"Duplicity" is not really a romantic comedy. Watch the trailer for your fill of the love stuff -- for the strung-together sexy glances between Julia Roberts and Clive Owen; for the verbal volleying about thongs -- but this is not "Closer: The Cuddly Version." This isn't even as fuzzy as "Charade." There might be some hotel hanky-panky, and the seductive clinking of champagne glasses in just about every city in the world, but that's just a (perfectly pleasant) backdrop.
And thank God for that. The real reason you shouldn't miss "Duplicity" is for director/writer Tony Gilroy's skewering of white-collar titans -- a premise that could not come at a more appropriate moment. These are, after all, the days when Bernie Madoff escapes a perp walk; when John Thain spruces up his office for a cool $1 million-plus; when bailout cash is being put to good use at champagne brunches. And so far, Hollywood has been, well, a lagging indicator. Name me a weekend in 2009 when a movie with a foolishly out-of-touch premise hasn't hit theaters. January: Two brides beat the silk stuffing out of each other over their same-day, extravagant nuptials. February: A fashion lover freezes her Visa to blockade purchase of more fox-fur stoles. And a few weeks from now, we'll have another movie -- the second in 2009 alone -- about the stewardship of suburban mega-malls, and the spendthrift-y hordes that tramp through them.
In "Duplicity," the twin peaks of the cosmetics industry are CEOs Howard Tully (Tom Wilkinson) and Richard Garsik (Paul Giamatti) -- the billionaires whom our lovebird heroes are trying to subvert. We're introduced to their rivalry with a scene already made famous by promo clips: Tully and Garsik come reeling at one another in slow motion, situated on the tarmac below their respective private jets, each basically trying to sucker-punch the other first. It's completely arresting more than it's funny: the men are whirligigs of blue-suited limbs, the slow motion exaggerating their flabby, steak-dinner jowls. It sounds like a gag, but looks like a painting -- bodies by Robert Longo, faces by Lucian Freud.
Giamatti, who appears more frequently in the film, is the real scene-stealer of the supporting ensemble. All that bluster and spastic screaming that raised eyebrows in "John Adams" seems pitch-perfect in an armored Escalade. He is a total boor -- and yet vulnerable, as shown in a late scene at a bowling alley, in which he ham-handedly tries to woo Roberts with some crappy, microwaved bowling-alley food. Later he unloads on an assistant, who's quietly brushing his face with powder before he takes the stage at a shareholders' convention. Despite the ample dusting, Garsik's visage glints and gleams evilly under the heavy lights, and despite his sour backstage demeanor, his words ooze aw-shucks warmth in front of the roaring convention center. He's totally, thoroughly despicable in every way -- and yet, so clueless and desperate that he manages to snag the crumbs of our pity.
Wilkinson's Tully, meanwhile, is the ice to Garsik's fire. He lurks in a spectacularly metaphoric office, its only contents a large, polished stone slab (his desk), a sliver of a cordless phone, and a meticulously maintained bonsai tree. He is Zen and unfeeling -- heartless where Giamatti is mawkish and clammy. He's also the architect of more than we initially understand at the film's outset -- but of course -- which makes his distant self-deification a whole lot creepier.
With all the continuing, deepening economic gloom, it's sort of nice to stick corporate evil in the celluloid crosshairs -- and even better that, after a thrilling two hours, these guys fade to black.
Uncommon Knowledge
Newsweek is committed to challenging conventional wisdom and finding connections in the search for common ground.
Newsweek is committed to challenging conventional wisdom and finding connections in the search for common ground.
