Put Megalopolis back in the box!
There isn’t much left to say about two men who’ve already written themselves into film history — one by redefining it, the other by making it bolder, more experimental, and somehow more Nicolas. I’m speaking, of course, of Francis Ford Coppola and his nephew, Nicolas Cage: the sacred and the profane of Hollywood’s DNA.
After a respectful and thoroughly caffeinated viewing of Megalopolis (followed by a heroic binge of Nicolas Cage’s entire filmography, which is really a lifestyle choice rather than a film study), I’ve decided it’s time someone staged an intervention.
Recent reports inform us that Mr. Coppola - patriarch and patron saint of New Hollywood - is entangled in debt following the release of his two-decade passion project, Megalopolis. The film may have been about utopia, but its aftermath sounds distinctly dystopian.
To ease the burden, Mr. Coppola is apparently selling his collection of outrageously expensive watches.
It’s the same old Hollywood tale: genius meets hybris, then calls a financial advisor. Now, let’s imagine a phone call that might have happened between Mr. Coppola and Mr. Woody Allen:
W – Hey, Ciccio, how’s it going?
FFC – Don’t ever call me that again. Hi, Woody. What’s this about?
W – Megalopolis, naturally. I watched it.
FFC – I’m shocked. Did you like it?
W – “Like” is a complicated verb. It felt like Celebrity, but with fewer jokes and more marble. You know — my Celebrity, with Leo, Charlize, and that British guy.
FFC – Hmm, and what made you come to that conclusion?
W – Well, you know — the celebrities, the theme itself, time. And that ending! What if Stanley (Kubrick) were still alive? You know what I mean — it was way too 2001. Oh God, I still can’t believe my eyes!
FFC – Did you see it in theaters or on streaming?
W – (silence)
Megalopolis, in short, could serve as a beautifully directed manual on how to manage male anxiety about extinction — both personal and cinematic.
Its downfall, however, lies not in vision but in casting. A $120 million investment and not one performance that suggests a mortgage was paid with conviction. The younger players act like they’re auditioning for a perfume commercial, while the veterans — who’ve survived God knows how many press junkets — seem exhausted by the effort of showing what sincerity looks like.
For two and a half hours, we witness a theater of “fake vulgarity” — and as any Italian grandmother could tell you, vulgarity, like olive oil, should never be synthetic. The endless toga parties, perhaps meant as allegories for civilization itself, mostly resemble a more luxurious version of Animal House.
Even the special effects — a cloud shaped like a human hand — feel like something an underpaid intern at Pixar made during lunch. It’s all too much. Too long, too loud, too self-aware. And yet, somehow, too fragile.
Still, the inner message leaves us with a special hint: only art can stop time from flowing.
And yet, the question remains: how did Coppola, the man who gave us Apocalypse Now, end up directing Apocalypse, Wow? After twenty years of script tinkering, wouldn’t a moment of doubt have been… reasonable?
Here lies the real tragedy: the role of the visionary architect could have been written for Nicolas Cage. Who better to embody man’s descent into creative madness than the one actor who already lives there rent-free? But no — the fear of criticism won. Gentlemen, you’re of Italian origin. Criticism is practically a family tradition.
Cage, to his credit, remains Hollywood’s most industrious legend — a performer whose mere presence elevates mediocrity into myth. Even in the smallest roles, he throws himself at the audience like an existential stuntman. His currency is sincerity; his tax bracket, chaos.
Recently, he confessed he fears boredom more than failure — a sentiment every artist should embroider on a throw pillow. So here’s my proposal: hire someone, anyone, to read all the unproduced scripts that have gathered dust in your agency’s inbox over the last decade. Somewhere in that pile lies the next Lord of War.
The same logic applies to Coppola. Imagine the two of them employing an army of hungry screenwriting students to sift through bad ideas until a good one trembles in fear. Two birds, one ambitious stone.
Ten readers each, ten thousand ideas, and perhaps a future where the Cage-Coppola economy is powered by the greatest renewable energy source: unfiltered enthusiasm.
And if it doesn’t work, there’s always the watch collection.