"Babylon" tracks the career of Manny Torres, an aspiring filmmaker from Mexico who crosses paths with fellow aspiring starlet Nelly LaRoy at a bacchanalian party one night in 1920s Los Angeles. The film also follows several other characters at the same party, including movie star Jack Conrad, cabaret performer Fay Zhu, tabloid journalist Elinor St. John, and musician Sidney Palmer, as each rise and fall in their respective careers spanning the end of silent films and the beginning of sound productions; each of the characters cross paths throughout as they navigate the shifting business of Hollywood.
This large-scale epic from Damien Chazelle is, in a word, ambitious, both in scope and mere technicality. It opens with an utterly ravishing, debaucherous party sequence that captures the maddening spirit of roaring twenties Hollywood, setting a visual bar that is fairly high. While there are a number of fantastic sequences throughout the film, this key party sequence where each of the characters are introduced/first intervene is, without a doubt, the highlight of the film. While its characters are fictional, the screenplay blends them in with passing names of real-life historical Hollywood figures, as well as thinly-veiled references to others.
Firstly, it almost goes without saying that "Babylon" is gorgeously photographed. The performances are also uniformly solid. Diego Calva is a likable presence as the centerpiece character, while Margot Robbie's portrayal of the brash and troubled Jersey girl flying by the seat of her pants is comical and poignant by turns. Brad Pitt fittingly plays the drunken but goodhearted movie star, and Jean Smart is also a welcome presence as the curt and astute gossip columnist, ostensibly based on Louella Parsons (or a writer of her ilk).
The film is consciously over the top, at many points capturing the madcap spirit of something the late Ken Russell would have directed. Its first three quarters are particularly outstanding, and demonstrate the realities (and technicalities) of how the transition from silent films to motion picture talkies posed legitimate, career-altering (or more often, career-destroying) challenges for nearly everyone who was part of the business. Chazelle projects this theme to the audience in one memorable and protracted sequence in which Robbie's character (along with the sound man) struggles, fails, is interrupted, and struggles again to perform a simple one-page scene. The nuts and bolts of these logistical challenges in a then-fledgling industry are perhaps the most intriguing components of the story, highlighting just how vastly different (and more arduous) the process was of making a sound picture for the actors and filmmakers accustomed to the established ways.
By the time it reaches its final act, however, the viewer does get the sense that the project is beginning to implode under its own weight to some degree; the focus on certain characters ebbs and flows, and the film begins to lose some steam. It is revived somewhat by an insane sequence in which Torres and another crew member of his film studio (in an attempt to save LaRoy from reckless gambling decisions) cross paths with an eccentric crime boss played by Tobey Maguire, and journey into a subterranean gathering place for the city's debaucherous denizens, who have literally gone underground following the more reserved moral code of the 1930s. The garish and ghoulish sequence feels like a tour of Dante's Inferno (probably quite intentionally), and is almost more madcap than the opening party sequence.
The film grinds to a somewhat abrupt halt as each of the characters' lives and careers face further significant devastation in the last thirty minutes, and the sense of tragedy that one might expect to feel is strangely absent, perhaps because these characters are in and of themselves larger than life, even cartoonish at times; still, I felt that there was an emotional core missing as their stories are resolved. The film ends on a profoundly cynical note, showing Hollywood as a place that metaphorically devours its own, only to be constantly replenished by the unending stream of those who make pilgrimage there, seeking to etch their mark in the tapestry of cinema. The observation is astute, and the implications are splashed across the screen in a century-spanning montage of snippets from the earliest films to contemporary ones.
All in all, "Babylon" has many strong points: Mainly its visuals, sturdy performances, and focus on the industrial realities of early filmmaking that most 21st-century viewers would take for granted. It eventually grows a bit long in the tooth into its third hour, and loses some tenacity, but not enough so that the film entirely collapses in on itself (though it comes close). If nothing else, it earns its keep as an ambitious and scabrous love (and hate) letter to cinema. 8/10.
This large-scale epic from Damien Chazelle is, in a word, ambitious, both in scope and mere technicality. It opens with an utterly ravishing, debaucherous party sequence that captures the maddening spirit of roaring twenties Hollywood, setting a visual bar that is fairly high. While there are a number of fantastic sequences throughout the film, this key party sequence where each of the characters are introduced/first intervene is, without a doubt, the highlight of the film. While its characters are fictional, the screenplay blends them in with passing names of real-life historical Hollywood figures, as well as thinly-veiled references to others.
Firstly, it almost goes without saying that "Babylon" is gorgeously photographed. The performances are also uniformly solid. Diego Calva is a likable presence as the centerpiece character, while Margot Robbie's portrayal of the brash and troubled Jersey girl flying by the seat of her pants is comical and poignant by turns. Brad Pitt fittingly plays the drunken but goodhearted movie star, and Jean Smart is also a welcome presence as the curt and astute gossip columnist, ostensibly based on Louella Parsons (or a writer of her ilk).
The film is consciously over the top, at many points capturing the madcap spirit of something the late Ken Russell would have directed. Its first three quarters are particularly outstanding, and demonstrate the realities (and technicalities) of how the transition from silent films to motion picture talkies posed legitimate, career-altering (or more often, career-destroying) challenges for nearly everyone who was part of the business. Chazelle projects this theme to the audience in one memorable and protracted sequence in which Robbie's character (along with the sound man) struggles, fails, is interrupted, and struggles again to perform a simple one-page scene. The nuts and bolts of these logistical challenges in a then-fledgling industry are perhaps the most intriguing components of the story, highlighting just how vastly different (and more arduous) the process was of making a sound picture for the actors and filmmakers accustomed to the established ways.
By the time it reaches its final act, however, the viewer does get the sense that the project is beginning to implode under its own weight to some degree; the focus on certain characters ebbs and flows, and the film begins to lose some steam. It is revived somewhat by an insane sequence in which Torres and another crew member of his film studio (in an attempt to save LaRoy from reckless gambling decisions) cross paths with an eccentric crime boss played by Tobey Maguire, and journey into a subterranean gathering place for the city's debaucherous denizens, who have literally gone underground following the more reserved moral code of the 1930s. The garish and ghoulish sequence feels like a tour of Dante's Inferno (probably quite intentionally), and is almost more madcap than the opening party sequence.
The film grinds to a somewhat abrupt halt as each of the characters' lives and careers face further significant devastation in the last thirty minutes, and the sense of tragedy that one might expect to feel is strangely absent, perhaps because these characters are in and of themselves larger than life, even cartoonish at times; still, I felt that there was an emotional core missing as their stories are resolved. The film ends on a profoundly cynical note, showing Hollywood as a place that metaphorically devours its own, only to be constantly replenished by the unending stream of those who make pilgrimage there, seeking to etch their mark in the tapestry of cinema. The observation is astute, and the implications are splashed across the screen in a century-spanning montage of snippets from the earliest films to contemporary ones.
All in all, "Babylon" has many strong points: Mainly its visuals, sturdy performances, and focus on the industrial realities of early filmmaking that most 21st-century viewers would take for granted. It eventually grows a bit long in the tooth into its third hour, and loses some tenacity, but not enough so that the film entirely collapses in on itself (though it comes close). If nothing else, it earns its keep as an ambitious and scabrous love (and hate) letter to cinema. 8/10.