March 2, 2001 | We expect a certain degree of paranoia from any detective we encounter in cinema or literature. And not just because of genre conventions. Simple common sense would dictate that acute suspicion is a trait well worth developing if you’re a sleuth on the trail of a killer who doesn’t wish to be caught. After all, a hunter can easily become the hunted –- or, worse, another digit in the body count –- without a well-developed instinct for self-preservation. Better to trust only your own instincts, and the evidence you can view with your own eyes, than to make rash and potentially fatal misjudgments.
What happens, though, when you can’t trust your instincts? Or believe what you see? In short, what happens when you can’t even trust yourself? Those are the perplexing questions facing Romulus Ledbetter, the unlikely hero and would-be mystery-solver stunningly played by Samuel L. Jackson in The Caveman’s Valentine.
In clinical terms, Ledbetter is a paranoid schizophrenic. In practical terms, he’s an urban blight, a ranting and raving derelict who prowls the streets of Manhattan, often accosting passers-by with his frenzied ramblings about dreadful conspiracies. In the dim and distant past, he was a devoted family man and a Julliard-trained classical pianist. But that was then, this is now: He makes his home inside a small cave in a city park -– which explains his nickname, The Caveman -– and he is convinced, absolutely and unshakably certain, that his every move is being monitored by a omniscient villain atop the Chrysler Building.
During chronic bursts of hallucinations that he aptly describes as “brain typhoons,” Ledbetter sees moth-like seraphs in what appears to be an ethereal cathedral. (Are they guardian angels? Hectoring devils? Or both?) But when he opens his eyes, Ledbetter often sees other things as well, things that saner folks tend to overlook. When a young homeless person is found frozen to death near Ledbetter’s cave, the police -– including The Caveman’s daughter, Lulu (Aunjanue Ellis), an ambitious beat cop who’s very embarrassed by her father’s behavior –- assume the death was accidental. But Ledbetter sees evidence of foul play.
Struggling like a drowning man to raise himself out of his madness, Ledbetter more or less wills himself into a kind of lucidity, to investigate the mysterious death. Trouble is, how long can he count on having the unclouded vision he needs to perform his self-appointed task?
Based on an award-winning novel by George Dawes Green, who also wrote the cunning screenplay adaptation, The Caveman’s Valentine is a stylistically bold and bracingly ingenious thriller that grabs your attention, quickens your pulse -– and, when you least expect it, touches your heart.
Mystery buffs will appreciate the rigorous logic of the piece, noting how much care Green takes to maintain some semblance of credibility while asking the audience to take leaps of faith from Point A to Point B in the plot. Early on, Ledbetter must make himself suitably presentable -– that is, he has to take a bath, and find some clean clothes -– to attend a party in the country home of a likely suspect. Ledbetter gets what he needs courtesy of a lawyer (Anthony Michael Hall, all grown up since Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club) who’s surprised and impressed by The Caveman’s musical abilities. The character’s benevolence is motivated in part by his profession: He’s a bankruptcy lawyer, he explains, and he’s grown accustomed to facilitating second chances. That’s a nice touch, and certainly more satisfying than merely presenting the lawyer as a yuppie do-gooder.
Jackson is nothing short of astonishing as Ledbetter, artfully undercutting his dynamic physicality -– with his filthy hair in dreadlocks and his winter clothing in tatters, he seems even more intimidating than usual -– by vividly expressing the anguish and terror stirred by the “typhoons” raging inside his character’s brain. Some of Ledbetter’s visions are oddly comforting. (Occasionally, he’s visited by a younger version of the wife he abandoned, sassily played by Tamara Tunie.) More often, though, the typhoons cause gale-force, wide-awake nightmares. Which is why, when Ledbetter is rattled by the sadomasochistic imagery in the art of Leppenraub, an enigmatic photographer smoothly played by Colm Feore (Thirty-Two Short Films About Glen Gould), we have every reason to expect the worst. Think about it: If Ledbetter finds something in the real world that’s almost as terrifying as what he sees when he shuts his eyes, maybe that something is an indication of a far more dangerous madman at large.
Director Kasi Lemmons earned considerable acclaim for her first feature, the Neo-Southern Gothic drama Eve’s Bayou. With The Caveman’s Valentine, she doesn’t merely fulfill the promise of her debut effort; she demonstrates a savvy mastery of extraordinarily challenging material.
Given Lemmons’ background as an actress, her ability to draw exceptional performances from her first-rate cast isn’t terribly surprising. She’s especially good with Ann Magnuson, who very nearly makes us believe in an unbelievable character: Moira, Leppenraub’s sister, who’s improbably eager to get horizontal with the Caveman.
What is surprising, even dazzling, is Lemmons’ ability to tell a complex and consistently compelling story from the unique viewpoint of a most unreliable witness. Lemmons uses a variety of different styles and film stocks throughout The Caveman’s Valentine. But the overall vision is unmistakably that of a single and singular individual.
