Is it Life Anyway?

The Cooper Point Journal Volume 10, Issue 13 (February 4, 1982)

Whose Life Is It Anyway, directed by John Badham.

The movie’s title itself is indicative of its major flaw. Simply put, Badham’s new film is about as subtle as a fart in an operating room. This is a shame, for a theme so inherently poignant as euthanasia deserves a much more sophisticated treatment. With a lighter touch, more imagination and, especially, a greater audience’s intelligence W.L.I.I.A. might actually have succeeded.

I guess it’s the old Black-Hat/White-Hat mentality we’re talking about here. Badham, and Hollywood in general, obviously perceives the greater part of the American film-going public as being incapable of interpreting any verbal or visual clues short of a scream or an explosion. That may work well for The Thing That Ate Cleveland or even Star Wars but, it certainly can’t cut it for serious drama.

This heavy-handedness is at its worst in the very beginning of the movie. Even before all the credits have had a chance to settle themselves on the take-up reel, we are drowned in inanities. Our hero played by Richard Dreyfuss, is perched/ atop a Caulder-esque sculpture welding the finishing touches to his latest masterwork. See how full and active a life he leads? Now look down below to his cute girlfriend as she banters trite lines with Dreyfuss’ student-helpers. Listen to her actual first line: “What is it? It’s Art of course.” Watch me finger my coat nervously, sitting still warm in the next seat, inviting me to beat a hasty retreat.

Cut to the next scene. Watch a runaway 18-wheeler reach the intersection at the same time Dreyfuss and his shiny Datsun 280Z does. Watch the nice car go under the rig. See the top come off. Then watch the medics cut off the door and pull Dreyfuss, his head rivulets of blood, out of the wreck. This is all in the first two minutes, mind you.

Cut to the hospital room with Dreyfuss in bed and smiling, seemingly acclimated well to his new life as a quadriplegic. See the hardnosed – really – compassionate Puerto Rican – head nurse as she trains the new nurse in the art of bedsore prevention. Here comes his now ex-lover with flowers. Next -comes the Rasta orderly to shave the quad: “Hey mon, it be time to get cut.” “Oh, no,” says Dreyfuss, “A Black man with a razor.” Cute, no?

In comes John Cassavetes as the chief of surgery, a clutch of third-year students in tow. They approach a still-warm corpse. One would-be doctor is caught by Cassavetes in mid-yawn and is lambasted by same: “Look at that. This should make you sick. It makes me sick. Anytime you see someone die before his allotted three score and ten you should get sick.” Talk about being fairly clubbed over the head! Cassavetes might just as well have turned to the camera and declaimed, “Hi. I’m the chief of surgery here. I’m totally opposed to euthanasia and will be adamantly contesting this patient’s so-called right to die. When you see me later, it’ll all start to make sense.”

I could go on and on. The stereotypical Jewish shrink, a Black shrink, a young lawyer who amazingly enough seems to only lose his stutter in the courtroom. Add to them the gorgeous doctor caught between her growing feelings for the quad’s right to determine his own fate and her Hippocratic oath to save lives. All stock figures moving in circles around the man in the bed whom we really never do seem to get inside of. In the one internal monologue of sorts, all we get is the obligatory scene of his former lover dancing and posing for Dreyfuss; one short B&W reflection of bygone days. That and one single tear running down the face of the man powerless to brush it away.

It is a poignant story, actually – Dalton Trumbo’s Johnny Got His Gun proved that years ago. But without some belief in his audience’s abilities, the entire production falls flat. And if we continue to be fed this Pablum perhaps our teeth will indeed atrophy and be incapable of sinking into something tougher and more nourishing.

Dreyfuss is witty enough, sharp-tongued, presenting an admirable, though tragic, figure. Cassavetes is wooden as ever; for once well-suited to his role. A few scenes are genuinely moving; one with a Rasta/ Punk band absolutely hilarious. And thank god, Badham didn’t pull a “Joni” and have Dreyfuss start molding clay with his teeth. But John, hey, let’s leave the hats at home next time-for all our sakes.