by MATTHEW HAYS

What better place to map out a film noir than to reach into the nasty goldmine of Hollywood lore? Screenwriter Paul Bernbaum had the idea to mine the semi-legendary tale of George Reeves, the Superman of one feature film (Superman and the Mole-Men) and a subsequent TV series that was hugely popular from 1952–58.

Reeves is seen as both part of the Superman curse (dare I mention Christopher Reeve?) and a choice bit of Hollywood decadence. It has been conventional wisdom for years that Reeves took his own life out of frustration, brought about largely by the fact that he lived in a town without pity. Reeves’s story was one that actors came to dread: land a cheeseball role in a show you sincerely hope won’t last; show goes on to become a staple of rerun syndication; actor is effectively branded forever by role that no longer brings in a penny of residuals. (This appalling situation changed in the late ’70s after a couple of actors’ union strikes.)

What’s less known is that Reeves was having a long-running affair with an older woman, the wife of a powerful MGM exec who was also a former mobster (the two are brought to life in the film brilliantly by Diane Lane and Bob Hoskins). The film follows one low-rent detective (Adrien Brody) who’s been hired by Reeves’s mother, who believes that her son didn’t commit suicide. Like any good film noir, there are plenty of rocks for Brody to look under and, as it turns out, a number of possible motives for people to have done Reeves in. Was the actor overcome with anguish about his tortured personal life and dead-end career, or did someone do him in?

Hollywoodland (the title refers to the name that originally appeared on the famous “HOLLYWOOD” hillside sign) pays homage to the dead actor while resurrecting the conspiracy theories around his demise. And the film has a lot going for it, from an intelligent screenplay to direction that is low-key enough to remain true to the spirit of original film noir, avoiding the grating bells and whistles of the misfire L.A. Confidential. For the most part, director Allen Coulter keeps things basic, relying on the solid work of cinematographer Jonathan Freeman (a Concordia film school graduate, it must be noted) while allowing for an occasional surreal flourish (a bodybuilding senior who smokes while pumping weights was my favourite).

But the filmmakers behind Hollywoodland have also chosen their cast very wisely, among them local wonder Caroline Dhavernas. As Reeves, Ben Affleck perfectly fills the role of an actor who is desperately uncomfortable in a pair of silly tights, worried that this will end up his entire legacy. Given Affleck’s own dismal recent luck (from Gigli to Surviving Christmas, his films have become staples of critics’ bottom-10 lists), he seems to be endowed with an insider’s knowledge of Reeves’s own torment.

The elements are all here: Hollywoodland is at once atmospheric, morally ambiguous and melancholic. A strong noir pastiche with an infusion of new ideas. Don’t miss it.

Hollywoodland opens Friday, Sept. 8

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