The Coen Brothers take a jaunty journey through spy territory to discover America's dark secret: We're all a bunch of morons.
Not that they're letting themselves off the hook. By the very fact that they focus so intently and with such excitement on such a motley group of intense underachievers, they acknowledge their own unhealthy fixation on self, rather than the higher callings of civilization.
It's very difficult to resist such lovably vain characters, though, especially when they're locked inside a gently satirical and clever parody of a modern espionage thriller.
That much becomes apparent in the opening sequence, as the camera plunges from a satellite-eyed view of the world down, down, down to the running feet -- clack, clack, clack -- of a man in a hallway, helpfully identified as "The Pentagon" by the click click click of information typing on the screen.
Facing demotion from his job on the Balkans desk at the CIA because of his "drinking problem," Osborne Cox (John Malkovich) becomes enraged and quits. (This scene feels like it was swiped wholesale from Charlie Wilson's War and smacked harshly in the side of the head.) He tells his disbelieving, none-too-sympathetic wife Katie (Tilda Swinton) that he will write a memoir, but doesn't make much progress. He'd much rather drink his afternoons away than dictate his life story as a bureaucratic desk-jockey in the intelligence-gathering game.
Katie would rather spend time with gun-carrying, hyper-active Harry Pfarrer (George Clooney), a perpetually nervous and anxious Treasury agent, formerly in "personal protection," who only seems to calm down when he's having sex or taking a run.
Osborne's secret memoir manages to find its way onto a computer disk and into the hands of fitness trainers Chad Feldheimer (Brad Pitt) and Linda Litzke (Frances McDormand). Chad looks, talks, and dances in place to the radio like a 60s California beach bum -- wildly swinging his arms, right out of a movie starring Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello. Middle-aged Linda has what we might call "body issues"; she desperately wants plastic surgery to tighten up and improve her look.
She looks just fine to fitness center manager Ted Teffron (Richard Jenkins), but is, of course, completely oblivious to Ted's sad-eyed devotion. Instead, she searches for "Mr. Right" via an online dating service, which is how she eventually crosses paths with Harry.
Individual stories zig and zag around each other like traffic in Washington, D.C., sometimes in parallel, sometimes divergent, sometimes colliding, but all heading for the same destination.
Burn After Reading has several laugh out loud moments, but many more that are simply amusing or softly mocking. The Coen Brothers' observations range from insights into the common-day indignities we must all endure (phoning customer service) to deeply-felt pain caused by missed (and misunderstood) romantic opportunities.
Malkovich probably leaves the deepest impression. Seldom has alcoholic rage been so well expressed verbally. McDormand is fairly fantastic -- her character feels like someone you've crossed paths with and given a wide berth -- and so is the superbly sympathetic, long-suffering Jenkins. Swinton is all steely and hard-shelled, even though you sense that a volcano is just waiting to explode from within her very being. J.K. Simmons deserves a shout-out for turning a very small role into something special.
With Pitt and Clooney, it feels more like the superstars are actively working against their public images. The effort is welcome, even if the results are mixed.
The Coen Brothers' comedy is not for everyone. (Upon exiting an early screening, one woman exclaimed, "How disappointing!") Some might find it shallow or obvious or underwhelming. Some might be irritated that it's not as "important" as No Country for Old Men.
Really, though, Burn After Reading is every bit as important as that Academy Award-winning film. With grace and style, the Coens have once again looked deep into the fetid abyss of modern pop culture -- and returned with a grin on their faces.
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