Mob scene

Favreau and Vaughan are Made men

by Peter Keough

MADE. Directed and written by Jon Favreau. With Favreau, Vince Vaughan, Peter Falk, Famke Janssen, Vincent Pastore, Sean "Puffy" Combs, and Makenzie Vega. An Artisan Entertainment release. At the Avon.

All movies steal from other movies, notes a character in the 1996 cult hit Swingers, and to demonstrate, the ?lm immediately steals a scene from Quentin Tarantinoís Reservoir Dogs. Five years after Jon Favreau wrote Swingers (Chris Liman directed), heís back with Made, his directorial debut, and heís stealing again. From Scorsese, from Cassavetes, from Tarantino, and from The Sopranos, but mostly and most successfully from himself. Not the kind of cute, self-parodic shoplifting he got away with in Swingers but serious appropriation, the kind expected of master thieves, of auteurs. Heís not quite in that rank ó Made is too calculated and generic to qualify as genuinely original thievery. But in a summer of shoddy knockoffs, it comes close to the genuine article. Uproarious, ?tfully contrived, poignant, and only partly undone by its ill-considered misogynistic ending, Made just makes it.

Scorsese gets a nod in the opening scene, as inept club ?ghters Bobby (Favreau) and Ricky (Vince Vaughan) whale away at each other, heckled by the scanty house but accorded some glory by cinematographer Chris Doyle, who shoots a punch to the jaw from a low angle and in slow motion [[daggerdbl]] la Raging Bull. Mean Streets comes to mind as Bobby proves a voice-of-reason Charlie to Rickyís nutball Johnny Boy. Then it becomes clear that Bobby and Ricky are recon?gurations of Mike and Trent, the contentious pals played by Favreau and Vaughan in Swingers. Older, not wiser, certainly more benighted and now inserted into a different genre ó the mob comedy, and then some ó they are still as comfortable as a pair of well-worn two-toned shoes.

Unlike aspiring comic Mike, Bobby wants to get out of show business ó or get his girlfriend Jessica (Famke Janssen) out at any rate. Sheís a lap dancer in the employ of rumpled, low-level mobster Arthur (Peter Falk, who can do this in his sleep). Bobby works for Arthur too, sometimes as a driver and bodyguard for Jessica (shades of Neil Jordanís Mona Lisa), other times on construction sites. He dreams of becoming a champion boxer, but with a face resembling the Elephant Manís after only 11 ?ghts, that looks unlikely. His other dream, as he bluntly puts it, is to put an end to his girlfriendís rubbing her ass on other menís erections. But since Jessicaís check pretty much takes care of the two of them plus her moody little daughter, Chloe (Makenzie Vega), thatís not likely, either.

Unless Bobby succumbs to Rickyís urgings and takes a more responsible (i.e., illegal) position with Arthur. Whether out of fear or out of propriety, Bobby resists that option until a dental bill incurred after he loses his temper with one of Jessicaís clients takes the matter out of his hands. He and Ricky are given ?rst-class tickets to New York, a pager, and instructions to meet Jimmy (Vincent Pastore, a low-key note from The Sopranos), who will drive them in a stretch limo to and from their mysterious ìdeliveryî and their fancy digs at the SoHo Hotel.

What follows is a showcase for Vaughan, who somehow combines the most aggravating characteristics of Albert Brooks and Brendan Fraser, as he plays a loudmouthed dolt whose ignorance, insensitivity, and ineptitude are exceeded only by his arrogance and pitifulness. Complementing Vaughanís insufferable asshole is Favreauís longsuffering sap, who out of some inexplicable bond of loyalty (I donít think a latent homoerotic interpretation is out of line here, though the homophobic Bobby might differ) puts up with it. In often hilarious, often excruciating sequences ó an encounter with a stewardess and a meeting with Ruiz (Sean ìPuffyî Combs), their New York mob contact ó Ricky inevitably and insistently embarrasses himself. Bobby and the audience cringe.

Most of this is funny ó as he demonstrated in Swingers, Favreau can talk the talk, and he has a gift for conjuring the unexpected ó from, say, a vacant intersection in Harlem late at night ó that is reminiscent of Scorseseís After Hours. And some of this stings, as when Bobby gets nasty with a gay bellman and whips a drink in his face. Less charming is when Favreau, as writer and director, gets nasty with his character Jessica to create some uneasy closure. Sometimes itís best to keep a few loose ends and not settle for ready-made.

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How Hollywood makes and unmakes

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