Fool’s Gold – Why the McConaissance was a sham | Little White Lies

Long Read

Fool’s Gold – Why the McConais­sance was a sham

07 Apr 2019

Words by David Jenkins

Smiling man at the helm of a sailing boat, wearing sunglasses and a jacket.
Smiling man at the helm of a sailing boat, wearing sunglasses and a jacket.
Reap­prais­ing Matthew McConaughey’s maligned rom-com dark days.

One of the few perks of self-iden­ti­fy­ing as a jour­nal­ist is that you can be part of a clique who are allowed to refer to a film actor as a jour­ney­man hack. To broad­en the def­i­n­i­tion, this is an artist who sees their par­tic­i­pa­tion in the rhine­stone-stud­ded Hol­ly­wood pro­duc­tion line as a means to a very spe­cif­ic end. And that end involves being paid ungod­ly amounts of fast cash in return for par­tic­i­pat­ing in some crass, demo­graph­ic-ori­ent­ed prod­uct” intend­ed to be pushed out at local mul­ti­plex­es like so much meat slur­ry into so many all-nat­ur­al hot dog casings.

Adam San­dler is per­haps the pre­em­i­nent exam­ple of this phe­nom­e­non. He is a man whose robust busi­ness acu­men has seen him top-lin­ing films which are pur­pose built to trou­ble that exclu­sive club of zero per­centers on Rot­ten Toma­toes. (I’ll note, this indis­tinct con­sen­sus take in no way means they are bad movies.) These ear­ly works offered indis­tinct vari­a­tions on Sandler’s patent­ed drib­bling dick­splash’ per­sona and became a sta­ple of tween sleep­overs, uni­ver­si­ty dorm smoke-outs and the rec rooms in max­i­mum secu­ri­ty prisons.

Yet the already-murky waters are putri­fied fur­ther when an actor like San­dler decides to stick it to the fans and lay one down for pros­per­i­ty – he punch­es out a film for The Art. As unspo­ken penance for such gar­den vari­ety atroc­i­ties as Anger Man­age­ment, 50 First Dates and Click, we get a Punch-Drunk Love or a The Meyerowitz Sto­ries to even up the scales. It’s Net­flix algo­rithm fillers on the streets, the Safdie brother’s Uncut Gems in the sheets.

Where San­dler dropped the occa­sion­al shit-flecked pearl into the funky swill of his screen career, Matthew McConaugh­ey has adopt­ed a slight­ly dif­fer­ent tack. His for­ma­tive years, which for the sake of this study will cov­er the taint­ed decade stretch­ing from 1999’s Edtv to 2009’s Ghosts of Girl­friends Past, gave way to a sharp water­shed, denot­ed by the strange moment he clear­ly decid­ed he’d been coast­ing for too long. It was time to act, goddammit.

A man in a cowboy hat and sunglasses standing beside a green vintage car with its boot open.

2011’s The Lin­coln Lawyer can be iden­ti­fied as a key tran­si­tion point in McConaughey’s career, a par­tic­u­lar­ly sat­is­fy­ing exam­ple of a film in which the mere pres­ence of an actor enhances a hack­neyed con­cept (he’s a lawyer, in a Lin­coln). At the time, he was well aware that he was slump­ing towards type­cast. He was being habit­u­al­ly referred to as a him­bo” in the gut­ter press. Offers of more inter­est­ing roles were sel­dom forth­com­ing. He took a time out in a bid to refresh his image. And from there on in, it was awards (Dal­las Buy­ers Club), plau­dits (Mud), cen­sor-bait­ing (Killer Joe) and pro­tract­ed cry­ing sequences (Inter­stel­lar).

For inno­cent onlook­ers, it was a strug­gle to see who could con­sign a large swathe of McConaughey’s work­ing life to the cul­tur­al garbage barge of his­to­ry the fastest. And lo, the McConnai­sance was born…

This is the nec­es­sary con­text for the sto­ry I want to tell, which is one that floats the light­ly con­tro­ver­sial notion that McConaughhey’s so-called fuck you, pay me” phase was in fact a greater sig­ni­fi­er of his strengths as a per­former than the films made after that alleged­ly mis­be­got­ten era. The Texas Tornado’s aura of twin­kle-toothed chill has been the con­stant fac­tor in every­thing he’s made. He nei­ther stretch­es him­self to meet the mate­r­i­al, nor takes off-kil­ter char­ac­ter roles which would involve him shift­ing too far from essen­tial­ly play­ing a fic­tion­al clone of himself.

He is mod­ern cinema’s fore­most pit mas­ter, the gar­ru­lous life and soul who also shoul­ders much of the respon­si­bil­i­ty of ensur­ing the par­ty rips major ass. With short­ish legs and an immense tor­so, he has a low cen­tre of grav­i­ty which allows him to glide into the frame, often with head tipped for­ward like an inquis­i­tive hound dog. It is a dancer’s physique, and his per­for­mance style often relies on match­ing words with impro­vised movement.

He works with the rhythm of a script as much as he does its con­tent. And the essence of what he is able to bring to a project is vis­i­ble in every­thing he makes, whether that’s an air­plane seat-back work­horse such as 2001’s The Wed­ding Plan­ner, or a 2016 based on true events’ dra­ma like Gold.

A man in a suit sits on a window ledge, overlooking a city skyline at sunset.

If The Lin­coln Lawyer was the tran­si­tion, then what was the break­ing point? The answer to that is obvi­ous­ly 2008’s gong-bong­ing jerk chimera Surfer, Dude. It’s often referred to as a lost’ movie, but the real­i­ty is that it’s your clas­sic hush-up job. McConaugh­ey essays a dim-brained, cash-poor surfer who freaks out when he is asked by a shady busi­ness­man to con­tribute to a surfer VR experience.

The film looks like it was made as some kind of cre­ative mon­ey laun­der­ing exer­cise, par­tic­u­lar­ly as direc­tor SR Binder man­ages some­how to avoid mak­ing even a sin­gle shot look like it was cre­at­ed by some­one who has even light aspi­ra­tions towards basic integri­ty. It is an exam­ple of mis-fired self par­o­dy as McConaugh­ey, ref­er­enc­ing a trait he had become known for, lit­er­al­ly spends the entire film shirtless.

At best it appears as if he doesn’t find the joke that amus­ing, at worst he acts as if a rifle is being point­ed at his head from behind the cam­era. But this is an obvi­ous pro­fes­sion­al nadir, a sol­id rea­son to not only fire an agent, but to have him clapped in irons and pelt­ed with ran­cid fruit for an entire finan­cial quarter.

Ron Howard’s Edtv is what you’d refer to as a stand­ing start when it comes to a dash toward the Hol­ly­wood A‑list. It’s also a vital text in the McConaugh­ey saga, in that it tells of a lov­able south­ern schlub who is plucked from obscu­ri­ty and whose nat­ur­al mag­net­ism is test­ed as a star attrac­tion on low-rent cable TV. On those terms the film is believ­able, as you could total­ly imag­ine that tooth­some grin, those perky ges­tic­u­la­tions, that unkempt shag car­pet of chin-bris­tle, to work in this ulti­mate every­man context.

The prob­lem is – and this some­thing we’ll need to return to again and again – the film itself is absolute­ly awful. With­out even men­tion­ing that it sits cow­er­ing in the shad­ow of the bet­ter-in-every-con­ceiv­able-way The Tru­man Show from the pre­vi­ous year, Edtv is film which has no curios­i­ty about its fas­ci­nat­ing sub­ject, using the immer­sive pro­to real­i­ty tele­vi­sion con­cept as a way to string togeth­er a bunch of sap­py, soapy encoun­ters. Where Edtv the show is a major hit all across Amer­i­ca, Edtv the film crashed and burned, and deserved­ly so.

A shirtless man with curly blond hair standing in a room, looking at the camera.

Anoth­er exam­ple of a film which can be seen as art imi­tat­ing life is 2006’s under­rat­ed Fail­ure to Launch, in which he co-stars oppo­site a very game Sarah Jes­si­ca Park­er. It sees McConaugh­ey play­ing – you guessed it – an avun­cu­lar man-child who is still liv­ing with his par­ents, and SJP is draft­ed in as a spe­cial­ist in coax­ing this dash­ing com­mit­ment-phobe out from of mamma’s box room.

Over­look­ing the fact that the entire film is con­ceived around a plot hole that’s vis­i­ble from one of Saturn’s fur­ther-flung moons, McConaugh­ey lav­ish­es pro­ceed­ings with an easy­go­ing affa­bil­i­ty that sin­gle-hand­ed­ly defib­ril­lates a life­less and wan­ton­ly con­trived script. Yet this notion of McConaugh­ey putting away child­ish things to realise his full poten­tial is a ques­tion that would hang on the lips of crit­ics for a fur­ther half decade.

Wind­ing back a few years to the McConaugh­ey rom-com locus point, we come to The Wed­ding Plan­ner. Our sub­ject is utter­ly con­vinc­ing as a chis­elled, mild­ly eccen­tric dandy whose tem­po­rary unat­tain­abil­i­ty makes him all the more desir­able. A pal­pa­ble attempt is being made to present anoth­er string to the actor’s pos­si­bly lim­it­ed bow, as his bewitch­ing pae­di­a­tri­cian who is, unfor­tu­nate­ly, due to wed a well-heeled slat­tern is clean shaven and sports prep­py rim­less glasses.

This is a Jen­nifer Lopez vehi­cle, and so he deliv­ers his most sedate and unem­bell­ished per­for­mance from the rel­a­tive side­lines. He is, in fact, far more intrigu­ing and charm­ing in the elec­tron­ic press kit video pro­duced to pro­mote the film, in which he sin­cere­ly expounds on the notion of love at first sight as if this film offers its most sub­lime exam­ple in the entire his­to­ry of art.

Lat­er, McConaugh­ey rel­ished the oppor­tu­ni­ty to work oppo­site Al Paci­no in Two for the Mon­ey – two actors deeply versed in the art of sple­net­ic gib­ber­ish (“Bada-bam-boo-ba-bam!”, Ta-ta-ta!”, etc). And yet again, he was the sav­ing grace in a film which des­ic­cates under close scruti­ny, con­cern­ing an injured pro foot­baller who retrains as a sports bet­ting tip­ster and – for rea­sons nev­er real­ly explored – is ini­tial­ly very good at it, and then for no rea­son at all, los­es his touch.

The pair go from high-fiv­ing jack­als to flop-sweat cov­ered goons, and it’s yet anoth­er exam­ple of a good, com­mit­ted per­for­mance in a bad movie. It works on a pri­mal lev­el because McConaugh­ey is phe­nom­e­nal at mim­ic­k­ing con­fi­dence. You believe that, until this point in his career, he’s been work­ing as a bet­ting tip­ster. And that humane con­nec­tion to the back­ground is a rare skill.

You’d be hard pressed to defend 2008’s Fool’s Gold, a Bahamas-set caper com­e­dy in which our boy teams with Kate Hud­son to foil a Glock-wav­ing Kevin Hart in the race to a myth­i­cal sunken trea­sure. Imag­ine if Spiel­berg had made a new Indi­ana Jones film, but also attempt­ed to tie it on to a heav­i­ly dis­count­ed fam­i­ly sun hol­i­day, and you’re almost there.

There’s a svelte, lived-in qual­i­ty to McConaughey’s free­lance antiq­ui­ty hunter – see­ing the assur­ance with which he han­dles a jet ski harks back to images of John Wayne can­ter­ing atop his trusty steed. He even makes a com­i­cal­ly lengthy his­tor­i­cal expo­si­tion sequence in the mid­dle of the film feel semi vital. Action movies are some­thing of a under-explored cav­ern in his career – Sahara and Reign of Fire are actu­al­ly both rather good, par­tic­u­lar­ly his bug-eyed, mohawked marine in the latter.

To recap, McConaugh­ey has been admirable-to-good-to-occa­sion­al­ly great in var­i­ous pieces of Hol­ly­wood pay­cheque fluff. The McConnai­sance came, and then with a shock­ing quick­ness, died a death, as the actor starred in a long list of crush­ing­ly mediocre titles which didn’t allow his care­free schtick into frame. Things got off to an excit­ing start with William Friedkin’s Killer Joe, in which our man sex­u­al­ly assaults a woman using fried chick­en, and not for the pur­pose of thigh-slap­ping guf­faws. And his extend­ed cameo in Steven Soderbergh’s Mag­ic Mike was an absolute gift – tak­ing what he had already done to death, and just encas­ing it in a more sat­is­fy­ing and cogent context.

Then came the dark days: Gus Van Sant’s hor­ri­bly mis­judged sui­cide dra­ma The Sea of Trees from 2015 may have seemed like a good idea on paper, but it only served to crud up our star’s CV in this peri­od of attempt­ed tran­si­tion. The Free State of Jones, Gold, The Dark Tow­er, White Boy Rick, Seren­i­ty… a depress­ing gallery of mid­dling dreck which not only placed a gar­ish full stop at the end of the so-called McConnai­sance, but forced us to ques­tion whether there even was one in the first place.

His most recent spot­light role is in Har­mo­ny Korine’s The Beach Bum, in which he plays a fun-lov­ing Florid­i­an beat poet who porks, snorts and smokes his way to infamy. The film looks to both con­cen­trate and expand upon his sin­gu­lar screen per­sona. Guy Ritchie has cast McConaugh­ey as an Amer­i­can drug lord in his vaunt­ed return to mock­ney gang­ster ter­rain, The Gen­tle­man, which is due out in 2020.

It seems that very few direc­tors have the pow­er to har­ness what this sin­gu­lar lead­ing man has to offer, and maybe we could see him slink back to his rom-com old ways as we tip into the next decade. If you have ever thought of McConaugh­ey as a jour­ney­man hack”, then the insult should apply to his entire career, not just the ear­ly years. There has been no flux, only good per­for­mances in bad films (Surfer, Dude being the excep­tion). McConaugh­ey will always be big. It’s the pic­tures that were small.

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