By all rights, I should look down upon Alpha Dog, a epitome of a film that is all style over substance. But that’s just it; it is so goddamn stylish, so heedless of any substance or subtext or metaphor, that I can’t help but absolutely find the whole film an utterly absorbing experience. Though this film is as nutritional as a Twinkie, the acting is filled with such gusto, the editing so slick, the story so ridiculous, that I felt I was entering a skillfully executed long-con. But the grifters driving this project (Director Nick Cassavetes, Justin Timberlake, and Emile Hirchse) are just charming enough that though I’ve feel I’ve been somehow ripped off, I don’t really mind.
Driving this film is the absolutely feral Ben Foster, who enters the film as your typical strung out loser, but transfigures himself into the Wrath of God. There is no question who is the “alpha dog” of this film. I think to fully appreciate this film, you have to look through its ridiculously affluent suburban Hollywood, Less Than Zero trappings, beyond the artifice of hydroponic weed and pumping hip hop, and just immerse yourself into The Myth. This film is nominally based on a true crime, but Cassavetes wisely chose to forgo the facts and embrace the myth that only someone as ridiculously named “Jesse James Hollywood” could be involved in. In this myth, the character’s name is just as silly: Johnny Truelove.
You must think of “Alpha Dog” as a particularly vivid Disneyland ride, but for hormonally charged teenagers with X-rated dreams…X-rated for violence, sex, and utter recklessness. I know that if I was fifteen years old, “Alpha Dog” would be my new favorite film, and for that impression, I give it a favorable review and my recommendation.
But it’s a qualified recommendation, since I’ve “grown up”, now that I favor craft beers over Milwaukee’s Best, now that I see “Top Gun” in all its homoerotic glory, now that I don’t feel driving like a maniac is “cool”. Maybe I’m getting old, and fair enough on that account. But when I saw Jake Mazurky’s brutal kung fu smackdown in the middle of a house party, the menage a trois in a pool, and the Man Himself–Maestro Harry Dean Stanton–resistance is futile.
The whipcream on this whole obesity-inducing banana split is the resigned, befuddled presence of Bruce Willis and Sharon Stone, adding a grizzled legitimacy (along with Stanton, natch) to this ridiculous, only in Southern California movie. You get scenes of import with the backdrop of windmill generators. A son walking in on his father fooling around with two young giggling groupies, and the father laughing about it. And a Cleveland Steamer to show who is the True Alpha Dog.
Alpha Dog is a sublime film for the paradoxical reason that it’s completely over the top with its foolishness, with its Tolstoy-number of characters, its internal logic despite the utter absurdity. I watched “Alpha Dog” alone, and now I regret it; it’s a great party movie, absolutely stupid without insulting your intelligence. The ending could have been greatly improved, but I’ll let that slide.
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