So David O. Russell invited over some interesting actors (and also Bradley Cooper) to be filmed at a 1970s theme party. Too bad that footage didn’t make a movie.
Or, rather, it’s too many movies: “American Hustle,” which has its roots in a true story and has already won several critics’ awards, is in part a satire of lower-middle-class strivers (those dorks), in part a con-job movie, sort of a mob thriller. It’s a little bit “Boogie Nights,” a little bit “Argo,” a little bit “GoodFellas.” It’s a breath mint, it’s a chewing gum, it’s a laxative, it’s a hockey puck.
I’d forgive Russell (“The Fighter,” “Silver Linings Playbook”), who co-wrote and directed, if he did anything particularly well but the con-job material is diffuse, the mob danger consists of Robert De Niro clocking in as a menacing gangster for one scene, and the humor consists mostly of “Wow, look at that hair!” moments. When the people who kit out your actors are funnier than your script, maybe satire isn’t your calling.
What’s best about “Hustle” is Christian Bale, who plays a Bronx-bred owner of a chain of dry-cleaning stores with a plan to make it big, or at least biggish: His dream, American if you like, is to defraud innocents with a fake-loan business. His sloped shoulders, nuclear comb-over and cringing eyebrows make him the one character it’s possible to connect with here.
He has an affair with a fellow low-rent scam artist (Amy Adams) who fakes an English accent. Both attract the attention of FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper — look at that hair!) who offers to let them off the hook if they can help him run another scam, this one involving a corrupt New Jersey mayor (Jeremy Renner) trying to bring casinos to Atlantic City. There’s a fake sheik in there somewhere, too, and you may remember, if barely, the underlying true story of the ’70s “Abscam” plot that led to the conviction of several congressmen and a senator. But that part of the story — the one part that matters! — interests Russell the least.
So, hey, check out the hair on Jennifer Lawrence! She (badly over-)plays Bale’s brassy wife, Rosalyn, and demonstrates the difference between an exterior style — attacking rather than playing her character, whereas Bale actually wonders what it’s like to be this “Irving Rosenfeld,” who is deeply wounded when someone messes with his comb-over. In moments of rare splendor, Irving invites a girl to one of his dry cleaning shops, where he spins his magical carousel and offers her . . . her pick of the unclaimed used clothes.
If only Russell could find more such moments of strange, loopy bliss. Instead, when lost for something to do, he simply fires up the Steely Dan or Chicago and sends his camera gliding along to drink in costumes and sets. Entire scenes accomplish nothing except provide the actors with emoting space (Lawrence spends several minutes demonically cleaning the house to the strains of “Live and Let Die”) or clutter up the story with sidemen (like Louis C.K., pointlessly thrown in as Richie’s boss). We’re told that Rosalyn has a big mouth and will spoil everything. Next scene: She mouths off. Except there are no real consequences. So why bother? And why do we go off on a tangent about DiMaso slugging his boss with a phone if that bit is going to be shrugged off also? And why does everyone celebrate the self-incrimination of an irrelevant lawyer who wasn’t a target of the sting?
“American Hustle” is a movie that was built backward, or inside out: It puts actors’ needs before the audience’s. There’s no heart under those polyester lapels, and what all that Aqua Net is pasting together is a few sparse strands of wispy story.