The thing about The Eddy
A few months ago a homie and I went back and forth on the matter of whether Christopher Nolan is actually a good director. We went all the ways up and down the Nolan canon, and film-by-film differed spiritedly on his powers of characterisation. It’s not so much that Nolan isn’t a good director - the man lays down the finest visual setpieces, arguably, of any filmmaker on the planet - it’s that he isn’t a very good storyteller. I’ve taken to calling his particular prowess ‘technical mastery’.
The other day, after viewing and being underwhelmed by the Tenet trailer, I found myself comparing him to Damien Chazelle: the awfully young director of Whiplash, La La Land, a Neil Armstrong biopic, and now the limited Netflix series, The Eddie.
I have a hunch that both men are driven in their creative pursuits by fairly unique but not entirely novel obsessions. Nolan wants to shoot a moment of cinematic wonder that will stand the test of time, either within or well beyond its immediate field of cultural interest: the Dark Knight’s angelic exit from the hurtling bullet-train, at the tail-end of Batman Begins; the fistfight in the hallway in Inception; every last scintillating minute of Dunkirk. Chazelle, meanwhile, wants to shoot beautiful pictures and wed them to beautiful music. Watching The Eddie, you notice Chazelle gets away with his brand of visual overstatement - a camera that seems to be tapping its foot or snapping its fingers constantly, in readiness for melody - by trapping his characters in smaller boxes. His maximalism actually lets actors shine.
That’s the first thing you’re required to learn about The Eddie, the story of a jazz bar in Paris run by two best friends; that it’s characters are trapped, whether they have mysterious debts to pay or have to go a note higher to satisfy the local recording industry. Elliott (played by the always professional, occasionally exceptional Andrew Holland) is a little in over his head. After his partner and homie Farid is murdered one night outside the Eddy, Elliot must resolve the connection between this incident and the club’s ailing fortunes. This is under the watchful eye of the police, and during the vacation of a teenage daughter (Amandla Stenberg) who quickly proves herself to be quite the handful. (In only the show’s second episode, Julie goes off on a bender, and a treasure hunt for cocaine, after bunking her second day at a school option.)
I am grateful to Chazelle for a lot of things. He shoots the series in a tone of light I can only describe as respectful of the European tradition. He doesn’t gimmick the effects, unless there is a streetlight or a siren to play off of. Much of the first three episodes, therefore, sunbathes proudly. I am especially delighted to watch the abstract struggles of a black man in Paris. What a beautiful idea, to afford a person of my colour refuge from New York and entangle his economics with his greatest passion. The Eddie boasts a murderer’s row (pardon) of fine acting talent from the Arab-French community - but race doesn’t matter remotely as much as the music does, and it all feels completely organic.
But, you know, Chazelle sets himself challenges he doesn’t seem entirely prepared to deal with - at least three episodes in, anyway. The character arc moves in reverse, where we find Elliot and Julie and Farid and co. having to dig themselves out of holes before they can be properly introduced to us. This works without too many interludes. Each episode focuses on a particular face at the Eddie, while Chazelle tries to weave everything together in the background. But we can do without large parts of Julie’s evening of excess, so soon after just meeting the gang, and we can also do without the instrumental odes to Farid at his funeral, which overrun a tad.
Even though I am his biggest cheerleader, I also worry that Andre Holland sets a standard for his work that unites creatures as far apart from one another as Ray the sober sports agent in High-Flying Bird, and Dr. Edwards in Cinemax’s The Knick. (Both directed by Steven Soderbergh, and both woefully under-appreciated.) Elliot has an awful lot of existential shit to shovel but it is still Holland, essentially, tilting his head at the world.
These are small quibbles. It’s a joy to watch Netflix become a credible home for some of the most hyperactive minds in show-business, and at the moment it’s really nice to watch all these love letters to major cities. (I’ll be gushing over Normal People very soon, and what love it swears to Dublin.) I’m just trying my hand here, honestly, at a little technical mastery.
The Eddie is available to stream on Netflix.
