Martin Scorsese is the cicada of Modern American film makers. Every fourteen years he emerges from the Kundun compost heap to scrabble together a celluloid masterpiece. In 1976 we hailed Taxi Driver and in 1990 we mobbed theaters to see Goodfellas. Touching down in 2004 is The Aviator, a wonderful movie and a boon to the science of Cinematic Entomology.
The Aviator is a gripping look at the life of aviation pioneer Charles Lindbergh. Scorsese had to overcome the fact that this is an oft told story, the most notable example being the 1957 film The Spirit of St. Louis, an engaging movie not so much because it illuminated Lindbergh's accomplishments, but because Jimmy Stewart portrayed Lindy with the same charming "aw shucks" persona he gave George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life. When the plane finally touches down in Paris, we half-expect Lindbergh to notice his mouth is bleeding as he reaches into his pocket to find Zuzu's petals.
There is no such hokum in Leonardo DiCaprio's portrayal of Lindbergh. DiCaprio reveals how Lindbergh's ambitions were allowed to soar because they were not tethered by scruples or morality. While many biographies gloss over Lindbergh's pre-WWII isolationism and his kinship with the German Nazi Party, The Aviator dwells in this period of Lindbergh's life. In one scene Lindbergh indulges in strudel and schnapps with German military commanders. He ends up dancing the Lindy Hop with a blotto Hermann Goring (Alec Baldwin, looking suitably paunchy in tight green lederhosen). Adolf Hitler (Alan Alda, who imbues in Der Feuhrer a bit too much mirth) spoils the moment when he orders the band to switch gears and play polka. It's a key scene in that Lindbergh can take a stand for American idiosyncratic culture or yield to Bavarian bravado. Without hesitation, Lindbergh hoists a tuba and begins playing the "Too Fat Polka."
By film's end Lindbergh reaffirms his patriotism and is absolved by a kindly Franklin Roosevelt (Edward Herrman, again. Either SAG has a secret clause that you cannot make a period movie unless you hire Edward Herrman, or in the 1930's and 1940's every fifth man actually looked like Edward Herrman). In an awkward moment of reconciliation, Lindbergh presents the wheelchair bound Roosevelt with a six-pack of Lowenbrau and chuckles "We have nothing to fear but beer itself."
Cate Blanchett is fetching as Anne Spencer Morrow, Lindbergh's bride and emotional co-pilot. She amazes with her slow disintegration after the kidnaping and murder of the Lindbergh baby by Bruno Hauptmann (William Dafoe, once again serving up large doses of both heebies and jeebies). Anne ends up having imaginary conversations with the missing infant each time she looks at his photo. The kid's ghostly dialogue is voiced-over by a disappointing Gwen Stefani. Gwen should have watched Look Who's Talking a few times in order to learn the smart-ass inflections that give baby-talk resonance (Bruce Willis could and should write a book on this topic).
Scorsese proves once again that he is the master at creating characters whose heroic facades hide dark secrets and troubled souls. The Aviator is not only the best film of this year, but possibly the best film you will see until 2018.
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