Books, Arts & Manners: A Hole in the Soul

REMEMBER the bad old days when Charles Bronson, in Death Wish (1974), took matters into his own private citizen’s hands and eliminated the urban vermin that tried to prey on him? Despite some squawking by liberals, he was considered a hero. In less than twenty years, we have become enlightened. As Michael Douglas, another private citizen, gives the scum what-for in Falling Down, he is considered a nut case even by the filmmakers, let alone the Korean and Hispanic protestors demonstrating outside megalopolitan movie houses. The line between justicer and just plain crazy has been categorically crossed. Or has it? The movie waffles breathtakingly.

A solid citizen looking like the model junior executive, Douglas, with three pens neatly clipped into his white shirt’s pocket, is understandably incensed by an endless traffic jam caused by repair work on a Los Angeles thoroughfare. Hot and exasperated by all that honking, cursing, and a pesky fly, he leaves his car on the road. Jacketless, he grabs his Samsonite briefcase, and declares to the stalled souls around him, “I’m going home.” But where is home for this man whose license plate reads D-FENS? Bill (his name is barely mentioned) is headed for his daughter’s birthday party. But his ex-wife, Beth (Barbara Hershey), living with their daughter in bohemian Venice, has a restraining order forbidding Bill, who can get violent, to visit. And three weeks ago he was fired from his job. Still, as he moves through the city on foot now, he keeps calling Beth from sundry pay phones, announcing his impending, intensely unsolicited visit. Perhaps he thinks that offensiveness is the best D-FENS.

JS

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John Simon

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REMEMBER the bad old days when Charles Bronson, in Death Wish (1974), took matters into his own private citizen’s hands and eliminated the urban vermin that tried to prey on him? Despite some squawking by liberals, he was considered a hero. In less than twenty years, we have become enlightened. As Michael Douglas, another private citizen, gives the scum what-for in Falling Down, he is considered a nut case even by the filmmakers, let alone the Korean and Hispanic protestors demonstrating outside megalopolitan movie houses. The line between justicer and just plain crazy has been categorically crossed. Or has it? The movie waffles breathtakingly.

A solid citizen looking like the model junior executive, Douglas, with three pens neatly clipped into his white shirt’s pocket, is understandably incensed by an endless traffic jam caused by repair work on a Los Angeles thoroughfare. Hot and exasperated by all that honking, cursing, and a pesky fly, he leaves his car on the road. Jacketless, he grabs his Samsonite briefcase, and declares to the stalled souls around him, “I’m going home.” But where is home for this man whose license plate reads D-FENS? Bill (his name is barely mentioned) is headed for his daughter’s birthday party. But his ex-wife, Beth (Barbara Hershey), living with their daughter in bohemian Venice, has a restraining order forbidding Bill, who can get violent, to visit. And three weeks ago he was fired from his job. Still, as he moves through the city on foot now, he keeps calling Beth from sundry pay phones, announcing his impending, intensely unsolicited visit. Perhaps he thinks that offensiveness is the best D-FENS.