The Trip and The Trip to Italy
(2010/2014, Michael Winterbottom; Streaming via Netflix)
It’s not a particularly original or internet-shaking insight to observe that genius, groundbreaking actor/comedian/writer/chameleon Steve Coogan does not get enough love, especially in the United States. Considering that he often plays characters very like himself, and sometimes “himself” as one or more variant characters, and that these variant Steve Coogans are very vocal about the lack of Coogan appreciation, a lack of recognition is built into many of his performances. While his long string of innovative BBC radio and television programs and his recurring characters started this — notably Alan Partridge in The Day Today, Knowing Me Knowing You, and I’m Alan Partridge — his long partnership with director Michael Winterbottom on films like Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story and The Look of Love has added to the complexity. Coogan’s varied projects demonstrate both his ability to completely disappear into character (Coogan’s Run, Dr. Terrible’s House of Horrible), play “himself” (Tristram Shandy and the Trip movies), or both (24 Hour Party People, where he expertly becomes rock promoter Tony Wilson, but not before an opening scene where he addresses the camera to explain that he’s an actor, Steve Coogan, playing Wilson.)
Winterbottom and Coogan clearly sit round the pub plotting new ways to mess with the fourth wall. In that spirit, they started a BBC2 series in 2010, purportedly a straight-up celebrity-hosted lifestyle show, in which Coogan and British standup comic Rob Brydon drive together in a rental, stay in beautiful towns in England and Europe, and eat and drink at fine restaurants, supposedly as guest reporters for The Observer checking out the wine, dining, and accommodations. But of course we don’t get the real Coogan and Brydon; instead, Coogan plays a bitter, conceited actor and Brydon his put-upon comedian pal. Or not; as Brydon puts it when asked if the two are friends: “No. We work together.”
The original television series (in which they travel to England’s North Country) comprised six 30-minute episodes; in 2014 a second series (a road trip in Italy) added six more. In each case, Winterbottom also shaped the material into an under-two-hour theatrical movie, with the six “days” of each trip signified by title cards. The two men are seen driving a rental car together, checking into inns (at which Coogan is always angling for the better room), eating a meal prepared by their host’s kitchen, and, at the end of each day, falling asleep in their beds, sometimes alone, sometimes with a companion. They also sample many of the towns’ local culture, most often the graves of famous British writers (Italy is the resting place for Shelley) and the towns where they worked (Lord Byron lived in Italy for most of his working life). Stunning, large-scale shots of landscapes and intricate close-ups of food preparation round out the movies’ visuals; the soundtracks are exclusively classical, with new music by Michael Nyman or (in Italy) classic works by Strauss or Mahler.
So with this as their basis, the two compilation movies stand or fall on a couple of things: First, to what degree Winterbottom shaped the television episodes’ looser material into an arc that carries weight — emotional or thematic, since there’s very little narrative to work with. And, of course, how funny the conversation is between the two rivals.
Brydon is a very successful comic within Britain, a regular on the talk-show circuit, with an endless stream of impressions (here he’s particularly locked on Michael Caine and Sean Connery). He has a famous bit called “Small Man in a Box” which causes old ladies to approach him on the street for autographs. The Brydon-character here is portrayed as a man aware of his limitations and unsure of his ability to carry a real acting role; when he is given a chance to put an audition on tape for a possible character role in an American movie, he worries that he’s unable to actually act without slipping into an impersonation. Coogan is fully tuned in to Brydon’s insecurity and pokes at him every chance he gets; the Coogan-character considers himself a true actor who has done exemplary work in both British and American movies but who is constantly denied the fame he deserves. He never fails to put Brydon down and sneer at Brydon’s constant, reflexive efforts to be funny — except, in a brilliant repeated conceit, Coogan can’t stop himself from competing with Brydon. Watching the two of them trying to school the other in an impression is hysterical; a lengthy scene where they try to fine-tune the classic James Bond supervillain Blofeld is incredible (and has its own following as a YouTube clip): “Come come, Mr. Bond . . . .”
As for Coogan, where Brydon can’t turn off the hail-fellow-well-met entertainer, Coogan is the perpetual autodidact, spouting endless facts about everything they encounter, and correcting any offering from Brydon or anyone else. The highlight of Trip is his encounter with another traveller doing the same thing; after Coogan has annoyed Brydon to the point where he’s been left to stomp off alone, he is forced to back away himself as a stranger tries to regale him with more facts about history. Both men also have a series of dreams (Coogan’s in Trip; Brydon’s in Italy) that reinforce their insecurities; Coogan dreams of having Ben Stiller as an agent, telling him all of the top-ranked American directors who are desperate to work with him; when Coogan rejects “P. T. Anderson, Wes Anderson” as “auteurs,” dream-Stiller smoothly slips to mainstream directors: “The Scotts. Tony and Ridley. They both want to work with you.” Meanwhile, Brydon has a dream of performing a dramatic role in a Godfather-esque film with perfect pathos and delivery; as his dream-self mutters over how to say a line in Italian, we see that he’s gutted Coogan as Vito Corleone.
A question of the travellers’ authenticity hangs over most of their experiences. Lots of the dinner scenes feature their frozen, polite stares as a waiter explains the dishes that have been prepared for them, followed by an awkward “Thanks!”; they don’t seem to have any qualifications to judge the wines or cuisine. They clearly crave connection to the historical sites they visit, usually to the great English authors; they carry around a thick compilation of Wordsworth and (at one point) are reading William Hazlitt’s capsule biographies (from the 1800’s) of writers, “The Spirit of the Age.” But as with so many of us today, they mostly settle for cell-phone selfies in front of various graves or preserved garrets. In addition to endless fights about actors, they spend a large part of Italy discussing the artistic and lasting merits of Alanis Morissette’s “Jagged Little Pill” (coincidentally relevant at this writing, as the album reaches the 20th anniversary of its release). At the same time that they are creating these ersatz portraits and pop-culture theories, Winterbottom sometimes seems to ironically compose them or their surroundings in ways that mirror artworks, without their conscious acknowledgement.
Reminds me of:
The Trip films are “long-form conversation movies” like My Dinner With Andre or the Before trilogy; or Certified Copy (which also happens to share a lot of the visual grammar! though instead of geography as a map of a marriage, here the vistas, bedrooms, and graveyards seem more tied to aging and a loss of male potency).
Distinct from the two-handed dialogue these are also road-trip films, of which there have certainly been many: I haven’t seen Il Sorpasso yet, but the ones I’ve watched involve couples squabbling their way to love (It Happened One Night, The Sure Thing) or couples falling out of love (Two For the Road) or weirdoes finding common ground (Melvin and Howard, Thelma and Louise). As for the Trip version, I don’t think there are better examples of a realistic (read: antagonistic) male friendship. There’s nary a hint of “bromance”; maybe this level of unpleasantness and mistreatment of each other is exactly right as a depiction of performer coworkers. They’ve passed any need for affirmations or close inquiry; instead of affection the proof of their connectedness is their deep need to make the other laugh. This happens on occasion but at regular intervals; after affecting stone-faced disapproval for most of the other’s forays, broken often by attempts to top or outfox them, they suddenly slip into a bit that they have discovered together like old comedy partners. When this happens the mutual approval is palpable; instead of one-upmanship, they are supporting each other’s best efforts.
But then — the guilt!
Still haven’t watched Coogan’s Saxondale. I own it, though.
Pitch:
Both films choose to end on melancholy notes; the first narrative hangs on Coogan’s loneliness and unhappiness and winds up with a perfect coda between Brydon and his baby daughter, with his wife, in their kitchen. So the second is particularly heartbreaking as Brydon seems to have used the out-of-country trip as an opportunity to drift into an affair; as he worries about what he might have lost, he is watching Coogan reconnect with his teenage son. Yet in fact all of these details — the wife, baby, son, and all other relationships — are scripted, played by actors, and are in no way related to the real Brydon or Coogan. That’s the deep game that Winterbottom and his collaborators are playing.
