‘The Life I Lived,’ and Rather Wish That I Had Not

Perhaps greater than the fear of that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns is the fear that comes with discovering, then desperately clinging to, regret over bad choices. And many are the stories that take this primal psychological morass as the drive to dig deep into character. But however earnestly Richard C. Bennett tries to make his wistful businessman-turned-gangster a fitting subject for the cinematic equivalent of a still life – indulging even the script’s poorly-judged (accidental?) nod to “American Beauty” with post-mortem narration – “The Life I Lived” reminds me of something I saw the other day while having lunch in Malibu. A cute but rather pitiable little dog with a wheeled contraption where its front legs once were, and hind legs working so very hard to provide propulsion.

The Folly of Redundant Information

A film can’t run on sincerity alone, however, and it becomes clear early on that the script by writer/producer/director Ben Solenberger wasn’t ready to be the blueprint for a medium whose language is primarily visual. Solenberger’s word-centered direction, often consisting of little more than moving the camera around, yields scenes like the one in which he shows us matches followed by gasoline, all the while having the characters explicitly spell out what we’re seeing. Redundant information, provided in two different ways, adds to a film’s running length but doesn’t push characters or plot forward. It’s a literal approach also evident in Solenberger’s inability to take isolated sub-urban/rural locations and coalesce them into a tangible sense of place. Considering the implausibility of Solenberger’s portrait of small-town gangsterism, in which corruption is rampant and murders occur without even a hint of media or police curiosity, the undefined setting is helpless to do anything other than strain the script even further. Curiously, Solenberger occasionally reveals an impulse counter to his tendency for bland literalism in favour of heavy-handed symbolism, as in a scene where blood-infused river water washes up against a letter that catalyzes a tragic and senseless act of violence.

While “The Life I Lived” does have its moments – particularly appealing is when Bennett’s Bill Cacchiotti frets over how his own choices have corrupted his son’s chances at leading a good life – these almost seem accidental in comparison to frankly astonishing displays of contrivance. When Bill’s son Eddie (Buckler) confesses a recent cop murder to his wife Vanessa (Ford, who surely deserved a better film to bare her breasts in), the blasé “past is past” reaction he evokes from her simply can’t ring true. Prostitution is hardly on the level of murder, and it would take more character work than Solenberger offers to make the case that even a reformed lady of the night could overlook her husband’s crimes as easily as she dismisses her own history. If only we could overlook the script’s troubles with such ease.