Nightmare Alley: Out On Display

(Chase Manze)

Supposedly it's easy to train a geek. First, you spend a few nights searching through train yards and nightmare alleys, looking for an out-and-out boozer—a real drifter type consumed by his addictions with an overgrown beard and piss-stained pants. You find him wallowing through the early stages of withdrawal. Following a cordial invitation, he tracks you to your caravan where you offer him solace in the form of grain alcohol. There's actually a job that needs doing here, you say. It's a temporary job, just for a little while, that'll provide the man with some money and a clean place to sleep. With each shot taken the man grows more and more amenable. His smile widens, resplendent with satisfied urges. Of course, the grain alcohol you're plying him with isn't just grain alcohol. It's been spiked with an opium tincture, the profound dissociative effects of which are already being felt. 

Weeks later, the man, essentially naked and stark raving mad, hurls his emaciated body against the cage that contains him. He tries and fails countless times to break through, accruing a collection of deep cuts and bruises. That night, having voluntarily consumed more of the drug and liquor tonic, the man curls up in the corner of his chamber as a crowd, then unseen, gathers just above him. A carnival barker (Willem Defoe) beckons them in, spouting tall tales of a creature, somehow confirmed to be a man, who performs unimaginable acts. The show begins, the cell door rises, and the man, bristling constantly at the crowd and his surroundings, steps out into view. His playpen is a circle, the walls striped with red and white lining, roughly ten feet below the above viewing area. Plain-faced men and their bubbly spouses look on with a kind of morbid misunderstanding. The man below, the geek, collapses, shivers, and sobs loudly before biting off the head of a live chicken. Stanton Carlisle (Bradley Cooper) leaves the scene through the back, his curiosity sated. This: his first true taste of carny life. 

Guillermo Del Toro's Nightmare Alley, a remake and reinterpretation of Edmund Goulding's 1947 film of the same name, opens with Carlisle dragging a tightly-wrapped corpse to the center of a room and lighting it on fire. He steps outside and walks across a long field of wheat as the house, now consumed in flames, succumbs in the background. Through some stroke of luck, Stanton finds his way to a carnival ground where he sees the aforementioned geek show and meets Clem (Defoe, sinister as ever). Clem offers him a gig hauling lumber and performing various odd jobs around the premises for meager pay and an open bed. Stanton gladly accepts. 

The first half hour of Nightmare Alley takes place here: in various carnival locales from the bathhouse to the merry-go-round. Del Toro populates the space with his signature oddball ensemble. Carlisle is quickly introduced to Bruno: the world's strongest man (Ron Perlman), Zeena the psychic (Toni Collette), Zeena's mentalist husband Phil (David Strathairn), and the lovely Molly (Rooney Mara) who can absorb dangerous electrical currents. Much like the supernatural compound in Del Toro's Hellboy films, the carnival functions as a way station in which a gaggle of neglected figures can exist comfortably on the fringes of society. 

Perlman and Mara have a kindly father/daughter dynamic and Zeena and Phil exist comfortably within the space, enjoying their routine and stability. Those first thirty minutes are dominated by so many moments in which Del Toro celebrates the gorgeous oddity of his subjects. So much of their lives rely upon being observed by crowds totally indifferent to their humanity. In the off-hours, though, they hold tight to one another and share in tender moments. A contortionist dances in the early morning sun as he listens to an acoustic guitar. The whole troupe eats together under tents, night in and night out, sharing conversation and understanding. 

It's difficult to overstate how joyous and lived in the carnival feels during these sequences, even as the film veers into more upsetting subject matter. Cinematographer Dan Laustsen beautifully captures the grounds from all angles. At several points the camera, positioned a few hundred yards away, contrasts the lit-up Ferris wheel and big top tent with the vastness of the great night sky to startling effect. During the day, crowds of onlookers are captured in gentle pans, never lingering on any individual for too long. Instead, Laustsen treats them as they are: a horde, all alike in their gaze. Intimate moments occur in the dark, with the yellow-orange of faded bulbs bleedings into the black-blue of open, unapologetic night. Here actors appears in close-up, partly obscured and partly aglow as they navigate the nuances of their crippled interiority. 

Those first thirty minutes are dominated by so many moments in which Del Toro celebrates the gorgeous oddity of his subjects

For the most part, though, all Laustsen need do is point his camera at the immaculate sets (designed by Tamara Deverell) and costumes (designed by Luis Sequeira). Nightmare Alley truly feels birthed from the volatile underbelly of the 1930s. Men still dress in a classically stylish manner (vests, suit jackets, suspenders), but, in the case of the carnies, their clothes are often in various states of disrepair, indicating an intense discrepancy between desired appearance and actual standing. Women occupy largely the same lane, though some female performers opt for something less stuffy: a blouse, overcoat, or two-piece. There's less class anxiety amongst the women throughout the film; they find contentment in the profound imperfection of their lives.

In that regard, Stanton Carlisle is entirely a man. From the moment he accepts Clem's initial offer, Carlisle spends the entirety of his time quietly gaming, gathering information in an attempt to elevate his stature. He presents as understated, thoughtful, eager to help and to learn. It quickly becomes apparent that his avarice overwhelms all other faculties, even basic human connection.

Soon enough he falls in with Zeena and Phil who embrace him as one of their own. Back in the day, before the constant drunkenness and bitter recriminations, Phil ran a successful act in which he would "read" members of the audience, make psychic determinations about their personal history, and pretend to commune with the dead on their behalf. He would do so in part through subliminal verbal cues provided by Zeena as well as rapid-fire observations and interpretations of the subject in question.

In one of their first conversations, Phil "reads" Stan, asking him to present any object. Phil, eyes closed, identifies it as a well-worn brown watch previously owned by Stan's father with whom he had a contentious relationship. Stan buys in immediately, asking breathy follow-up questions, overwhelmed by emotion. Of course, it's all just deduction and assumption. "People are desperate to be seen," Phil says, "People are desperate to show who they are.”

Stan steps outside and immediately regurgitates Phil's routine, posturing himself and mumbling out recitations of phrases just uttered from another's lips. He cultivates a mentor/mentee relationship with Phil, gathering as much information as possible in order to grow his own manipulative abilities and power. It soon becomes clear that the carnival is but a blip in the grand scheme of Stan's long-term plans. Nothing is certain until local police raid the premises. The sheriff, repulsed by the acts on display and the carnival's presence in his jurisdiction, attempts to shut the whole operation down. Stanton steps in, speaking rapidly yet gently, and identifies this man as having had Polio and fought through a tremendous battle for his health. Stan then pulls the sheriff aside and dresses him down, identifying a chain around his neck as belonging to his late mother Mary before pretending to commune with her. Mary preaches mercy and the carnival is spared. Finally Stan is seen.

Laustsen places this reading in the foreground; in the background the rest of the troupe look on in profound confusion, unaware of Stan's gradual machinations. By the time they realize the extent of his talents and the breadth of his intentions, he's gone and onto a superior life. He and Molly elope, the film cuts forward two years, and we find them performing two shows a night at an upper-crust hotel in Buffalo, New York. Stan's a super-sized Phill and Molly, his Zeena.

At the start of the film, Bradley Cooper injects Carlisle with a kind of mealy-mouthed faux humility. So much of his put-upon southern twang feels ripped from his (excellent) performance as Jackson Maine in A Star is Born. The tenor is largely the same, just watered down and substantially less effective. The main pivot in his performance comes in the aforementioned first reading of the sheriff. He reveals his abundant intellect and observational abilities, allowing his simple facade to drop entirely.

From that point on, Cooper plays him as always thinking he's the smartest person in the room. It's an appropriate choice for a character who is fueled by his own arrogance and self-delusion. Unfortunately Cooper's skillset as an actor doesn't align with the requirements for the part. Much of Cooper's career thus far has been spent "capital-A" acting in films like American Hustle, Silver Linings Playbook, and American Sniper. One can often see the seams in his work and watch him make decisions for the character in real time. This is less detrimental in louder roles where on-screen pandemonium masks his self-awareness.

Nightmare Alley, despite having its share of provocative moments, is not a loud film and doesn't necessitate the same style or energy as the films mentioned above. Its success hinges upon deeply nuanced lead performances that balance internal intention with external perception very carefully. Because, ultimately, Stanton Carlisle is a performer. It takes some time to arrive at that point, but once he's there it only escalates. This profession and the set of tendencies that come with it give Cooper constant opportunities to indulge in elaborate, showman-esque maneuvers, whether verbal, expressive or physical.

Carlisle's self-assuredness demands that the actor disappear into the role and wholly own every instance in which he's on display and subject to scrutiny. Cooper doesn't accomplish that. On stage in Buffalo he affects a high nasal tone of voice that proves comedic more so than anything else. Perhaps purposeful, the audience can't help but see Carlisle as this ploddingly deliberate, silly force. It's difficult, then, to grapple with various highly-affluent individuals seeking out his guidance, as the plot suggests.

As Dr. Lilith Ritter, Cate Blanchett reckons with a kind of performance all her own. She's neither showy nor flashy. In fact, her actual emotional register is limited to various tones of cold, manipulative, intelligent, and knowing, all of which exist within the same chord. Distinctly unlike Carlisle, Ritter operates her own machinations from a position of quiet supremacy. She meets Stan at a crucial moment. Having achieved a steady lifestyle in Buffalo, he inevitably wants more. Ritter offers him that opportunity, introducing him to her therapy patients: influential members of society looking for personal consultations and communions with their beloved dead. Together the two of them form a partnership. Gradually, as she sinks her claws into him, he devolves. He lusts after her, fixates on monetary gain, and begins to drink despite having being avowedly sober for many years.

Undeniably menacing, Blanchett seems fixed in a kind of inverted Kubrick stare: eyes angled down and up simultaneously to evoke the threat of destruction. As the plot develops, it's revealed that that is her only aim. Her character arc effectively renders Blanchett's performance inert. She is cold for the sake of being cold, manipulative for the sake of being manipulative. Her motivations, when revealed, seem unearned. 

In a recent interview with Little White Lies, Del Toro provided a robust definition of noir, saying that is is "The tragedy that emerges between the haves and the have-nots. And the have-nots are trying to breach their ambition through violence and, ultimately, worshipping a hollow god, which is money."

Distinctly unlike Carlisle, Ritter operates her own machinations from a position of quiet supremacy.

Through this lens, one can begin to make sense of Carlisle and Ritter's relationship, at least from Carlisle's perspective. He, a have-not, lusts after status, money, and recognition. He hopes to be seen and celebrated without revealing his true character. Ritter, as a vessel rocketing him towards those base desires, is sacred to him. As any and all foundational moral beliefs recede into the wallpaper, Carlisle stands in the center of the room, lighting a body on fire over and over again in an attempt at something new. 

In spite of this understanding, though, there continues to be this incongruous relationships between the ideology of the film, its actual writing, and the performances within it. They never coalesce to create a uniform whole. 

Early on in the film, as Carlisle patrols the carnival grounds, he's pulled into a murky situation. The geek, having been struck on the head in an earlier scene, is dying of infection. He and Clem drag the geek into a truck and proceed to dump him at the back entry of a medical center. It's late, near-pitch black, and raining. The only source of light in this nightmare alley is a neon sign, several feet high, bearing the words "Jesus Saves." Carlisle flees the scene, leaving the geek naked and once again on display, finally able to receive some long-sought attention and care. Or maybe he just abandons him to die. As he does,  the "J" and "E" fizzle out, leaving a variation on the words, "Save Us." But it's too late: Carlisle's turned the corner, his fate sealed.