timothy carey presents: the world’s greatest sinner

there is an undercurrent of the movies i’ve watched so far this year, namely, that they tend to sink or swim based on one critical (though not always lead) performance.

in the private files of j. edgar hoover, broderick crawford’s titanic performance is transformative. his characterization of the legendary fbi director is so nuanced that it elevates a pretty cheap and cheeky film to something resembling a great film, rather than pop-culture runoff. in sobibor, et al., yehuda lerner brings a movie star’s easygoing coolness to his recounting of a true story that makes it more thrilling than any heist film, actually allowing the audience to feel exhilarated despite the director’s best efforts to mute any emotion other than solemnity. timothy carey’s performance in this film is so batshit that it completely overshadows every other aspect of this film, for better or for worse.

taken in its entirety, this film is pure psychic strain, unfiltered blasphemy from a guy who was in tune with his own eccentricities rather than in thrall to them. world’s greatest sinner is remarkable because there’s never quite a wink to the audience – obviously there are several moments where carey’s face is seen in extreme closeup, practically mugging, but it bears no resemblance to the snideness you’d associate with the overused device of fourth wall breaking. instead, like many of the better movies of this kind, the hausu and demons 2 of this world, you have a sort of playful guilelessness and a real feeling like the filmmakers want you to laugh with them. for all it’s supposed sacrilege, after all, it’s ultimately a tale about a man going to god – by way of ken keseyesque absurdism.

by now, the youtube compilation of nicholas cage losing his mind in vampire’s kiss has been well circulated and well discussed, a flame-fanning tribute to cage’s legendary nuttiness onscreen and off. not to be prejorative towards the always watchable cage, but there’s something very contrived and self-effacing about this kind of performance. it’s as though cage imagines himself a scene chewing (rather than fly-chewing) renfield, employing his night-school method acting chops to inhabit the character of a total maniac. his performance is so unnatural and lunatic that it has to have been staged that way, a calculated craziness for a built-in cult appeal. much better directors have corralled this peculiar urge of cage and structured much better films around his jittery, awkward tics, see: lynch in wild at heart, woo in face/off and the coens in raising arizona.

that kind of over-enunciation of the stanislauski method is brilliant, in a way, especially as it relates to an older movie like world’s greatest sinner. cage, undoubtedly familiar with carey’s twisted character acting in kubrick’s the killing, paths of glory and a score of 70′s tv appearances uses method to go totally theatrical, not so much chewing the scenery as wolfing it down. carey uses his unique theatricality to stare film’s stodgy, stagey acting down through hooded eyes, gritting his lines through his teeth sardonically. unlike cage, he used method to be more like himself, probably because he couldn’t help it. the character of “god” hilliard for all intents and purposes is timothy carey, the ultimate proof of this being the final shot at the very end of the credits of carey’s hands offering up the film blessedly, being writer/editor/producer/architect/subject of it all.

the scattershot editing and pacing of the piece is suitably chaotic as well. given the erratic production schedule of the film, it’s expected that the sequences vary in tone and quality, resulting in something hardly seamless. what is surprising, however, is that the editing gives a distinct impression of being deliberately funny. there are plenty of moments, usually featuring jump cuts, of edits to carey’s seething putdowns, canoodling with teenage girls, stealing communion wafers and drinking milk that are nothing if not purposefully made. the effect is uncanny, something that isn’t usually used to describe comedy but fits well enough. so much of what we identify as comedy is very regimented, either a reference to, a subversion of or an anticipation of a routine, a set-up and a punchline. so much of what makes this film hysterical is that there often is no punchline, there really isn’t any recognizable reality to subvert. on a whim, a nobody insurance salesman invents punk rock, calls himself god and has the free world in his grasp.

this is a film that eschews most things literal, as good films tend to do. in god hillard’s cavelike throneroom/command center, there is no discernable entrance or exit. in reality, it’s likely that this takes place in some black draped room in carey’s or a friend’s home, a pisspoor set on a shoestring budget. in the hyperreality of film, more important anyway in carey’s estimation, this room is a private universe. god hillard is superego unleashed, dictating impossible demands and achieving them because, well, why not? the filmmaker has no obligation to slavishly recreate something resembling a consensus reality. carey’s world is as idiomatic as he is.

it couldn’t be more fitting that a cult movie has an apocalyptic sense of humor. three and eight-ninths stars, because nobody’s perfect.