Based on John O’Brien’s novel of the same title, Mike Figgis’ ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ (1995) is a complex text, to say the least. It details the final stages of Ben Sanderson (Nicholas Cage): an ex-Hollywood agent on the road to Las Vegas with the strict intention of drinking himself to death. The bottle has become his best friend in the wake of losing his connections and work in showbiz. He sends his personal items ablaze in a bonfire before leaving, up in a cloud of smoke. Photographs and memories of old die with the birth of his new mission: to kill himself in miserable solitude.
Once he hits America’s entertainment Mecca, his plan takes a slight turn. In his hazy, neon-lit strolls down the strip, he meets Sera (Elizabeth Shue): a numb sex worker, beautiful and breathtaking in her personal chaos. She is a figure of unrest and unease. Her violent relationship with her pimp Yuri (Julian Sands) frequently descends into acts of masochism and sexual violence. She endures similar sadistic treatment at the hands of punk teenagers and other seedy clientele, whom she exposes in candid interviews off-camera (but on-screen) and in graphic scenes within the film’s narrative. To Ben, she emerges as a last glimmer of hope in the midst of the city’s circus. Though to Sera, Ben is her poor chance at salvation, a hopeless attempt at redeeming herself. In the end, however, love proves to be temporary for both; a heavy, short expenditure of energy. Ben dies in Sera’s arms, going to the grave feeling some love and warmth in his drunken stupor. For Sera, however, Ben becomes another customer that comes and goes. There is, however, one difference: Ben is a consumer that recognises his flaws and tries to work with Sera to the best of his ability – without violence – even though it proves futile at the film’s conclusion.
Figgis’ film subverts the excessive love narratives inherent in the 1950s Hollywood melodrama and the token modern-day romantic comedy. Nearly fifteen years on, Figgis’ film maintains one of the strongest on-screen broken romances of all time. Cage is perfect as Ben; flawless in his flaws. His sensitivity to change and pain is gut-wrenching. It can be safely said that his performance was deserving of an Oscar. Similarly, Shue as Sera is magnificent: sexy, sad and always searching. Her assistance to Ben makes his character seem all the more dependent and destructive. Her presence helps to magnify the melancholy of their love and the pain that surfaces in their sexual encounters. Sands as Yuri is brief, but good. He is threatening in every way imaginable: sexually, physically and emotionally. His repulsiveness is abrasive, but always believable. The film, however, reflects dark on-screen relationships of the past and present too. The strain on Figgis’ leading couple can be paralleled, for instance, with the seedy Bobby-Helen relationship in Jerry Schatzberg’s ‘The Panic in Needle Park’ (1971). By the same token, however, it shines through in the condemned Holden-Amy courtship in Kevin Smith’s ‘Chasing Amy’ (1997) and the awkward Barry-Lena romance in P.T. Anderson’s ‘Punch-Drunk Love’ (2002).
Figgis’ story stands strong as one of the great tales of dark love in cinema. The chemistry between Ben and Sera spawns from – and dies in – horror. This type of romantic evolvement is uncommon on-screen. We don’t see it enough. Is it the sheer intensity of mixing destruction with love that repels filmmakers from working with such matter? Is it just ‘too much’? To be honest: who knows. Irrespective of its rarity in cinema, Figgis’ tale of dark love gives birth to two deeply flawed people that try to make unworkable love work. The film is a moving piece of commentary on the strain that comes with trying to make a relationship function in the midst of self-loathing and personal turmoil. I’m sure O’Brien would have been happy with Figgis’ spin on his novel. To put it in simple, but clear terms: it is one of the greatest, most powerful romances ever told.
(5/5)
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