterly's Lover into a softcore porn.
The meager story that On the Road manages to tell is a loosely autobiographical one centered around the toxic friendship between Keroac stand-in Sal Paradise (Sam Riley) and his unreliable but strongly charismatic pal Dean Moriarty (Garret Hedlund). Moriarty is a cad, half con artist and half hapless id monster, who spends his life enjoying the generosity of others without being capable of generosity himself. Paradise is a talented by aimless young writer whose world is opened by the irascible Moritary, but whose limits are tested by constant betrayals and disappointments. Other characters flit in and out of Paradise and Moritary's life, chiefly Kristen Stewart as Marylou, part-time wife to Moriarty and part-time lover to Paradise. However, far more interestingly drawn and acted characters to the central three lurk in the margins. A short visit to Old Bull Lee (Viggo Mortensen) and Jane's (Amy Adams) home leaves the impression that a much more interesting film would ditch the dim, sex-crazy stoners and settle for a deeper look at the longingly sad, frazzled stoners.
It's not unfair to say that sex (with girls, with boys, with both at the same time) and drugs (particularly "grass") are important parts of the beat's counter-cultural movement. But they were in service to the movement, they weren't the movement itself. As a film, On the Road seems to have all the maturity of a teenager who comes to a novel like its source material much too young. All that sticks out is the acts, not their meaning. Sex scenes last three times as long as important, character-building conversations. Moments of levity like Moriarty driving down the highway while Marylou gives both he and Paradise handjobs are played with all the giggling gravitas of a middle school sleep-over (not that the image can hope for much more than that). The beats weren't particularly kind to women in their writing, but the film is even less so, failing to portray them as anything more than jealous blow-job and baby machines. It's a strange, half-ripe adolescent male fantasy that ends up extremely off-putting.
While On the Road tries to squeeze some dramatic heft into its last act, the whole lot of nothing in the preceding hour dooms it to mediocrity. It may resonate for fans of the already-problematic source material, and adaptations always pique curiosity There are a few fleeting moments to like, and director Walter Salles gives the film the same kind of Instagrammy palette that worked well in The Motorcycle Diaries. However, the lack of strong acting from the leads and strong vision from the rest of the creative team makes On the Road a trip not worth taking.
On the Road opens Friday, March 29th at the Enzian. Rated R for strong sexual content, drug use, and language. Run time 2 hour 4 minutes.
