BERLIN 2000 REVIEW:  Wenders “The Million Dollar Hotel” is a Heartbreaker

Wenders loves heights, and what they say about the moral elevations of people who perch there. But to most Americans, the film's milieu has little, if any, of this romantic tug; it's just downtown L.A. Yet through the eyes of the musician and the filmmaker it is a gray urban wonderland, and cinematographer Phedon Papamichael's luminous photography (subtly enhanced by Wenders' ever-groundbreaking use of digital effects and flourishes), massaged by the in-studio soundtrack composed on the spot by an all-star band featuring Bono, Brian Eno, Jon Hassell, Daniel Lanois and others, creates a world of weary dignity and noble dreams dashed.

Most of which is undone by the spotty acting, a function both of the fundamentally flawed story and a seriously miscalculated ensemble acting style. A key problem with the picture is the character of the mentally challenged Tom Tom, played by Jeremy Davies ("Saving Private Ryan," "Spanking the Monkey") with a catalogue of ticks and twitches that some may find endearing; others will be off-put to the point of distraction. For her role of Eloise, Milla Jovovich has been cleansed of all glamour and appeal. The film's best and most consistent performances are turned in by Mel Gibson as the comically conservative Skinner (his company Icon Entertainment co-produced the film) and a virtually unrecognizable Peter Stormare as Dixie, who sees the world through a haze of Beatles lyrics and conspiracy theories. Julian Sands does a quasi-Bono imitation as a greedy art dealer, and an uncredited Tim Roth, as the mysterious Izzy, has a single vertiginous scene with Davies.

In gathering the repertory company of losers and outcasts, Wenders has assembled a who's who cross-section of cult and popular performers, including Amanda Plummer ("Pulp Fiction"), Jimmy Smits ("NYPD Blue"), Gloria Stuart ("Titanic") and Bud Cort ("Harold and Maude"). Unfortunately, as appealing as this may sound, their acting styles never mesh as a unit, leaving most of their work together, as the residents frantically attempt to maximize their profits from the sale of Izzy's art, disorganized and palpably forced.

The cumulative effect of the picture is of strong, heartfelt truths just out of reach, and a seductive sense of wonder at -- and fondness towards -- the urban populace on the lowest rung of the economic ladder. But while that equation has equaled erratic acceptance from the American moviegoing public in the past (applause at the Berlinale's first press screening in their new Potsdamer Platz digs was scattered and respectful, with most scribes having ankled before the end of the credits), it also results in a work that, like the most fearlessly flawed films Wenders has made, cannot be dismissed. And that's exasperating.

[Eddie Cockrell is a Maryland-based film critic and consulting programmer whose work also appears regularly in Variety and nitrateonline.com.]