‘Savages’

Since it’s the height of summer and Ceili just returned from a beach sojourn in SoCal, it felt like a good time to indulge in sun-drenched California narco-mayhem. So we watched Savages, Oliver Stone’s adaptation of Don Winslow’s quirky novel of the same title.

I love Don Winslow. Let’s just say I’ve got my problems with Oliver Stone. In the case of Savages, I have to say it’s a pretty good match. Winslow deliberately set out to tell a wild and wooly yarn set in the same milieu as his masterpiece historical crime novel The Power of the Dog. It’s self-indulgent. He plays with archetypal characters and with language and the visual structure of a crime novel. The entire first chapter is two words: “Fuck you.”

That suits Stone’s directorial style, which can’t resist taking things over the top.

Here’s the caper: Ben and Chon are opposites-attract Laguna Beach bros — Ben a gentle Buddhist, Chon a Baddist Navy SEAL. Together, they grow and distribute primo hydro pot with ridiculously high THC levels. This attracts the attention of the Baja Cartel, which makes them an offer they can’t refuse. But they do, and mayhem ensues. The tale is told mostly from the viewpoint of their shared girl, O — short for Ophelia — the materially wealthy, emotionally impoverished daughter of a narcissistic mother she refers to as PAQU — Passive Aggressive Queen of the Universe.

O stands for something else, too. She is wildly sexual. And, yes, she’s doing both Ben and Chon, because of course she is. Yes, Ms. I.M. Outraged, O is a fantastical creature created by and for the “male gaze.” Somehow, Marilyn and Ceili managed to not find this terribly offensive.

Actually, all of the characters are archetypal. Ben and Chon are the hippy-shitkicker yin and yang, the ultimate fulfillment of the Willie Nelson cultural mission, brought together by Willie’s own chosen sacrament. Cold steel and warm wood, as O puts it — and she would know.

Savages is a legend for a 21st Century frontier: It’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where the implicit threesome with Etta Place is consummated in a haze of pot smoke, and everybody talks in a kooky SoCal surfer/mall-rat patois. In this case, the lovable outlaws are hemmed in and run down not by the forces of encroaching law and order, but by other — utterly ruthless — criminals with no moral floor beneath them. And for all its humor and whimsy, the tale turns dark, as it must.

It’s not for everyone, but I love it for the lurid, wild ride it is. I mean, who doesn’t love a shootout involving outlaws wearing Mexican luchadore masks?

Stone’s oversaturated color palette suits the lurid nature of the story perfectly. There’s a sweet touch during a scene at a Mexican restaurant in Laguna Beach that has to be Stone, as Bob Dylan’s Romance in Durango plays softly in the background.

Me and Magdalena on the run

I think this time we shall escape…

Well, we know how THAT ended up…

Stone stays pretty faithful to Winslow’s tone and dialogue — until he doesn’t. No spoilers here. Let’s just leave it at this. Stone uses Winslow’s ending — and creates one of his own. Winslow’s is the right one; Stone’s is bullshit and nearly spoiled the movie for me.

But, again — it’s a yarn; a legend. Can’t be too precious about these things.

Savages — book and movie — is extremely, graphically violent. It’s extremely, graphically sexual, centered around an “alternative” relationship. The heroes are a pair of dope dealers and a nymphomaniac with a no-limit credit card and the will to use it. It’s borderline nihilistic. It may or may not be your kinda smoke. If it sounds like maybe it is, by all means read the book — it’s a perfect, short, punchy, summer read. Then you can decide whether you want to watch the movie.

Pairs well with hot chili peppers in the blistering sun…