Good Lord, every time you turn on the TV there’s an award show. The Oscars, The Golden Globes, Screen Actors Guild, MTV Movie Awards, the list goes on and on. Hollywood loves to congratulate itself. My favorite is the People’s Choice Awards where winning celebrities get a chance to really pile on the bullshit. “This award means more to me because it’s from you- the fans.” (Yeah, right. Well then have us over for dinner, fucker.)
One category that awards shows seem to overlook is the “hambone” performance, although occasionally actors are given Oscars for them. The “hambone” performance is not the same as a “Razzie” award where they snarkily salute bad acting. You have to be a good actor to pull off a hambone performance. Sometimes even a great one. Let me explain.
Now everybody has to pay the rent. And actors sifting through mountains of mediocre scripts occasionally decide on projects for a myriad of reasons not necessarily tied to ”quality.” Maybe the money is good. Maybe the location is exotic. Maybe the co-star is someone they always wanted to work with. Or fuck. So they take on foolhardy ventures and knowingly throw themselves into their role with an added enthusiasm and a tongue-in-cheek overview that can be enjoyable to watch. This is the essence of the “hambone” performance. Subtlety is their enemy. Sometimes it backfires, but many times a really dreadful film has been elevated by an actor having a good time mercilessly hamming it up on the screen.
No one can deny how wonderful Laurence Olivier could be. From Wuthering Heights, Rebecca, Richard III he is undeniably great. Just check outWilliam Wyler’s 1952 film Carrie, based on Theodore Dreiser’s novel, for a performance of such heartbreaking simplicity and poignancy. But to watch an actor having fun on the screen, see Olivier’s memorably, hammy, “go-for-broke” performance in The Betsy, Clash Of The Titans, and especially The Boys From Brazil. He throws in whacky accents and eye-rolling vaudevillian gestures that are simply hilarious. Watching him rolling around on the floor fighting with Gregory Peck at the end of The Boys From Brazil is one of the most riotously sublime moments in cinema.
When I think of Richard Burton, The Night Of The Iguana and Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? come to mind. But in the same breath I vividly recall his scarf unnaturally blowing during his ultra-hammy performance in Candy, and his lethal courtships with Joey Heatherton, Raquel Welch and Virna Lisi in Bluebeard. Not to mention his ludicrous pairings with Elizabeth Taylor in Boom, Hammersmith Is Out and The Sandpiper. You can’t say he’s good in those latter films, but I find myself repeatedly watching them with lip-smacking pleasure.
Think of all the other terrific actors who dipped their toes into the “hambone” ocean, like Bette Davis flicking back her black wig back, and with a rifle, shooting a porcupine out of a tree in Beyond The Forest, saying, “I don’t like porkies. They irritate me.” Or Anthony Perkins nervously chewing the drapes in Murder On The Orient Express or smoking crack to turn into Dr. Jekyll in the loony Edge Of Sanity. What about Marlon Brando with kabuki make-up and wearing a bucket over his head in The Island Of Dr, Moreau? We’ve come a long way from his electrifying Stanley Kowalski haven’t we?
I think there should be a Hambone Hall Of Fame for living actors who consistently fill their roles to the brim (and then some). Here are my five nominees.
Nicolas Cage. When did he careen into self-parody? Was it after his Oscar-winning performance as a drunk in Leaving Las Vegas? Who cares? We’ve been gifted with an onslaught of batshit performances ever since, from reciting dialogue like “Killing me won’t bring your goddamn honey back,” or punching a woman while in a bear costume in the ludicrous remake of The Wicker Man. How about his bad wig and ranting and raving to save his brother from criminals in the jaw-dropping Arsenal. Or driving out of hell in a muscle car to save his daughter from a killer cult in Drive Angry. But I have to admit a special place in my heart for Cage’s deranged turn as a man who thinks he has been turned into an undead blood-drinker in Vampire’s Kiss. Anyone who eats a live cockroach on screen deserves a special place in the Hambone Hall Of Fame.
Al Pacino. Yes, he was wonderful in The Godfather films and he was unforgettable in Dog Day Afternoon and Serpico. But have you watched Scarface recently? His exaggerated performance as Cuban drug kingpin Tony Montana in 1980s Miami is a blast to watch and his “say hello to my little friend,” sequence is a kinetic kick. You can see why the movie became a rap anthem. But realistically, Pacino’s a real hambone in it. Steven Bauer, as his friend Manny, gives the best performance in the movie- he just burns a hole in the screen. His authenticity and danger is palpable. Al Pacino’s acclaimed turn as the cranky blind officer in Scent Of A Woman is Razzie-worthy in its awfulness. All those “Whoo ha,” exhalations are just cringe-worthy rather than amusing. Sadly, now when his name comes on the screen my stomach starts to churn with dire anticipation of another scenery-chewing turn.
Samuel L. Jackson. His trouble is that he is in a million movies. After his stunning performance in Pulp Fiction he was unstoppable. His other work for Quentin Tarantino is extraordinary, from Jackie Brown, The Hateful Eight to Django Unchained– he is mesmerizing and commanding on screen. But in many other films you can tell he doesn’t give a shit. No one says yes to Snakes On A Plane without knowing what they’re in for, and Jackson has a lot of fun with that. And while I think in his superhero Avengers movies he kind of sleepwalks through them, his lisping, hilarious billionaire villain in Kingsman: The Secret Service is a joy to watch in its campy excess.
Jeff Bridges. What I love about early Jeff Bridges work is the ease, confidence and personality in them. He was so wonderful in a series of eccentric movies like Fat City, Thunderbolt And Lightfoot, Winter Kills, and Stay Hungry. Critic Pauline Kael hit the nail on the head when said he “may be the most natural and least self-conscious screen actor that has ever lived.” And then there was his career-best role as the lovable White Russian-swilling slacker bowler the “Dude” in The Big Lebowski. But when did he turn into Gabby Hayes? His grizzled, mumbling, geezers have gotten tiresomely familiar. True Grit, Crazy Heart, R.I.P.D. I couldn’t understand one word he said in Hell Or High Water. But then he surprised me with his crackpot priest in Bad Times At The El Royale, which was restrained, colorful and great fun to watch.
Dustin Hoffman. I have to admit I am not a fan. I always thought his performances were imbued with telegraphed “actorly” quotation marks. In Rain Man, there wasn’t one second when you weren’t aware of the hard work and research that went into coming up with this character. It crowded out any sympathetic response. One of his best performances was in Straight Time as a luckless ex-con, and his sadsack Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy still works. You can’t beat Hoffman in Tootsie either. But there isn’t enough liquor to erase seeing his “Mumbles” in Dick Tracy, or the hippie parent in Meet The Fockers. Let alone the misguided road movie Ishtar. And don’t get me started on his cringe-worthy over-acting in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium.
Jack Black. Unfortunately, not many directors have ever told this rotund comedian to “bring it down.” His effusive, high-octane antics have been successful in movies like High Fidelity and School Of Rock. And he was capable of excellent work in Jesus’ Son and the wonderfully offbeat Bernie. But then there’s the rest. Nacho Libre, Gulliver’s Travels, Shallow Hal, Year One, and the harrowing Jumanji: Welcome To The Jungle. One doesn’t know whether to hit him with a shovel or hand him a Virginia ham.
But to those hambones who have brought life to almost unendurable movies, and have indelibly etched themselves in our brains and our hearts- I salute you!
That ham looks delicious!