I think I know what happened. The Coens, oscars in one hand, pens in the other, drafted a brilliantly quirky and witty script entitled "Burn After Reading." They then passed it on to a producer who read the front cover, read the script, took out a lighter, and followed the cover's instructions. Heartbroken, for this was the only copy you see, the Coens were unable to reproduce their moment of comedic inspiration. So they instead made some calls, flashed some oscars, put together one of the biggest casts of A-list celebs to date, and improvised the movie that is now in theaters everywhere. It's all quite simple, really.
The movie is a bit of an enigma. The Coens have done the quirky comedy shtick in the past (Oh Brother Where Art Thou, Fargo, The Ladykillers, etc...), but "Burn" fails on just about every comedic level. The production quality is great, showing that the Coens have at least not lost their flare for framing a scene, but the story is muddled, the concept is old, the jokes are infrequent, and the ending feels more like someone slamming a book closed in disgust than concluding a motion picture.
In fact, my reaction to this movie can be broken down into what I like to call "The Five Stages of Coen Comedy Grief":
The go-for-broke absurdity of the character's performances are admittedly amusing. Brad Pitt shines in his role a dunderheaded personal trainer, as does John Malkovich as a foul-mouthed ex-CIA agent with a short temper and a love for Captain Morgan's and Coke. By far the most amusing performance comes from the bemused CIA director played by J.K. Simmons, though in a strange, meta-referential way, as if his comments are directed at the film itself rather than the events in it.
Amusement is quickly lost in the utter incoherence of film's plot. The movie does little to reconcile it's many story complexities and even less to attempt to tie them all together in the end.
The sad thing is that the Coen's attempt to make up for the their lack of consistent humor with oddly placed and poorly executed "shock" humor. This kind of humor works in The Departed where I was definitely laughing where it was definitely not appropriate to laugh. In "Burn," I simply didn't laugh at all.
Once you deal with the the confusion and pointless shock moments of the movie, you will begin to feel a potent sense of disappointment. The plot and writing I can almost forgive (The Coens did win best picture last year, I guess they earned a right to slack off), but what was most disheartening were the stunningly sub-par performances by actresses Tilda Swinton and Frances McDormand. McDormand, who was positively delightful in Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, was barely believable as a human being, spitting out here character's lines like a stand up comedian on speed reading their jokes from a teleprompter. Swinton, winner of a shiny statue for last year's Michael Clayton, was simple unnecessary. Her role, as well as her performance, were entirely forgettable and auxiliary to the story.
At this point I decided relieving my full bladder (damn you Coke ICEE!) was a better use of time than attempting to understand the meandering plot. The picture about says it all.
What the Coens have accomplished in Burn After Reading is the independent version of a crappy summer MTV comedy. It's like Dude, Where's my Car? with way better cinematography and a higher pedigree crew. Perhaps this was the point after all. Maybe this movie is actually a work of socially-minded genius, meant to bridge a divide created by the "films for film people" movement. Now, when an average Joe walks out of Step Brothers or Don't Mess with the Zohan, he can walk side by side with cinema-snobs and film-buffs, united by a common and undeniable conclusion. The Joe-everyman and the turtlenecked film critic will both turn to face each other and in resounding unison declare their shared sentiments: "Meh..."
So In the fittingly ironic words of the CIA director, "Well, we learned not to do this again. I just wish I knew what it was that we did."