Hooray for Hollywood

AMERICAN HUSTLE (B) - One of the big titles of the end of the year is a bloated, shallow piece of filmmaking by David O. Russell, who nonetheless hits some entertaining high notes with a cast that turns the volume up to 11 throughout.

A phrase popped into my head during the plodding second half, as Russell takes too much time to get to his clever twist at the end: showing off. The director here is showing off. Also showing off are the cinematographer, hair stylist and costume designer; the talented cast; and Amy Adams' breasts.

As good as the performances are, you can't help but occasionally get taken out of the story and think that these are really good actors sinking their teeth into the pulpy material. Christian Bale hams it up as a con man, Irving Rosenfeld, working with Adams' phony Lady Edith before they get busted by the FBI and roped into cooperating with the Abscam affair, led by Agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper). You admire Bale for diving into the character -- all comb-over, articulation and disgusting belly -- and his transformation is amazing at times; but too often his little tics (like adjusting his glasses) come across as overly mannered. Cooper, with his own crazy curly hair, hits some high notes but also comes across as an intense Method actor trying to bring his character to life. Adams can deliver a look and a line like no one -- most of her best ones here are in the trailer -- but she, like Bale and Cooper, struggles to bring any depth to her role. They are all undermined by the stretched-soup script, which treats the characters like props or just delivery systems for snappy lines and constant lip-syncing to '70s hits.

Faring a little better is Jeremy Renner as the conflicted mayor of Camden, who is desperate to revive Atlantic City and has convinced himself that he has to lie down with a few scummy people in order to deliver for the good people of New Jersey. Even at his finest, though, he seems to be channeling Joe Pesci from better movies. The best performance, though, comes from the smallest of the major roles: Jennifer Lawrence as Irving's neurotic wife, Rosalyn. Lawrence finds nuance and substance in a character that could have been just another throwaway floozy like the countless Jersey mob wives we've seen over the years. The film comes alive whenever she's around, and her performance makes me curious about seeing Russell's last film, "Silver Linings Playbook."

(By the end, too, I felt bad for Lawrence and Adams, who, along with most of the supporting female cast, are asked to repeatedly spill their cleavage all over the screen via push-up bras and plunging (era-appropriate) necklines. I was around in the '70s -- and a teenager for much of it -- and while the styles were an abomination, I don't remember it as being such a golden era of side-boob.)

Somehow, Russell thought he needed 2 hours and 18 minutes to try to spin an epic. But this all plays like a series of satisfying vignettes, strung together like highlight reels from famous mob movies. The comedy is well done (starting with Irving's opening scene in front of the mirror with a comb and some hair glue); the drama, not so much.

When the mob shows up halfway through, you know there's a precious torch-passing happening from Scorsese to the next generation, an official coronation overseen by Robert De Niro Himself in an uncredited cameo (in which he's refreshingly old-school ominous in a scene that, overall, falls flat). It's at that point where the screenplay (by Russell and a no-name co-writer) gets muddled and the cast loses its momentum on the muddy track.

What we're left with is a sometimes brilliant director producing an often-entertaining star vehicle, with a cast that can't help but chew the vintage scenery. I'm sure they all had fun showing off. That's Hollywood for you. That's showbiz.