Cine wanderer: the soundstage Strip

In previous issues, this column has focused on how cinema functions as a psychological guide through urban spaces. But I am also enchanted by the power of art direction to distil the essence of a physical place. More than mere mimicry, sometimes a set can feel more authentic than a real location. The neon-drenched Las Vegas of Francis Ford Coppola’s unsung masterpiece One from the Heart (1981), entirely built on the soundstage of Zoetrope Studios, evokes not only the spirit of the fabled gambling capital, but also the anxieties of Reaganite America.

On the surface, Coppola’s decision to follow Apocalypse Now (1979) with a candy-coloured Old Hollywood musical might seem mind-boggling. Still, the films have more in common than one might think – neither was treated altogether kindly by the critics on first release; and both embrace spectacle and operatic excess. Opening on the sight of blue velvet drapes, One from the Heart pulls up the curtains to lead us through an extraordinary title sequence. Panning across stretches of fake sands, the roving camera circles around intricate placards dotted with flashy lightbulbs, on which flicker the names of principal crew members, including the influential cinematographer Vittorio Storaro. Its dreamlike mood is enhanced by Crystal Gayle and the husky timbre of Tom Waits, the unlikely duo behind the film’s melancholic songbook.

Though reminiscent of Vincente Minnelli’s musicals, Coppola’s film pushes intense romanticism to a new level of hyperreality. Where An American in Paris (1951) began by transitioning from location footage to studio-set replicas of Parisian apartment blocks, One from the Heart does away with the real Las Vegas entirely. In one swoop of the camera, the billboards in the title sequence give way to the thrilling vision of a reassembled Vegas strip, complete with blinding casino signs, a sea of dreamers and locals, and the tinkling sounds of the slot machines. What we have here is a delicious cinematic confection with layer upon layer of sugared artifice.

At the same time that One from the Heart advertises its own awareness of its smoke-and-mirrors show, it beckons the audience to buy into the fantasy. And there’s fantasy within the fantasy: as a travel agent, Frannie (Teri Garr), our scrappy heroine, constantly wrestles with conspicuous props as she dresses the window of her office to look like exotic tourist destinations. Like a Hollywood director, Frannie is in the business of selling dreams. During a fateful anniversary dinner, which happens to be the day before the 4th of July celebrations, her five-year relationship with a homebody mechanic, Hank (Frederic Forrest), reaches breaking point. But following a heady night of lustful distractions in the forms of sexy pianist Ray (Raul Julia) and circus performer Leila (Nastassja Kinski), the couple find their way back to one another in classic fashion: a chase through the airport that ends in bittersweet reconciliation.

The press at the time complained about the central quartet of Frannie, Hank, Ray and Leila, labelling them cardboard characters – and they are painted in broad strokes. But Coppola’s reliance on archetypes to depict fundamental truths about human desire parallels his vision of Las Vegas. It might have been cheaper for him to shoot on location compared with the expense of Dean Tavoularis’s sets: the film ended up costing $26 million – compare the $20 million budget for Raiders of the Lost Ark a year earlier. For a city stuffed to the brim with references to other places – where else can a person visit all seven wonders of the world in one spot? – it is only appropriate for Vegas to be rendered through the intricate fakery of matte paintings, rear projections, meticulous models and trick shots. As working-class characters in a town ruled by luxury, the romantic woes of Frannie and Hank could have so easily been lost among the manufactured glitz. Here, however, their seduction ritual, which takes the form of a sensual tango, is shot in shadow, saturated with a feverish orange hue and choreographed in consultation with none other than Gene Kelly. Similarly, when Hank fantasises about Leila, her visage takes up the whole screen, her enchanting smile framed by cascades of dripping neon lights.

Streaks of cynicism only make the idealised sentimentality of One from the Heart more cutting. Sauntering down the brightly lit Vegas strip, Hank offers his take on the problems of America to his rakish buddy Moe (Harry Dean Stanton). “It’s the light, there’s no more secrets,” he laments. “It’s all tinsel. It’s phony bullshit. Nothing’s real.” Strung with discarded billboards and the carcasses of old cars, the Dalí-esque junkyard where Hank works has the same larger-than-life grandiosity of other set pieces, but it is also where American consumerism has gone to die.

In Jacques Demy’s Bay of Angels (1963), another great film about a gambling town, the most glamorous sequence has nothing to do with smoke-filled casinos. Instead, I think often of Jeanne Moreau’s compulsive gambler Jackie and the way she casually stops during her stroll on a Nice beach to dump sand out of her shoes. Unmoved by her heavy losses, she continues on a destructive path, affirmed in her dream of a future win. The most astonishing shot in One from the Heart is driven by the same beautiful delusion. Having left Hank, Frannie puts on a slinky red dress and stumbles on to the streets of Las Vegas with her suitcases. In a wide shot, the camera gazes at her unsteady steps as she walks into what looks like the sunset but could also be the auburn glow of gambling dens. Nothing is more quintessentially Vegas than chasing after a mirage of contentment that will never materialise.