American Hustle

When I was a kid, there was this series of commercials for Remington electric shavers. They had a slogan: “shaves as close as a blade or you’re money back”. On the surface, it sounds reassuring. Confident. But if you stop and think about it, you’ll realize the flaw in the slogan; it admits that a blade is the standard for shaving, and that their product is only second best. Why should anyone settle for a product that is, by their own admission, good enough but not the best? That’s American Hustle. It imitates the 70’s sleaze, the long-con story, the Scorsese style, but it just isn’t any of those. It’s a picture of a painting. It’s a hairpiece. It’s Weezer covering Pink Floyd. All the good acting in the world from this lineup of heavy hitters (and Bradley Cooper) can’t save a movie that is as shallow as a teaspoon. Amy Adams especially does more heavy lifting than King Kong doing benchpresses, and it’s in service of a sluggish, bloated script, overly stylized direction, a junkie-like dependence on popular music to get story beats over that the script can’t handle, and a boat of unlikeable characters that you’re forced to spend over two hours with. I lost count of how many times I checked my phone or paused it to see the remaining time. I know I’m way out on an island with this one, but I don’t care. This thing is visual Nytol.