By Amy Nicholson
By Chris Packham
By David Kipen
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Caira LaVelle
By Zachary Wigon
By Scott Foundas
Matt Dillon learned his lesson early: Suck up to the Hollywood fat cats, and you'll keep working. From his adolescent launch in the troubled-teen flick Over the Edge to dalliances with Francis Ford Coppola, Garry Marshall, Gene Hackman and Michael Douglas, the actor has been everybody's boy. Now, as star, co-writer and director of City of Ghosts, he's taking the lion's share of responsibility for a feature film for the first time. One might say he's become his own man.
Basically, what we have here is another stranger-in-a-strange-land yarn, but in terms of atmosphere, the director goes to great lengths to tart up the threadbare paradigm. As Jimmy Cremmins, a slick nobody insurance broker, Dillon convincingly delivers his character's inner and outer journeys, which range from Big Apple ennui to Cambodian exotica. His transition begins immediately, as a hurricane in the southern U.S. brings to light all the bogus coverages sold by his overseas higher-up, Marvin (later revealed to be James Caan, in typical grunty mode). When the FBI strongly advises Jimmy to surrender his passport throughout their investigation, he catches the first breeze to Bangkok in search of Marvin, and the music on the soundtrack just keeps getting better.
In appraising a movie, this may not seem like a priority to some, but really, City of Ghosts features one of the coolest soundtracks of the year (or at least the year up to now). Some credit is due to composer Tyler Bates of the rock band Pet, but there's a long list of original recordings from artists Chan Chaya, Pen Ran, Choun Malai and others. From pretty little feasts of gamelan and fiddle to deft bursts of concertina to funky Eastern techno, the sounds are as impressive as the visuals (and given the lavish frames of cinematographer Jim Denault, that's saying a lot). At the movie's end, Dengue Fever's weird, wonderful take on Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" even heals one's damaged ears after the damnable karaoke tune burped up by Caan about halfway through. Well, almost.
The plot, as conceived by co-screenwriters Dillon and Barry Gifford (Wild at Heart), is fairly routine, which is perhaps the movie's biggest weakness. Jimmy basically wanders the East in search of Marvin, encountering harsh realities and questing after the high-maintenance moll (delivered by Natascha McElhone as the epitome of British chilliness) until he finds out that Marvin isn't what he'd hoped for, forcing him to reclaim his life on his own terms. Serviceable, you could say.
In Bangkok, Jimmy meets up with Kaspar (Stellan Skarsgård), another associate of Marvin's whose flirty Thai concubine marks him as the first of many grotesque expats littering the landscape ("I'll make a lady out of her," he vows unconvincingly, and the effect is the same as writing "loser" across his own forehead). Kaspar tips off Jimmy to Marvin's whereabouts, somewhere in the vicinity of Phnom Penh, and before we know it, Jimmy's in the Kingdom of Cambodia, forging a friendship with a capricious yet world-weary cyclo driver named Sok (Sereyvuth Kem, the film's big discovery). West meets East, fun meets danger and the movie eclipses dippy recent fare such as The Beach, landing much closer to Phillip Noyce's The Quiet American in terms of quality and overall style.
Either most amusing or most disturbing (you decide) is good ol' Gérard Depardieu as Emile, proprietor of the movie's central bar and fleabag hotel. This man has issued a lot of bombast in his time, but here he sets a new standard, huffing and puffing and blowing the house down. The man lives very large throughout the movie, and he's a hoot.
The other characters are all a bit sketchier, and this could be the result of an actor's sitting in the director's chair and juggling too much. Refreshingly, Dillon does not fall into the trap of lingering on his own profundity or leaving his movie too long for enjoyment (it's smartly cut by Howard E. Smith, again with an emphasis on local atmosphere), but he does stumble a bit. Apart from Depardieu's blustery caricature, all the Westerners in the film come across as types rather than fleshly souls, and no amount of dirty dealin' or death-defyin' can conceal their underwritten natures; the Paternal Heavy and the Girl Who Loves Art are not much more intriguing than the Mischievous Monkey.
That said, City of Ghosts is still one of the richest movies to come along in awhile, rife with local talent (real Buddhist monks, Cambodian midget comedian Loto, many others) and oozing an exotic sense of history like the sweaty, peeling walls of local temples. Overall, Dillon has scored at the helm. Haunting and wholly engrossing his film is not, but a valiant and adventurous first feature it most definitely is.
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