Foreign directors tend to create films with disturbing subject matter. Czech auteur Milos Forman is no exception. His films have taken on issues of freedom underneath even the vilest of expressions, whether they be pornography or mental wards. "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" is set in the latter, and its tale of a recently-indoctrinated inmate who inspires the other "lunatics" is noble. Yet great art is not always determined by courageous ambitions. Ironically Forman, unlike most of his foreign colleagues, has a Hollywood touch which proves condescending to his material yet rewards him when the Oscars come calling. "Cuckoo's Nest" is a prime example of Oscar-bait, assuming a certain knowledge on the human condition yet remaining hollow in the center.
Jack Nicholson plays Randall P. McMurphy, mental inmate extraordinaire, able to get withdrawn Indians speaking and stuttering momma's-boys laid. As the movie begins, McMurphy enters the domain of Nurse Ratchet (Louise Fletcher), a blue-eyed orderly with a heart of stone. Soon enough, he's able to bond with his fellow inmates (including promising up-and-comers Danny DeVito and Christopher Lloyd and Forman regular Vincent Schiavelli) through evening poker runs, basketball games, fishing trips and drunken defiances of authority. Indeed, the man's so inspiring that it's a wonder Robin Williams didn't snag this movie for his own.
And therein lies the problem. McMurphy, it is clear from the outset, is not even a character. He's a symbol, enacting Bugs Bunny-esque guard smooching and still possessing his abilities to score women despite his current mental condition. This is no accident, because Forman and his screenwriters make an effort to set McMurphy apart from the ragtag group of nutjobs by contrasting their white uniforms with his snow cap and blue jacket. This plunges the heart out of Ken Kesey's original novel, which illustrated the bond between McMurphy and the other characters. Jack Nicholson, however, plays him as if he were a religious artifact, smirking all the while like he knows he's a pedestal above each and everyone else in the sanity department. The subtlety of character emotions exerted in real-life is altogether lacking in many scenes, such as McMurphy's over-the-top rendition of watching the World Series. Indeed Nicholson seems here to be pleading for the Academy Award from his acting peers (which he ultimately, and predictably, won) which was only understandable after years of Roger Corman trash-pics and four Oscar nominations with absolutely nothing to show for it. His performance here was the first of many where he decreasingly lost touch with the subtleties of his profession and decided to go for comedic, crowd-pleasing broke simply by playing off his own stereotype.
If there is one performance to note here, it belongs to Louise Fletcher. Cold, calculating, but always protruding her frigid qualities with nothing more than a stare, Fletcher's portrayal of Nurse Ratchet earns its spot on the cinematic hall of fame.
Yet in the end it's not enough. Not even Haskell Wexler's tight, expert cinematography and intriguingly funny bits of dialogue (as the movie went on I kept wondering why males don't use the euphemism "beaver" anymore) can save Forman's film. Of course one can easily deduce a pattern from the Czech helmer's career. From "Hair" to "Amadeus" (still his best film) to "The People vs. Larry Flynt", Forman has had no trouble plunging into the depths of certain issues which repress humanity. Unfortunately, however, one can never reach the full effect of triumph of the will when one's story is supported by a cartoon.
Jack Nicholson plays Randall P. McMurphy, mental inmate extraordinaire, able to get withdrawn Indians speaking and stuttering momma's-boys laid. As the movie begins, McMurphy enters the domain of Nurse Ratchet (Louise Fletcher), a blue-eyed orderly with a heart of stone. Soon enough, he's able to bond with his fellow inmates (including promising up-and-comers Danny DeVito and Christopher Lloyd and Forman regular Vincent Schiavelli) through evening poker runs, basketball games, fishing trips and drunken defiances of authority. Indeed, the man's so inspiring that it's a wonder Robin Williams didn't snag this movie for his own.
And therein lies the problem. McMurphy, it is clear from the outset, is not even a character. He's a symbol, enacting Bugs Bunny-esque guard smooching and still possessing his abilities to score women despite his current mental condition. This is no accident, because Forman and his screenwriters make an effort to set McMurphy apart from the ragtag group of nutjobs by contrasting their white uniforms with his snow cap and blue jacket. This plunges the heart out of Ken Kesey's original novel, which illustrated the bond between McMurphy and the other characters. Jack Nicholson, however, plays him as if he were a religious artifact, smirking all the while like he knows he's a pedestal above each and everyone else in the sanity department. The subtlety of character emotions exerted in real-life is altogether lacking in many scenes, such as McMurphy's over-the-top rendition of watching the World Series. Indeed Nicholson seems here to be pleading for the Academy Award from his acting peers (which he ultimately, and predictably, won) which was only understandable after years of Roger Corman trash-pics and four Oscar nominations with absolutely nothing to show for it. His performance here was the first of many where he decreasingly lost touch with the subtleties of his profession and decided to go for comedic, crowd-pleasing broke simply by playing off his own stereotype.
If there is one performance to note here, it belongs to Louise Fletcher. Cold, calculating, but always protruding her frigid qualities with nothing more than a stare, Fletcher's portrayal of Nurse Ratchet earns its spot on the cinematic hall of fame.
Yet in the end it's not enough. Not even Haskell Wexler's tight, expert cinematography and intriguingly funny bits of dialogue (as the movie went on I kept wondering why males don't use the euphemism "beaver" anymore) can save Forman's film. Of course one can easily deduce a pattern from the Czech helmer's career. From "Hair" to "Amadeus" (still his best film) to "The People vs. Larry Flynt", Forman has had no trouble plunging into the depths of certain issues which repress humanity. Unfortunately, however, one can never reach the full effect of triumph of the will when one's story is supported by a cartoon.