Even if you loved Silver Linings Playbook, you’ll find yourself squirming with a mix of boredom and irritation over the mashup of ad-libbed dialogue, recycled urban tropes, and manic plot “development” that inhabit the loosely-organized center of American Hustle.
Instead of a vibrant, sexy, tightly-orchestrated vehicle for some of the screen’s top talent, David O. Russell’s new period piece/home movie is poor man’s Scorsese.
Christina Bale is mesmerizing, as always, in the unlikely role of a small-time con man who hooks up with even more unlikely ex-stripper Amy Adams (“sexiness” manufactured by way of gowns cut lower than the Marianas Trench) to pull some minor scams.
Bradley Cooper looks fantastic as a luckless FBI agent—Afro by way of pink curlers, tight polyester bell bottoms, and the sort of swagger that only a desperate loser can adopt. But his acting method is simply to scream louder and talk faster than he did in his previous Russell film.
Jennifer Lawrence is incandescent, as loved by the camera as was Marilyn Monroe. She’s the sole center of crazed, inspired comic brilliance in the film. Lawrence’s skin should be insured by Lloyds of London. Once this gal grows cheekbones she will own the world.
American Hustle is not the new 2st century screwball comedy. It’s a hustle. Caveat emptor.
