Death of a Ladies' Man
MONGRELAn unfortunate decision was made the day somebody tried to tackle the lyrics of Leonard Cohen. Dark wit and weeping, moving pieces of music that even on their own were engrossing and touching do not need to be stretched and mangled in a Gabriel Byrne-led feature. To play those secret chords Cohen was so blessed with, to stretch them to their wafer-thin meanings and to incorporate them into a drama feature that plays as much on the mind as it does the legacy of a great lyricist is dull and damned. Even then, to take the title of his criminally underrated, Phil Spector-produced album as the title of this weirdly unsatisfying drama is the strangest choice of all. Death of a Ladies’ Man was doomed from the start.
But was it though? Can Death of a Ladies’ Man be based on just the use of Cohen’s tracks? It feels as though it must, as director Matt Bissonnette has identified a narrative strand so dependent on the tracks of old. Beautiful tracks paired with a nasty, foul story that would feel far more rotten if it weren’t for Byrne working tirelessly and seamlessly in another rewarding leading role. Any feature to open with Memories – arguably Cohen’s greatest track – is going to get some free pass along the way. Yet the simplicity of the opening and the shuffling feeling that follows is awkward and can never live up to the artistic creativity of the artist whose work is constantly riffed upon. Byrne, while good, is not unique to the environment around him. He is as dependent on the lyrics of Cohen swaying the mood or shifting the tone as everyone around him.
Divorce, death and everything else prevalent in the lyrics, or interpretations of them, are shoddy. Two record scratches within the first five minutes for the same song give the obvious connotation of naked bodies and the negative association of finding a lover in bed with another. Chapter-like parts bring out a tease and punch system that neither benefits Byrne nor Death of a Ladies’ Man as a whole piece. Character interactions come and go, familiar faces with nothing to say and less to do in a feature more focused on catering to those who want to hear passive conversations about big life events, comforted by the slick booths and booze that are stored on the tables within. It isn’t anything spectacular, but Brian Gleeson and Jessica Paré feature throughout in the struggling hope that Cohen will provide them with their big break.
Where Death of a Ladies’ Man successfully understands that music connects us to various moments in life, it does not realise which are the important ones. Byrne stumbles through a feature with no direction, director Bissonnette nowhere to be found at the most crucial of times. Where does the line between tribute and desire start and end? Barely a moment without Cohen’s crooning means either Bissonnette has correctly identified several weaknesses to the narrative provided by Death of a Ladies’ Man, or he truly loves that underrated gem of an album. Either way, this is no musical, despite the heavy-set soundtrack and outpouring of dead love and dying men. Even its grief and the passing of romance is poor without the constant record scratch moments.