This article was originally published on allography on February 26th, 2001.
In the pilot episode of HBO’s easily dismissed, formerly zeitgeist-y SoCal wet dream Entourage, it’s claimed that on-the-cusp actor Vincent Chase is going to make it big because he’s got “the head” of a star. That point, along with the idea that perhaps movie stars are inherently boring people (since Vince is easily the most quinoa-bland character on the show), are the two most vivid info-bits from this increasingly tedious comedy.
Which leads us to Josh Brolin.
Son of peripheral Hollywood demi-royalty, James Brolin, he’s been blessed with a prodigious cranium that I fear will, at any moment, be sucked straight downward into his chest due to sheer gravitational pull and crush his ribs/collarbones like balsa.
Which leads us to the main physical factors of the Hollywood leading man (all of which Brolin can tick off): a head the size of a Mylar birthday balloon, a dome-ful of style-able locks to cover said head, a body that can be toned for shirtless scenes via a much-lauded workout routine or HGH, and those dazzling white chompers.
Our attachment of these factors necessary to the H-Wood top-biller is so concrete that when an actor messes with any one of the malleable attributes (skull-shrinking still being at least a few years away), these changes are heralded as the hallmark of a good performance. Remember when DeNiro gained all that weight for Raging Bull? Or when Mark Wahlberg stayed in “boxing shape” for a few years while The Fighter was in development limbo?
Let’s be frank, this is just Stage One for generating kudos of dedication to the craft. I’m not that impressed. And once you read about Channing Tatum putting on fifty pounds for an ill-conceived Jackie Gleason biopic in 2018, you’ll get it. Because gaining or losing weight doesn’t really impact the inherent vanity required of being a leading man (I’m purposefully ignoring Christian Bale in The Machinist here).
Which leads us to the hair and the teeth.
While gaining or losing weight (or building eight-pack abs) doesn’t burst the Hollywood actor fantasy bubble, messing with the mane or the pearly whites does. That’s why Johnny Depp, for all his much-trumpeted desire to alter his appearance, leaves those two things untouched. He might make small movies, even “quirky” movies sometimes, but they’re still Johnny Depp movies.
But why, oh why, unless you’re Christian Bale (whose Dickie Ecklund in The Fighter manages the rare trifecta: a balding, gaunt, crumble-toothed performance from a certified leading man— albeit in a supporting role) do the teeth and hair remain untouchable?
It’s because in Hollywood cinema, fucked up grills and receding hair equals “bad guy”.
Returning to Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, let’s throw in Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightly. They’re the chaste spitfire good guys. Sparkling white teeth. Sparrow’s the naughty good guy. A sprinkling of gold in there. But the bad guy, Barbossa—his mouth’s full of gingivitis and rot. Truly bad dental work for an antagonist.
The Fighter doesn’t stray from this formula. Mark Wahlberg as Micky Ward is the picture of clean-cut, freshly-flossed health. His antagonists, his Marlboro-inhaling mother and the utterly delinquent Dickie, go from stained to yank-em-and-replace-em.
Even the reliably gritty Coen Brothers in True Grit can’t escape the ingrained aura of radiant white-toothed protagonists. Heroic Matty Ross and the dopey but benevolent LaBeouf (played by Hailee Steinfield and Matt Damon, respectively) ride across the prairie with tartar-less teeth glinting to match the frontier snowfall. On the other end of the spectrum, petty murderer Tom Chaney is portrayed by our big-headed friend Josh Brolin with teeth of a darker hue. But it’s his boss, top bad man Lucky Ned Pepper (as played by Barry Pepper) that shows off the Unholy Grail of Dental Hygiene—a real nightmarish rictus of cheese-yellow teeth askew and peppered with decay.
Rooster Cogburn, as played by Jeff Bridges, delivers his lines with a tight-lipped drawl, but it’s easy enough to imagine that as a drunken, violent lout with the requisite heart of gold, he falls somewhere in the middle.
But that’s the scale. That’s the Tooth Test. Bad guys and character actors can sport the unheroic gnarly biters. Comedy guys can get away with a crooked smile (think Ricky Gervais Brit-odontia and Will Ferrell’s mesmerizing lower teeth)—but generally only if they’re lasered to a luminescent white. Or played for a gag a la The Hangover.
Movies that adhere to this toothy principal are afraid to upset the Hollywood fantasy bubble—the self-contained microcosm that follows to its own physics. It’s this little fictional sphere that declares rom-com men are carefree, toddler-brained commitment-phobes and women are shrill harpies who need a dude to chill them the fuck out; that claims that old people are funniest when befuddled or adopting a faux-edgy persona; that every comedy requires a love story (however unlikely or unconvincing the pairing) to broaden the audience appeal. As inane and creatively fallow as these precepts are, they’re still familiar, comfortable, and easily maintained. They’re also totally unreflective of the real world, maintaining the idea that a night at the movies (or in front of a streaming device) lets us leave our earthly troubles behind. You pop the corn, honey, while I shut off my thoughts.
Until a movie makes clear its intent to smudge the crayon-drawn smiley face of Hollywood cinema. Take, for example, the dentally-challenged John Laroche from Adaptation. Charismatic and potent, Laroche is neither bad nor good, but rather a fully realized character skillfully played by Chris Cooper (who took home an Oscar for the role—whatever that’s worth). His gummy smirk isn’t Hollywood shorthand for “hick” or “bad guy” or “easy joke,” but rather the mark of his own personal tragedy—the symbol of the speed with which fate can rip the best parts of life from a man. The loss of family, livelihood, and love are equated with his empty, tormented mouth—his teeth taken during a car accident that killed his mother and uncle while simultaneously initiating a devastating spiral of loss.
But this is the exception, the flaunting display of a screenwriter, director, and actor refusing to fit the mouldering Hollywood mold. Thus, they passed the Tooth Test.
FADE OUT 