Saint John of Las Vegas
Seeing this movie reminded me of how plastic surgeries have anonuymized otherwise notable actors and actresses, obscuring their once unique features beyond recognition. It pleases me to know that even after being stabbed in the throat in a bar fight, Steve Buscemi has maintained his rat-like appearance and snaggle-teeth. I say that with sincere respect, because no one can play hard luck like that man.
Hard luck comes in spades for John (Mr. Buscemi), a habitual gambler who moved beyond the borders of Sin City to avoid the temptation. He works as a claims processor for an insurance company run by Mr. Townsend (Peter Dinklage)—a sleazy manager with boundless ego and a penchant for Jill (Sarah Silverman), John’s coworker.
Appearing somewhat bruised and battered, John finds himself relating the story of his current predicament to a convenience store clerk. This is a traditional setup which picks up three-fourths through the story, flashing back to the recent past when the mayhem began.
To impress Jill, John takes the initiative to demand a raise from Mr. Townsend, and instead gets saddled with more responsibility than he’s prepared to undertake. He’s promoted to a claims adjuster and paired up with Virgil (Romany Malco). Their current assignment involves investigating a stripper’s questionable claim for lost wages. With a stage name like Tasty D Lite (Emmanuelle Chirqui), how can she not be taken seriously?
There’s an element of absurdist humor at work, evident from scenes involving Ms. D Lite’s inability to scale a short staircase in her wheelchair (as well as her pink, decorated neckbrace), a lap dance in which she never leaves her seat, and a chain-smoking human torch who can’t seem to put himself out—what a drag.
Exacerbating matters is John’s deliberately prankish, manipulative mentor. I suppose there’s a certain logic to being stiffed on your per diem by a person paid to deny even the most straightforward of insurance claims. Turning insult to injury, after needling Virgil enough to get the extra ten dollars he’s missing, John learns that he’s been shorted by twenty. Virgil might not be the first person I’d trust in a crisis.
With a scattershot plot, one’s attention may focus more acutely on the characterizations, adeptly handled by very skilled, principal actors. Mr. Malco deftly conflates horseplay and outright maliciousness. As Jill, Sarah Silverman straddles the line between deviance and innocence. It never really occurs to her that maybe fucking her new boyfriend’s boss wasn’t such a good idea. But when you’re like John, it’s amazing what you’ll tolerate out of self-underestimation. Peter Dinklage’s diminutive stature, punctuated by a hairdo that makes his cranium look disproportionately large, contrasts hilariously with his infinitely narcissistic personality. He spends almost every spare moment in his office watching tapes of himself giving motivational speeches.
The surreal road trip is loaded with tragicomic vignettes, but never really coalesces into a whole. There’s a story, but it doesn’t unfold with the Rube Goldbergian cascades of misfortune in, say, David Fincher’s films, The Game and Fight Club, in which each protagonist re-discovers the intrinsic value of life through a journey of ludicrous adversity. To quote Tyler Durden, “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”
Saint John of Las Vegas • Dolby® Digital surround sound in select theatres • Aspect Ratio: 1.85:1 • Running Time: 85 minutes • MPAA Rating: R for language and some nudity. • Distributed by IndieVest Pictures