Is it Hollywood's great irony that its highest measure of success has marked the end of Kevin Spacey's edge, or is it just bad career choices? The two years since his Oscar for American Beauty have grievously dulled the shine of 10 years of stellar performances.
Spacey was once a fantastic creep, a world-class slimeball whose misanthropic cunning would burn up every script he happened upon. From the inhuman iciness of real estate management in Glengarry Glen Ross to the unspeakable horror of his killer in Se7en, Spacey's best roles were usually minor yet utterly and unforgettably galvanizing.
American Beauty, upon first reception, seemed a godsend for Spacey--a perfect capsule for his magnetically dark take on Jack Lemmon's lovable loser persona. When Lester Burnham and Kevin Spacey converged upon the screen it was as if character and actor had always existed as one, and found their fullest expression only through each other.
What the hell happened, Kevin? It's as if he's been trapped ever since in sequels to the mushy final third of American Beauty. Pay It Forward, K-Pax and The Shipping News: an embarrassing strikeout of middling Hallmark card trash, roles that stood as mealy-mouthed, limpid contradictions of everything that had once made him great. His face in The Shipping News tells it all--the wiry, fiendish vitality of his former glory has softened into puppy-dog eyes and a weak pout. The new Spacey isn't about surprise or wit, but sentiment. He's much closer to Robin Williams than Keyser Soze, and that's a sadder fact than anything in The Shipping News.
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