Leaves Of Grass Review
Whitman worked on Leaves of Grass all his life, but the punning title signalled his lack of faith in a warm critical reception (in 1855, “grass” was publishing slang for “crap”). Despite mixed reviews and cries of ‘obscenity’ upon its release, the collection is now part of the American literary canon. In the 90s, Leaves of Grass was again examined for salaciousness when it emerged that President Clinton had given Monica Lewinsky a copy. “For a liberal-arts dilettante like Clinton,” sniffed salon.com in 2000, “Leaves of Grass is the book that yokes the sacred and the profane into meaningful union.”
At around the time the Lewinsky/Clinton relationship began, in 1995, a then-unknown actor was filming Primal Fear, in which he played a stuttering altar boy accused of murdering a priest. Though it was essentially Edward Norton’s first movie, he was Oscar nominated for it. Within a few short years Norton had forever cemented his reputation as an actor’s actor, with now-iconic turns in American History X (1998) and Fight Club (1999).
All that was literally last century. Since then, even Norton’s most ardent fans could be forgiven for not wanting to keep the flame of their love alive by sitting through the turgid melodrama of The Painted Veil. Thankfully Grass, despite its unpromising straight-to-DVD status, is evidence that Norton is still making movies worthy of his considerable talent.
This film, in common with its namesake, could be accused of appealing only to liberal-arts dilettantes. Tim Blake-Nelson is credited as writer, director, supporting actor and producer and at times it seems only sheer force of will prevents Grass from becoming another faux-intellectual Hollywood take on art house along the lines of I Heart Huckabees. It’s easy to see why this film has similarly polarised critics and audiences, but there the comparison ends. Grass is more thoughtful, more controlled and the screen chemistry suggests a more collegial on-set atmosphere. Like Whitman before him, Blake-Nelson has kept control because he intends this to be his legacy. That it is a worthy legacy, though a flawed one, is down to Norton’s nuanced performances as identical twin brothers.
Norton plays Bill and Brady Kincaid – Bill is an Ivy League philosophy professor, while Brady is a small-town pot dealer who has wasted his own considerable intellect on getting high and creating “the Taj Mahal of hydroponics”. Bill fled for academia years ago, leaving his accent, Brady and their eccentric mother (a criminally under-employed Susan Sarandon) far behind. He is lured back only by false reports of Brady’s death.
Blake-Nelson’s smarty pants use of an updated ‘grass’ pun may have contributed to the film’s dismal box office and doomed it to be the best film you’ll miss this year. What looks like a stoner/slacker comedy is, by turns, a black comedy, a farce, a crime caper, a romance complete with poetry recitations and a family drama. If that sounds like a failed attempt to create something for everyone, it isn’t. Think of it as more like an attempt to yoke the sacred and the profane into meaningful union.
Grass is a slow burner. It took me a while to decide if I’d enjoyed it or not. Some vignettes seemed to have survived the cutting room simply because Blake-Nelson had obviously sweated blood over them, and although most minor players get at least one substantial scene, a luminous Melanie Lynskey is wasted as little more than a prop. But, it has stayed with me and a second viewing is on the cards. Fans of the Coen brothers should find much to like and it’s a rare film that doesn’t telegraph its intentions from the outset. Though I was wrong-footed by the set up, I didn’t feel cheated or mocked. For all its faults, Leaves of Grass could be destined for the cult canon.
Clare Moody