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Review: In David O. Russell’s ‘American Hustle,’ It’s All About the Women

Review: In David O. Russell's 'American Hustle,' It's All About the Women

“Some of this actually happened,” reads the cheeky intro to
David O. Russell’s Abscam-inspired “American Hustle,” after which one
immediately relaxes: Great. No need to know anything about FBI stings, Jersey
politics or crushed velour; we’re playing fast-and-loose with facts, and who
remembers ’70s-style corruption anyway, with Rob Ford and Ted Cruz lumbering
across the landscape? 

The really important things are happening
right before our eyes: Jennifer Lawrence becoming the most potent synthesis of
comedy and feline sexuality to hit the screen for half a century. Amy Adams
coming in a close second. And Russell managing to make a movie steeped in
cultural nostalgia that also sneers at the notion that the past is past.

There are men in this movie, too. But all the plot points
about politics, mobsters and FBI stings seem like afterthoughts to the women
and sex that permeate every frame of the film.

At the center is a highly unlikely Lothario — Irving
Rosenfeld, played by a Christian Bale who gained more weight than he lost for
“The Machinist” (a film in which he pre-McConaughey’d McConaughey). The paunchy
bewigged and very married Irving is running a highly successful confidence game
with his partner/lover, Lady Edith Something-hyphen-Something-Pitt-Crawley,
a.k.a Sydney Prosser a.k.a Adams (shades of Stanwyck in “The Lady Eve”), who is
the con-woman supreme, but may not be quite as cunning as
Lawrence’s Rosalyn Rosenfeld. Anxieties aside, between Roz and Sydney, Irving
is a pretty good argument for canceling your Crunch membership.

Things go swimmingly until Irv and Edith get busted by an
ambitious Fed named Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper), who instead of prosecuting
involves them in an elaborate scheme to entrap local officials, a congressman
and, with any luck, the entire Mafia. While the intricacies of the plot are
fascinating, other factors steal the show: Russell’s direction — which suggests
Preston Sturges mating with Sidney Lumet — Linus Sandgren’s period-grainy, gritty, almost nicotine-stained
cinematography. And the acting: Cooper’s late-‘70s-era De Niro impersonation
(De Niro himself shows up later) is just one of the many, many refs to American
cinema — in bygone, good-riddance-to-it fashion — that informs a movie in
which the corruption seems innocent. 

Bale is a wonder, and has never seemed
seedier; Adams is tart, has never seemed sexier, and Lawrence will get an Oscar
nom for supporting actress. On that you can bet your lava lamp and collection
of disco on 8-track. It seems blasphemous to say it, but “12 Years a Slave”
suddenly has some competition in the awards sweepstakes.

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