Megalopolis is undeniably a work of art, but it’s not a coherent movie.

I have a soft spot for vainglorious, big-swing sci-fi, the kind of ambitious projects that aim for the stars even if they end up face-planting back to Earth. Megalopolis is Francis Ford Coppola’s contribution to this rarified subgenre—a towering testament to ambition unchecked – his magnum luxuria, more hopeless than opus that goes far beyond even my tolerance.

Opening with a quote about old Rome, it’s clear that Coppola has been nursing some “we live in a society” thoughts, thoughts which have fermented over many years (much like the wine from his vineyards whose proceeds funded much of what we see of screen) into a particularly sour vintage which seeks to examine the decline and potentially imminent collapse of modern America through the lens of ancient Roman tropery in general and the Catilinarian conspiracy in leaden specificity. The main problem, though, is the incoherent end result, full of scenery chewing performances (quite the feat given the near-Lucasian ubiquity of green screen sets), non-sequitur plot progressions and empty pretensions is that Megalopolis feels more like the world’s most expensive student film than an American epic, and not one that’s destined for a good grade.

Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver), futurist architect and Chairman of the Design Authority of New York Rome has an ambition: to reshape the city into a utopian paradise using the revolutionary new material Megalon, which he invented (but at no point during the movie is ever articulated or explained), but his grand vision of progress clashes with the conservative Mayor Franklyn Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), who prefers the construction of a new casino complex to address the city’s woes. Caught between these two political titans who are, in effect, fiddling while New Rome burns is Cicero’s daughter, Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel), who, of course, can’t resist the allure of a man obsessed with concrete and grandiosity, never mind one who has the power to stop time (yet never puts it to any practical use). But wait, it gets better! Enter Cesar’s cousin, Clodio Pulcher (Shia LaBeouf), whose jealousy and political machinations stir up a populist rebellion in order to stick it to the cousin he hates and usurp Cesar in the affections of his own father Hamilton Crassus III (Jon Voight), a frail, filthy-rich old man who’s manipulated by anyone within arm’s reach, especially once his arms start reaching for power-hungry TV personality Wow Platinum (Aubrey Plaza). It’s a set-up that would have been considered too confusing a recap for the TV series Soap.

There’s a moment quite early on – at least I think it’s early, time starts to go a bit funny after watching Megalopolis for a while – when Natalie Emmanuel announces, “This doesn’t make sense.” and I felt that in my soul. There’s an almost Gilliam-esque chaos at play here: a cacophony of narrative threads and visuals that feels both bewilderingly deliberate and – not always fortuitously – accidental. Fundamentally, it’s Coppola reprising his Godfather family crime saga only this time it’s a tawdry and nonsensical crime drama populated by rejected Batman villains, film studies pretension, and Shia LaBeouf doing whatever Shia LaBeouf is doing. The whole thing feels as if it was built on a foundation of Adam Driver deciding to do his best Ezra Miller impression in a bizarre fever dream, all while Laurence Fishburne waxes poetic over the incoherence of it all.

The hyper-stylised characterisation and excessively mannered performances are supported by a design aesthetic that’s one part Versace cologne commercial, two parts Trump school of interior design. Individually, Adam Driver’s haircut is a choice, but it’s immediately overshadowed by the choices made in both styling and performance by Shia LaBeouf’s aggressively inconsistent eyebrows. But it’s not just the performances that feel highly mannered, almost theatrical. The entire piece is a cacophonous, discordant mishmash of dramatic influences from classical Greek drama to Shakespeare to Sin City-esque comic book noir. Heightened reality and even higher emotions abound, with grand monologues delivered at full tilt and Laurence Fishburne, channelling his inner sage, quasi-narrating/ quasi-commenting on events as the narrative collapses into a series of only tangentially-connected scenes that otherwise feel like they’ve wandered in from a different, stranger movie.

For all the incomprehensible incoherence, there are a few moments where Megalopolis finds a sense of transcendent visual poetry, such as the use of light and shadow during a meteorite impact. Yes, a meteorite impact. There’s something almost hypnotic about Coppola’s attempts to will this unruly and ill-thought-out creation into being but it’s hard to shake the sense that in the twilight of his storied career, he definitely has something he wants to say about the current state and future destiny of America but he’s lost the ability to convey it cogently.

It’s not so much insufferably inscrutable as it is inscrutably insufferable, feeling every minute of its two-hour-and-twenty-minute runtime and then some as it drags itself toward its muddled and unsatisfying conclusion. I’m sure Coppola had some sort of epiphany that drove him to make Megalopolis—maybe inspired by a glass too many from his own vineyard—and poured every ounce of it (along with a goodly portion of the winemaking profits) into this film. Unfortunately, all the cheese that no doubt accompanied that wine turned what vision he had into a nightmare of big-screen proportions. Then again, if you’re willing to stump up $120million of your own money, I guess you can make whatever the fuck kind of movie you want.

megalopolis review
Score 4/10


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