Maps to the Stars is sickening, soulless, horrifying, and one of the most entertaining rides to be had in a cinema this year. David Cronenberg’s (The Fly, Eastern Promises, Videodrome) latest film is a no holds barred Hollywood satire, spitting venom at the vacuous, self-important microorganisms writhing around in the Petri dish that is Tinseltown. Cronenberg is the cold but captivated scientist, inspecting the germs under a microscope and watching what happens when he adds fire to the experiment.
The constellation of stars begins with Havana Segrand (Julianne Moore) a fading actress who is desperate to play the role that made her mother a star in an upcoming remake of the film. Her mother, with whom Havana had a fraught relationship, died years ago in mysterious circumstances involving a fire, and now haunts Havana in a beautifully youthful state.
Havana, who looks suspiciously like Lindasy Lohan might in five years time, hires a new personal assistant who has just arrived to Hollywood on a Greyhound bus. Agatha (Mia Wasikowska), scarred on her face and arms by burns, takes on Havana’s unglamorous job offer of ‘chore whore’ with eager gratitude – there is a secret, higher purpose to her being in la-la-land.
Also employed by Havana is the puerile self-help guru/massage therapist, Dr Stafford Weiss (John Cusack) who works to knead out the knots of Havana’s neuroses, one yoga breath and emotional breakdown at a time. His wife, Christina (Olivia Williams) manages their bratty, Beiber-esque child star son, Benjie (Evan Bird), who is fresh from a stint in rehab at only 13 years of age.
The most normal in this cast of whack-jobs is limo-driver and aspiring actor/screenwriter (what else?) Jerome, who is played by Robert Pattinson in a wry role-reversal to his performance in Cronenberg’s last film, Cosmospolis (2012). It appears that Cronenberg is not above a little bit of refreshing self-mockery. The whole thing is a sickeningly hypnotising takedown of celebrity culture, the glamour and decay of Beverly Hills, and a caustic attack on the curses of wealth and privilege. You’ll be hard-pressed to look away from the car crash as the characters destroy one another and themselves in the bleakest ways imaginable.
Several performances in the piece really drive home the human dilapidation. Moore’s is faultless, transformative and totally deserving of an Oscar. The tantrum thrown in Lotus position; the shark-tooth grin shown to a frenemy actress encountered outside a designer store; the joyful song-and-dance in response to a mother’s devastating tragedy – every scene that Moore is in, she paints a brutal, scathing portrait of a pitifully desperate, shallow woman totally absorbed by her need for validation.
A special mention also needs to go to Bird, a talented young actor who, at only 14 years old, is clearly just setting out on the path of a promising career. He is painfully arrogant, entitled and abrasive as Benjie, yet he also manages to endear the character to us through showing a vulnerability buried deep underneath the energy drink swilling, potty-mouth, bad boy façade. Benjie’s friends are also simultaneously abhorrent and hilarious, casting a harsh light on Hollywood’s obsession with youth. At a party the girls snigger, calling any woman over 21 “practically menopausal” as if it’s the new buzzword, and a fellow young actor jokes about selling his feces to fans online.
Aside from the deliciously evil and jaw-dropping performances, the production elements of Maps to the Stars are all perfectly on point. The costumes designed by Cronenberg’s longtime collaborator and sister, Denise Cronenberg, are just right, with Havana clad in figure-hugging, too-sheer tops and dresses with pop-bright bras poking out the sides, and Agatha’s black leather gloves and layered black and khaki clothes appear like a sci-fi uniform (when asked by Jerome where she’s from, Agatha answers, “Jupiter”).
The script was written by Bruce Wagner who was, himself, once a struggling actor/writer working as a limo driver (it all makes sense!). It’s peppered with industry name-drops and Hollywood colloquialisms, and then juxtaposed against a Paul Eluard poem, Liberty, which is recited by multiple characters several times throughout the film. It functions as a mysterious chant, a clue and a kind of magic spell, lifting us out of the sinful cesspool and guiding our gaze up to the stars above.
Maps to the Stars is repulsive and hellish, monstrous and grim – but it’s such an undeniably guilty fun ride, I can’t wait to get back in line and do it all over again.
Review Score: FOUR AND A HALF STARS OUT OF FIVE.
Running Time 112 minutes
Maps to the Stars is released on November 20th through Entertainment One
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