Metropolitan (1990)

METROPOLITAN has really aged well - I first saw this when it was released, and watching again a few days ago, it really stands up as something unique. Episodic and without much real plot - the only real forward motion in the film is to be found in the ending, which feels a little contrived, and is my only real gripe with this film.

At my first viewing, I didn't really want to like these characters, who all seem from another world - rich, young and good looking, carrying on through elaborate, banal, pseudo-intellectual conversations with a deadly confidence about their place in the world. But over the course of the film it becomes apparent that their secure perch in the upper echelons of the American elite isn't 100% set in stone, as an outsider is able to penetrate this rarefied universe, and manages to hold his own quite well, arousing suspicions (and battling shame over his own proletarian roots, and his battle between his own free-thinking idealism and his aggressive social climbing ambitions), but also making genuine friends among the cute young blue-bloods. Of course he isn't as smart as he thinks he is, and neither is anyone else in here, and they all know it even when behaving otherwise, which greatly humanizes these otherwise not-exactly-pleasant characters. On the strength of the dialog, METROPOLITAN has become something of a cult classic, and deservedly so.

In a strange way, METROPOLITAN is almost a companion piece to the surreal and disturbing documentary GREY GARDENS - both are centered upon characters from the well-bred, wealthy elite of American old-$ society. As METROPOLITAN insinuated that the security, intellect, status and wealth of its' characters isn't as rock-solid as the characters would like everyone to think, GREY GARDENS illustrates, in lurid detail just how psychologically destabilizing a precipitous fall from such a lofty, but artificial world would be - you could easily see an aged variant of one of METROPOLITAN's character's ending up like the Edies from GREY GARDENS.

The probable best from the very non-prolific Stilman, I strongly recommend.

Fmovies: The film is compelling not because of a riveting story, special effects, or manufactured suspense, but because of sharply written characters whose personalities drive the story, rather than vice versa, extensive knowledge of its subject, and beautifully written dialogue.

The dialogue, by the way, is great not only for its intelligence and wit, but also because it instantly identifies a proudly unique writer. We can tell Mamet, because of his fractured phrases and rhythmic line readings. We know Smith because of his rapid-fire, fiery and profane writing, as well as his sensitivity. Tarantino is recognizable because of his pop-culture references. Whit Stillman writes characters who talk, often defiantly, in complete sentences, and say exactly what they mean, whether they're expressing their emotions, or shooting to kill.

Whit Stillman was nominated for an Academy Award for his screenplay for "Metropolitan" in 1991, and with "Barcelona" and "The Last Days of Disco", he's on a winning streak.

Brilliantly written. Stillman's first in his trilogy, this sets the standard for the offbeat banter and dialogue of the two films that followed, "Barcelona," and "The Last Days of Disco." Surprisingly great acting, I think, as well--from a cast of, at the time at least, relative no names. As talkfests go, this is a keeper.

Metropolitan fmovies. This movie glistens like a piece of old Belleek. Whether in the subtle gold of an off the shoulder evening gown, or in the vast expanse of a deep, plush, ivory colored carpet, nearly every frame shimmers with champagne like iridescence.

And gold is an apt visual metaphor, particularly when juxtaposed against the black satin of a tuxedo lapel or the wintry Manhattan night scape, for a world seemingly vanishing right before our eyes--a world too sleek, too soigné, too genteel to survive the steam roller of galloping blue-jeaned egalitarianism.

That the denizens of this vanishing breed, as depicted in the film, are themselves, insecure late adolescents, make its departure all the more poignant.

"This is probably the last Deb season..." one of them observes resignedly, "...because of the stock market, the economy, Everything..." Yes, everything...the huge smothering subject that hovers all around the plot itself and from which its characters are only temporarily insulated.

In particular, the focus here is on a group of privileged Eastern Seaboard collegians enjoying the Christmas holidays in a series of Park Avenue, "after dance parties," in which they loll about and ruefully anticipate the disappearance of their youth, their success, and their kind.

That they are one at the same time cerebral, immature, literate, prankish, frightened, polished, well educated but vulnerable and inexperienced, puts them well outside the troglodyte teens that inhabit the deconstructionist zoo in most post 1970 films, (with the exception of a unfortunate and mis-placed "strip poker" sequence which violates the picture's otherwise overall mood.)

Indeed, they seem to exist outside their own time, belonging rather to that group Cecil Beaton dubbed "the smart young things" from the 1920's, in his "The Glass of Fashion." Certainly, one imagines them far more comfortable with Ivor Novello than Mick Jagger. And like many "smart sets" they seem rather a closed corporation.

Until that is, into their number unexpectedly arrives a young man of reduced circumstances, Tom Townsend, (Edward Clements) who by virtue of his sincerity and intelligence, is invited to "sup at their table--on a borrowed pass" so to speak. His romantic misadventures with the beguiling Audrey Rouget(Carolyn Farina)forms the cynosure of the charmingly fragile plot.

Audrey and Tom stand out from the pack, in their earnestess and integrity, though it is assuredly Nick, (Christopher Eigeman) their figurehead and chief quip master who is the groups' un-elected leader. As interpreted by Mr. Eigeman, Nick is the embodiment of the cocktail fueled, cigarette wielding bon vivant--trenchant, self absorbed, far from virtuous, and with a ready verbal arrow that never misses its target. He is George Sander's heir presumptive.

Nick's observations are worth the whole price of admission as they say, whether it be bemoaning the Protestant Reformation, the social climbing Surrealists, or the scarcity of detachable collars.

Since the film's short, bouffant,cocktail dresses and automobiles unmistakably place the film in very late modernity--the Reagan era in fact, and long after the Ray Anthony's Orchestra, top hatted milieu it depicts, we cannot fail to miss the film's core observation--the parallel evanescence of the groups' own social connections, as placed against the simultaneous collapse of civilized life as

A wonderful, marvelous, funny movie that I watch at least once a year. A true gem-the writing is great, the cast is perfect, and the arch, somewhat affected performances more than do the trick-that's who these people are! Arch, affected, wanna be know it all rich kid snobs whose currency in life is their intellect and class standing. The fact that the action takes place in a few small apartments only heightens the genius of this film-these locations represent the small world in which these young people's lives intersect, in how they dole out their verbiage, how much belonging to a small group of people can dictate the every day thoughts of each member of the gang. The kids have not yet lived enough to be fully forming the opinions they insist upon shoving down each others throats, and the comedy comes from their own inexperience and total lack of thinking other wise. This is like a high brow Breakfast Club, smarter and much more fun for those of us not into stereotype titillation. With out a doubt on of my favorites.

I can say this film has staying power as I've seen it about half a dozen times in the 12 years since it came out; the most recent occasion was a week ago, and it still holds up, like a great play. It's all in the dialogue and acting: Stillman's idea of an action scene is someone opening a champagne bottle a little over-enthusiastically.

The characters are beautifully drawn, none of them perfect, none of them without some redeeming features. They seem very believable to an outsider from England. The dialogue is a never-ending delight, full of great one-liners, yes, but also some equally cherishable, marvellously pompous sermonising and theorising from these slightly preposterous yet strangely loveable people (particularly Charlie Black). It's not exactly a comedy, but I laughed out loud a lot more than I have in some films that have been trying desperately hard to make me titter.

For me the great mystery is this: whatever happened to this fine young cast?? Edward Clements has done virtually nothing since this film, ditto Carolyn Farina (apart from a small part in Age of Innocence); likewise Eigeman and Nichols, although the former seems to have racked up a few more credits, and the latter was in Boiler Room, although I didn't realise it was him until the credits rolled.

If you need action and plot, this film probably isn't for you. But anyone else can dive in and and enjoy a genuinely independent film that shows what can be done on limited resources. This film is worth more in my heart than the combined works of Joel Schumacher, Don Simpson and their tiresome, overblown ilk.