One of the most annoying things that crops up in any discussion of film is the concept of “directorial intent.” The notion is that, if a director had a specific intent in mind when shooting his film – be it a political message, a tone, or whatever else – then this is a valid argument in favor of the presence of that message or tone. Or, put more simply, that the director’s interpretation of his own work is the only valid one.

This is ludicrous for a number of reasons, such as:

  1. This line of thought assumes that directors are flawless communicators. This is obviously not true.
  2. We, as audiences, have little or no way of knowing what a director intended; even if a director explicitly states that he had a certain intent in mind, we can’t know either whether he is telling the truth or whether he is interpreting his own recollections of things correctly. And even if he is, it doesn’t matter, because…
  3. This line of thought also assumes – and this is the biggest reason – that a director is the only person on the film that is responsible for any of its creative expression. Shooting a feature is such a hugely complex undertaking that hundreds – and on particularly large films, perhaps thousands – of contributors are putting in their own two cents, consciously or unconsciously, from everybody from the director, screenwriter, and editor, on down to visual effects artists, and even extras. The scope of their contributions is obviously hugely divergent, but even minor changes can have major effects.

These are some of the same reasons that the cavalier application of the adjective “pretentious” has rankled me in recent years. To call a film pretentious – which is most often meant in the sense of “a claim to dignity, importance, or merit” – is presumptuous as hell; how the fuck do you know what a director is claiming in his art? The validity of a work of art lies not in the intent of any of its authors, but the meanings conveyed by the end result. This is all very basic “death of the author” stuff, but given how often I run into these sorts of arguments, both in real-life and in internet circles, it obviously hasn’t been reiterated enough.

Which brings me to Face/Off. Typically dismissed as nothing more than implausible, cheesy action schlock (to which I say, “Yeah, and?” but moving on), Face/Off actually makes an excellent argument against the idea of directorial intent, because of the effect of its two lead performances on the film’s tone. Now, like I’ve said, I have no way of knowing what John Woo intended with Face/Off – whether he was in the joke or not, so to speak – but if I had to warrant a guess, being somewhat familiar with the rest of Woo’s body of work – I’d say he had every intent of infusing the film with an air of solemnity. His use of dramatic music cues, somber religious imagery (doves!), and so on, point in the direction of Face/Off as a film sorely needing the air let out of it.

This film about b-actors switching bodies and attempting to kill each other is far too pretentious!

Enter John Travolta and Nicolas Cage. Whether or not you’re a fan of either actor, it’s hard to deny that both are accomplished in the realm of camp – look to Travolta’s recent turn in From Paris with Love, or approximately 100 of Cage’s films, and you’ll see a couple of actors who know how to chew up scenery and spit it back out with the best of them. What makes Face/Off, then, particularly compelling to any fan of camp, is that it not only pits these two actors against each other, but it pits them as each other: John Travolta playing Nicolas Cage playing John Travolta, and vice versa. And when it comes to these two, I have absolutely zero doubt that they were in on the joke. Their work in the film essentially turns what could have been an entirely too dramatic film (based around a script in which two men literally switch faces and try to kill each other in the meantime) into oversized, and utterly hilarious, parody. And how can we argue that their contribution to the film is any less important to the film’s bottom line, its text and its subtext, than, for example, Woo’s? The two don’t work against each other; instead, their performances subvert the (perhaps intended) possibility of drama, and turn it against itself. For god’s sake, this is a film that ends with Dominique Swain solemnly uttering the line, “Dad? I’m sorry I shot you” and we’re supposed to take this as drama?

Hell no. This is pure comedy, through and through – and not of the “so bad it’s good” subcategory, but rather one that plays it fast and loose and absurdly over the top. And yet, people are willing to take it at face value, assuming it’s not a hilarious comedy but instead a very bad drama, which makes me wonder if they were even watching the same movie as I was. This film is a glorious celebration of the absurdity of action movies, taking every cliche of the genre, throwing a couple of camp superstars into the mix and watching them wreak havoc. Who cares that the actors, and not the director, were responsible for the comedy? In the end, they both worked on the same film.