‘Megalopolis’ Review: Francis Ford Coppola Dreams an Empire at the Edge of Collapse

Let’s begin at the beginning: Megalopolis is not a film. Or at least, not in the strict and conventional sense of the word. It is closer to an opera, a testament, an oversized thesis on the history of humanity and the state of the modern world—all expressed through the wildest possible means, moving from TV sketch humor to Shakespeare, from 24-hour news to the fall of ancient Rome. It is extravagant and over the top in every direction. And yes, in conventional terms, one could argue that it is not a “good movie.” But I want to take the risk—perhaps due to long-standing affection for Francis Ford Coppola’s work—and suggest that it is something else entirely. What exactly? Well, let’s see…

Megalopolis is a life project, a mass of ideas, dreams, nightmares, concepts and desires about what cinema can be. Coppola, a complete artist in the classical sense, understood that this was not the time to restrain himself. The reasons are obvious: he financed the film with his own money—about 120 million dollars, entirely his—and therefore owes explanations to no one. At 85, he is clearly not worried about what this means for the rest of his career. And very likely, he knows this may be his last film. If he loses most of his investment, it seems he can live with that. So what he has made is an “all you can eat” buffet of his own cinema: a banquet of dishes—some delicious, some hard to swallow—built around the idea that his beloved country is drifting into a decline reminiscent of the Roman Empire centuries ago.

Its central subjects are art, culture, poetry, architecture and the great works of humankind. And its frustration lies in watching those things lose ground in a reality driven by personal interests, money, hypocrisy and fanaticism. The attacks come from the outside (there is a politician straight out of the Donald Trump mold—complete with a red “Make Roma Great Again” cap), but also from within, since politicians, businessmen, journalists and the architects of worlds seem unable to agree on what future they even want. And in turbulent waters, it’s always the same people who know how to benefit. No need to look far…

Coppola sees the United States—“New Rome,” as he calls it here—on a trajectory similar to ancient Rome, lost in excess and palace intrigue, drifting off course. In a tone that is excessive, carnivalesque, and more reminiscent of Spike Lee or Leos Carax, Megalopolis abandons any appearance of realism. Its world is a stage, treated as such, a container into which Coppola throws elements just to see what sticks. If half of it works, that’s already something. The rest ranges from weak to ridiculous—but one always values the risk.

Adam Driver (by now an expert at working with eccentric auteurs) plays Cesar Catalina, an inventor and scientist who has created a new construction material called Megalon, designed to build a kind of utopian paradise. He has a deep philosophical argument prepared to justify it, and occasionally, the power to stop time itself. But making his vision reality is another story. One hardly needs to spell out the autobiographical undertones here: Coppola’s entire career has been defined by setbacks, impossibilities, compromises, negotiations, massive losses and hard-won victories, always fighting bureaucracies from every direction.

This New Rome—which is essentially a digital, futuristic version of New York (the film plays, like One from the Heart, as if shot entirely on gigantic studio sets, including one that resembles a Met Gala, another modeled after Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas and one that looks like leftover scenery from a Batman movie)—is run by rival powers. Besides Cesar, obsessive about his work and emotionally distant, there is Franklin Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), the city’s mayor and Cesar’s enemy, who once accused him of killing his wife. Cicero wants a city that appeals to tourists, not one full of utopian, commercially pointless “innovations.” His daughter Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel) has a certain “affection” for Cesar, which puts her in conflict with her father. And soon we realize the two share more than attraction: she can see when Cesar stops time, something no one else notices.

The supporting cast includes the delightfully over-the-top Aubrey Plaza and Shia LaBeouf, both firmly in “villain” mode: Plaza as a shady, opportunistic journalist named Wow Platinum (yes—don’t ask), and LaBeouf as Clodio, an absurd jester turned media sensation who unexpectedly gains Trump-like political influence. Coppola’s sister Talia Shire and her son Jason Schwartzman show up in smaller but meaningful roles. Meanwhile, Laurence Fishburne narrates the story in grandiose tones while playing Cesar’s chauffeur, and Jon Voight is a pathetic, slobbering millionaire banker. Oh, and Dustin Hoffman apparently dropped by set for a few days and they wedged him in.

Across nearly 140 minutes, everything happens: romances, arguments, accusations, dramatic speeches, bombastic voice-overs, the approach of a Soviet satellite, TV news proclaiming the end of the world, people screaming and laughing and leaping for no clear reason, pop concerts, and a long string of eccentric moments that give the film a circus-like air, with Coppola as ringmaster of the spectacle. They say that once you cross into the ridiculous there is no coming back—but the director of Gardens of Stone somehow does. For the first half, one has the impression that the thing will spiral so far out that recovery is impossible. But gradually, you adjust to its flamboyant, borderline camp proposal and fall into its rhythm. Or you don’t—and remain outside until the end.

I admit that what Coppola is doing here is not the type of cinema I am usually drawn to, a type where more is always more, and everything is delivered as though the audience is sitting in row 50 of a giant theater. But once a tone is chosen, the only thing that matters is what you do with it. And the director of Rumble Fish—a film aesthetically opposite to this one—uses the opportunity to create a salad that mixes the fall of the Roman Empire with a sketch about contemporary America, seen as an empire on the same path. At the same time, he’s slipping in a veiled autobiographical portrait of a family that has always lived in the complicated territory between ego and talent, passion and jealousy, ambition and the constraints of a world full of people who do not know, as they do, how to stop time.

That is Megalopolis: a wild provocation from a filmmaker who, at 85, may no longer match his own ambitions technically, but still has the guts to keep trying while others retire at 60, terrified that their “reputation” might suffer if they release weak films. After having made some of the greatest masterpieces in cinema history, like The Godfather and Apocalypse Now, Coppola no longer cares about reputation. What drives him now is desire, love, obsession, the urge to create worlds and to keep dreaming impossible dreams until the lights finally go out.