When Steve Martin is hot, he's really hot. L.A. Story, written by Steve Martin, is hot. The entire film keeps you in a state of constant chuckling. And, the movie has more than a few moments of comedic genius. It's the cumulative effect of little jokes littered throughout the film, both verbal and visual, that keeps you in stitches. On top of that, it piques your interest.
Here's what I mean: while Martin mercilessly it pokes fun of L.A. for it's flakiness, it's love and tolerance of idiosyncrasies, it's constant preoccupation with image, it's narcissism, the humor is never vulgar, crass, or shallow. For example, one scene takes place in the municipal art museum. We see Harry Telemacher (Steve Martin), with his friends, rapt in admiration for a painting. The camera angle comes from the canvas itself, where we watch Harry, deep in thought, dissertate on the subjects in the portrait, their motives, actions, and hidden agendas. He moves forward, backward, forward again, as if in active dialogue with the lacquer. At last, moving backward, he concludes his remarks by wrinkling his nose in disgust and saying `Look at the way he's holding her: it's almost filthy!' And then the camera moves around to Telemacher's perspective. The painting's a total abstraction. There isn't a distinct line in the entire rectangular frame. In the argot of Postmodernism, one might call it a `readerly' work of art.
It's the perfect metaphor for L.A., where you may interpret anything, any way you like. There's no standard, except one's own `personal reality.' No one can use social norms as a personal club to tell someone else, `You're wrong,' because there is none. It's all `what-E-verrrr.'
Best of all, L.A. Story is a love story, the kind of love that adores someone as much for their faults as for their virtues. Martin's satire is so effective because he loves the city so much.
Here's what I mean: while Martin mercilessly it pokes fun of L.A. for it's flakiness, it's love and tolerance of idiosyncrasies, it's constant preoccupation with image, it's narcissism, the humor is never vulgar, crass, or shallow. For example, one scene takes place in the municipal art museum. We see Harry Telemacher (Steve Martin), with his friends, rapt in admiration for a painting. The camera angle comes from the canvas itself, where we watch Harry, deep in thought, dissertate on the subjects in the portrait, their motives, actions, and hidden agendas. He moves forward, backward, forward again, as if in active dialogue with the lacquer. At last, moving backward, he concludes his remarks by wrinkling his nose in disgust and saying `Look at the way he's holding her: it's almost filthy!' And then the camera moves around to Telemacher's perspective. The painting's a total abstraction. There isn't a distinct line in the entire rectangular frame. In the argot of Postmodernism, one might call it a `readerly' work of art.
It's the perfect metaphor for L.A., where you may interpret anything, any way you like. There's no standard, except one's own `personal reality.' No one can use social norms as a personal club to tell someone else, `You're wrong,' because there is none. It's all `what-E-verrrr.'
Best of all, L.A. Story is a love story, the kind of love that adores someone as much for their faults as for their virtues. Martin's satire is so effective because he loves the city so much.