Review: NIGHTMARE ALLEY

Stan Carlisle physically and symbolically ignites his past, house, dead father and all, and sets off on a bus to nowhere. At the terminus he follows a little man to a carnival and, walking around in the colour and the hustle, gets a taste for it. He is struck by the sideshow of the geek, a debased man who performs acts of abjection for clean straw and alcohol. Stan, able and noticeable, gets work just by being there and sets off on a journey to an ethical hell.

Guillermo Del Toro gives us a world as robustly realised as the cold war city of The Shape of Water. But while that tale lightened its ideological horrors with the beauty of a fairytale, Nightmare Alley gives us cynical punch after punch, promising an exhausting two hours plus of screen time. From the cheap grift of the sideshows to the elevation of the coded mentalist act in the elegant clubs of the big city, this journey is one of life by angle and deception. And it's not just the carnies. The urbane psychologist who challenges Stan into a withering extended putdown promises to be a player with terrifying skill. Teaming up, they form a duo whose willingness to scrape the maximum out of those at the top is not hampered by the morality that might smother it with a pillow at the first thought. By that stage, the perrennial gaudy lie of the carnival starts to look honest by comparison and the notion of the world beyond them, plugged by news of the U.S. entry into World War II, leaves nothing but the search for more grift.

While the dependably enticing visuals Del Toro serves us might just get us through his casting carries everything. Bradley Cooper who can play sleazy as easily as solid and authoritative, is the vessel that the world he encounters for the first time after the dominance of his father fills him to the brim with a zest for moral sleight of hand and the pursuit of manipulation. His fast learner effectively disappoints us at the attainment of every new level of the game. He makes that compelling. Cate Blanchett as psychologist Dr Ritter is a gilded snake, mostly seen in the dark enclosure of her rigged office, too slippery to handle with a pair of eyes that can spot a kill on first entrance. Richard Jenkins impresses as the kind of midwest sawdust and porridge aristocrat whose weakness when found renders him into a creepy emotional addict. The carnies enjoy the opportunity to be carnies. Willem Dafoe is all gruff sleaze as the boss. Toni Collette is both hard and vulnerable as half of the first act Stan attaches himself to, David Strathairn is her partner, rummy and nearing death, the holder of the wisdom of the con, given a quiet dignity by the actor. Rooney Mara is the closest we get to a moral centre, willing to go along for Stan's dark ride but torn by conscience. Her freshness and corruption are never quite resolved.

That's the problem of this film. Del Toro has pursued the darkness of his characters and their times so stridently, their world so concrete and their success so depressing that there is little left but to marvel at the cinematic bravado. But as fine as that is and as superb as the performances are, we are left with so little that a story might give us. I don't mean that we need a title card with a moral about being nicer to each other. For two and a half hours we get a universe narrowed to a pitting of hucksters against suckers. Whether it's nice or not it is exhausting. But there's something else. This film is haunted.

Edmund Golding's 1947 film tells this same story with forty minutes less screen time, under heavier cultural restrictions and pretty much says everything that Del Toro's says. Actually, it says more as it allows Stan more self awareness and pathos. Some might frown at the Hollywood ending but I'll let that one through as it allows for a needed moment of contrition, richer by its pain and circumstance. It's not a happy ending but the stark cynicism of most of what preceeds it (putting the cynicism of most other noirs to shame) gives it just the right amount of cool breeze at the end of the heat.

Maybe it's a film better told after a decade of depression or the years of darkest hours that built the Second World War. In this age of hustlers getting voted to the highest offices and more localised governmental gaslighting I wonder if we are really in the mood for more grifting. Del Toro is clear about the vileness of the actions on show here, he's not inviting us to laugh along, but he's just not giving us any world beyond it nor suggesting a reason for thinking we might long for one. As someone whose eczema stopped itching the morning that Joe Biden's victory was called, the best I will say is that I might well revisit this a few years down the track. That's gotta be worth something.