illy really needs the bathroom. Having just stepped off a bus—and out of prison earlier today—he sprints around town looking for a place to piss, eventually arriving at a dance studio: he attempts to use the facilities there, but ends up in a brawl when a gay guy propositions him at the urinal. Moments later, he grabs hold of one of the dance students and forces her downstairs into the parking lot. Billy wants the girl—Layla—to drive them to his parents’ house and pose as his wife . . . and do it convincingly, or else.
Its setup may be as old as the hills—guy kidnaps girl, they butt heads; before you know it, they’re head over heels—but there’s something quite different about Buffalo ’66, the directorial debut of model-turned-filmmaking-maverick Vincent Gallo (also starring as Billy). Since wowing at Sundance in January of ’98, the picture has been hailed—rightly so—as a benchmark of nineties America cinema. Gallo’s disreputable conduct over the last couple of decades may’ve soured its reputation to some degree, but its delicate, stirring power remains unspoiled.
Once the rudiments of the kidnapping are out of the way, we’re thrust into an idiosyncratic world where events seem to materialise with minimal rhyme or reason—but worry not, for there is shrewd dexterity at work in Gallo’s writing: much like his fiercely independent forefathers (Altman, Cassavetes, Malik), he invites us to evaluate the subtext and fill in the blanks for ourselves. The biggest blank is Layla, performed with just the right fusion of naïveté and sexual prowess by Ricci. With her glistening eyeshadow, Dorothy heels, and heaving bosom, she’s a barely-legal Barbie doll in search of an identity. We get the sense that something’s missing from her life and that this, her abduction, is the adventure she’s been aching for. It would explain why she doesn’t put up much of a struggle when Billy snatches her, and why she’s never particularly bothered by his initial threats of violence. She’s eager to please—to the point of near-total submission—and largely does as she is told. (Turns out this was mirrored in reality, with Gallo gloating after the fact about treating his young co-lead “like a puppet” on set. What a charmer.)
From Layla’s perspective, it isn’t hard to envision that it was love at first sight. For all of his faults, Billy—blue-eyed and floppy-haired—has the exact type of bedraggled, punk-rock allure that sends women crazy. By the second act, it is clear that she’s besotted. But as Billy’s contempt for her gives way to mild annoyance and, eventually, affection, it’s apparent that he needs Layla far more than she needs him. He’s a man-child, a lost little boy. Belligerent, oversensitive, and destined for failure. In Layla, though, he could well have found his salvation.
The centrepiece of the tale is Billy’s encounter with his parents: they have no idea he’s been locked up, so he lies about a lucrative job, fancy hotels, and marrying Layla (or “Wendy”, as he christens her). Equal parts discomfiting and laugh-out-loud hilarious, it’s a wonderfully intuitive set-piece that’ll bring to mind the inescapable dread of returning to one’s roots for anyone with a dysfunctional family. His ’rents are grotesque: Dad (Ben Gazzara) grunts and scowls his way through dinner, while Mom—played with astonishing verve by Anjelica Huston—is more interested in the football game on TV than anything her son has to say. They coo and fawn over their make-believe daughter-in-law, but choose to treat their only child with disdain and, worse still, indifference. (His mother elicits an iota of sympathy from us, her daffy demeanour a possible hint at psychosis or Alzheimer’s.) In the end, it’s painfully clear why Billy is the way he is: he spent his childhood feeling inadequate—and invisible—and now, all grown up, he’s desperate to prove himself . . . and for somebody, just once, to pay attention.
Shot by Lance Acord (Spike Jonze’s go-to) on 35mm reversal stock, the pic’s visuals—washed-out at times, luminous at others—are a distinguishable character all their own, evoking the fuzzy-warm embrace of a vintage home movie or a well-thumbed Polaroid. Sprinkled with inventive little touches (a solemn spotlight appearing on Ricci, for instance, as she breaks into an impromptu tap dance), Acord’s work imbues the film with a dreamy air of timelessness.
Ultimately, it is the sweet final stretch—staged within the walls of a motel bedroom—that lingers: first, Gallo and Ricci lying awkwardly in bed . . . tentative, with spines turned . . . then, at last, holding each other, Ricci pulling Gallo into her bosom like a mother cradling her infant. It’s a tender, wordless moment that says more than dialogue ever could. Then, when Billy goes to buy a hot chocolate for Layla, the way he refers to her as his “girlfriend”—with a proud beam and the swagger of a teenager—is a soul-stirring sight to behold. For once he isn’t lying. He really means it.
Billy’s in love, and it’s beautiful.
Home 