| Oddly, when you first see a masterpiece, its greatness is sometimes not wholly apparent, but instead takes time to reveal itself.
Other times it will seem that a film has instantly swept an entire century of cinema off its feet and deposited it in the dustbin of history. This was certainly my experience when I saw Steven Soderbergh’s irreverent experimental satire Schizopolis for the first time at the Toronto International Film Festival in 1996 – more than any other film released during cinema’s centennial year, Schizopolis made me, to paraphrase the script itself, the happiest man in my pants.
And it still does. Seven years and many, many viewings later (we’re talking well into the double-digits here), the movie continues to have its way with me whenever I watch it. Schizopolis has been available on VHS since 1997, and I have written about it before – not long after I first began writing this column in 1999 – but I realize now that what I wrote then was an inept summary of the film’s innumerable pleasures.
Thankfully, the Criterion Collection’s recent DVD release allows me to attempt once more to understand how the film can be so intellectually stimulating and so spit-sprayingly hilarious all at the same time.
If a plot synopsis were possible, it might look something like this: Fletcher Munson (played by Soderbergh himself) is an uninspired drone toiling in a nondescript office, headquarters for a new-agey religio-corporation called Eventualism, which bears a striking though satirical resemblance to Scientology. Munson daydreams through his mundane nine-to-five existence – punctuating his tedium with surreptitious trips to the bathroom to masturbate. But when one of his co-workers drops dead from a myocardial infarction of the left ventricle, Munson is suddenly thrust into the undesirable role of writing the next inspirational speech to be delivered by Eventualism’s charismatic founder T. Azimuth Schwitters (Mike Malone).
Consumed with worry, Munson obsesses over his task like the neurotic he is, neglecting his wife (played by Soderbergh’s ex-wife, Betsy Brantley) in the process. Not that it bothers her too much since she’s already having an affair with her dentist, the obsequious tooth advocate Dr. Jeffrey Korchek (also played by Soderbergh). By strange coincidence, Munson discovers that his wife is cheating on him with his doppelgänger, but instead of confronting her, he merely assumes Korchek’s identity. Then, complicating matters further, Korchek/Munson becomes uncontrollably smitten with Attractive Woman Number 2 (also played by Brantley) – are you confused yet?
That’s too bad, because Schizopolis also contains various self-reflexive subplots, interstitial devices and bizarre subterfuges. There’s a raging id-like figure named Elmo Oxygen (David Jensen), who circulates through the wealthy suburban neighbourhood where Schizopolis is set, delivering sexual favours to housewives and speaking a nonsensical language. (Q: "Nose-army?" A: "Jackpot landmine.") Meanwhile, one of Munson’s even more neurotic co-workers, Nameless Numberhead Man (Eddie Jemison), worries that Eventualism HQ has been infiltrated by a mole or a spy, both of whom may be agents of someone known only as the Right Hand Man (Scott Allen). And then there’s the man in striped socks (C. C. Courtney), a mysterious figure who may or may not hold the key to understanding everything we see and hear.
Finally, in the third act we begin to see earlier events from new perspectives, subtle repetitions with surreal differences – for example, Munson begins speaking Italian and Japanese. As the film reaches its climax with Schwitters taking the stage to read the speech that has caused Munson so much anxiety, it’s difficult not to be overwhelmed by the deliriousness of it all. If the film sounds unfathomably absurd, well, that’s because it is – but only at first.
Schizopolis deconstructs all sorts of languages – whether verbal, cinematic or otherwise – in an effort to make us consider the ludicrous absurdity of life, death, love and desire. Using humour as its arsenal, the film lodges a full-scale attack on middle-class suburban values and blasts away the facades that so many of us erect in order to somnambulate through our daily routines and relationships. Over the years, I’ve come to see Schizopolis as the cinematic equivalent of psychotropics – watching it can leave one thoroughly confused about the coherence between various sequences, but with mind-bending concentration it has become possible to ascertain an overarching pattern in the film’s apparent chaos.
Of course, one might think that all this effort could be avoided just by listening to Soderbergh explain the film on his DVD commentary track. But in a brilliant manoeuvre, he defies our curiosity and takes the piss out of commentaries in general by interviewing himself for the duration of the film. Panning between questions on the left audio channel and answers on the right, Soderbergh pontificates, mock-pretentiously, on his own genius, artistry and charm, rarely addressing inquiries into the meaning of the film.
Thankfully, he allows us to continue discovering that at our own leisure. And that, of course, makes me the happiest man in my pants. |
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