American Hustle

F Watchlist

Why do we love to watch imposters in the cinema do their crooked tricks? David O. Russell's ten-time Oscar-nominated comedy suggests that it has to do with the comic contradiction between the sophistication of the tricks used and the naivety of the assumption that the latter are suitable as a lasting business model. Above all, however, "con(wo)men" have the courage and cold-bloodedness that we too would like to have a little more of in our everyday lives. Therefore, against all reason, we hope for a reasonably scot-free end for the crooks. American Hustle bundles these ingredients into such an enjoyable 70s cocktail (based on a supposedly true case) that one can forgive the film a few impostures in the construction of the plot. A phenomenally greased Christian Bale and an uninhibitedly dressed-up Amy Adams play the duo of con artists, Bradley Cooper goes after them as an overzealous FBI man, Jennifer Lawrence completes the resulting mess as a married bitch who could have come straight out of a Scorsese film. Even better, the story comes to a head with an unexpected question: What happens in a con man comedy when the con man is conned in turn, his victim is a decent fellow and the man of the law is an impossible guy? A truly scintillating affair.

You’ll want to love Irving (Christian Bale), the half-smart schmo first seen finessing an elaborately glued comb-over in the mirror—and you’ll hate Richie (Bradley Cooper), the aggro Fed who, with a flick of his hand, ruins it. These are but initial impressions: American Hustle, a dynamite crime comedy and identity meltdown that can rekindle one’s faith in movies, will no doubt jostle allegiances like tourists in the back of a cab. There’s still the matter of Sydney (Amy Adams)—or maybe she’s Lady Edith Greensly, a British financier clad in plunging ’70s couture. All of them are in on a grift (and a love triangle) that takes them from the storage space of a dry cleaner to the undulating dance floor of Studio 54, and even the hotel-room buggings of the Abscam sting. The scope of the script (by Eric Warren Singer and director David O. Russell) is amazingly wide for what always felt like a grubby chapter of post-Watergate malfeasance. But Russell has figured out how to make his performers fly—the actors are all playing actors, basically—and he’s brought back his original neuroticism to boot.

Bunte Hemden, geschmacklose Möbel, psychedelische Klamotten und ein Soundtrack von Donna Summer bis zu den Bee Gees: Selten waren die 70er so schön schrecklich. Besonders Ex-Batman Bale ist mit seinem Combover und dem angefressenen Bauch scheusslich anzusehen. Hinter den grotesken Kostümen und Frisuren stecken aber tragische Figuren, die eigentlich nur nach einem besseren Leben streben.

Nie war der American Way of Life amerikanischer als in den Siebzigern, das demonstriert uns David O. Russell in seinem neuen, vielfach oscarnominierten Geniestreich. Die (Haus-)Frauen sind aufgedonnert und blondinesk (Jennifer Lawrence, Amy Adams), die Männer eitel und geil, auf Geld und Sex (Christian Bale, Bradley Cooper), und Korruption ein fröhlicher Volkssport.

Stattliche 30 Kilogramm Gewicht musste Christian Bale zulegen – für die Rolle des Trickbetrügers Irving Rosenfeld in David O. Russells brillanter Gaunerkomödie «American Hustle». Doch noch nie, so behaupten seine attraktiven Mitspielerinnen Amy Adams und Jennifer Lawrence, habe der «Batman»-Darsteller so sexy ausgesehen wie in dieser filmischen Feier des schlechten Geschmacks der 1970er Jahre, trotz Wampe und Toupet, Goldkettchen und Schlaghosen, Plateauschuhen und Zuhälter-Sonnenbrille. Dies behaupten sie jedenfalls in den Interviews zum jetzt auf DVD erschienenen Film, der unverdienterweise als einer der grössten Verlierer in die Oscar-Geschichte eingegangen ist: Zehn Nominierungen heimste er in diesem Jahr ein, gewann aber keinen einzigen Academy Award, noch nicht einmal für Kostüme und Ausstattung, obschon es besser kaum geht.