By Bruce Colon

Hollywood, the universal dreamland, has never been known for its high ratio of morally upstanding human beings. The degree of exploitation and blatant commercialism well exceeds anything else in the Western world. From the studio honchos dangling the golden carrot down to the endless line of starry-eyed hopefuls, Hollywood is teeming with opportunists looking to capitalize on America's (and by extension, the world's) latest pop-culture fetish. No, don't be fooled by the recent trend towards New-Age spiritual sentiment (e.g. City of Angels, What Dreams May Come) as there is room for only one god in Hollywood: Money. Yet, among this collection of artless, sycophantic profiteers, is there any more disheartening case than the Sellout?

Sure, there are those among the Hollywood establishment more blatantly money-grubbing, such as the executives responsible for green-lighting projects that exist solely as vehicles for crass merchandising and fast-food tie-ins. There are even those who are less conscientious about the backs they stab on their way to the top (a cursory viewing of The Player should illustrate this point). But, for my money, the Sellout takes the cake.

The Sellout is not in the same category as an Arnold Schwarzenegger, Will Smith, Antonio Banderas, or Julia Roberts in that the aforementioned couldn't wait to begin whoring themselves to the studio system. Rather, the Sellout is someone who once displa.html>spla.html>spla.html>spla.html>splayed talent, original ideas, a love of cinema, or the hunger to do quality work far removed from the big-budget, assembly-line Hollywood process. Somewhere along the way, either through accumulated success or simply tiring of meager paydays, the Sellout became infested with the same disease that plagues the big-money players -- specifically, becoming devoid of all judgement not ruled by the desire to simply cash in. This leads to a slow, but steady artistic decline evident in the celluloid trash that comes rolling down the Hollywood hills year after year.

A prime Sellout example is one Nicolas Cage. While I never personally cared for Cage's films, it was evident during his early years as an actor that he made a conscious effort to steer away from blockbusters in favor of character-driven stories. He began his career in the early-80's with quirky parts in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Valley Girl. His emphasis on unusual roles continued in 1987 with both Moonstruck (in which he played Cher's love interest) and the offbeat comedy Raising Arizona. He raised eyebrows by allegedly eating a live cockroach on camera for 1989's Vampire's Kiss, and remained a committed actor by appearing in such varied films as Wild at Heart, Red Rock West, Honeymoon in Vegas, and Guarding Tess. Perhaps the finest example of Cage's discipline was significantly lowering his then $4 million per-picture price tag at the time (to $240,000) to appear in director Mike Figgis' 1995's low-budget, independent feature Leaving Las Vegas. Ironically, his breakthrough, Oscar-winning performance proved to be both a blessing and a curse.

While basking in the glow of stellar reviews, Cage had several options. He could have continued picking interesting scripts or perhaps done a few big-budget films in order to afford working on smaller projects, which was his initial intention when choosing The Rock in 1996. Instead, he began a downhill slide from which he has yet to recover. As his asking price escalated, so did his aversion to quality performances. This explains material like Con Air, Face/Off, City of Angels, Snake Eyes, and 8mm. And with his growing number of homes in California, as well as a fleet of European sports cars at his disposal, Cage's material contentment has only added to his apathy. It's sometimes easy to forget just how much mediocrity has followed Cage's artistic apex in Leaving Las Vegas. However, when placed in perspective, it suggests an unfortunate career trajectory that is unlikely to change anytime soon.

Another case of a career in free fall is Tommy Lee Jones. A long-time television and movie veteran whose post-Fugitive film choices have been a testament to the lure of the Hollywood dollar, Jones' appeal always resided in his gritty, everyman persona. This fueled some of his best early work such as 1980's The Coal Miner's Daughter and 1982's The Executioner's Song (for which he won an Emmy). He continued to toil in relative obscurity, but on a performance level managed to steal several pictures including JFK and Under Siege. His hard work finally paid off with his charismatic portrayal of U.S. Marshal Sam Gerard in 1993's The Fugitive, which garnered him an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. And while the Academy Award is rarely a sign of artistic merit (mired as it is in backstage politics and popularity polls), Jones certainly deserved the praise and public attention. Yet, this is where the story takes a sadly familiar turn.

Much like Cage, Jones went the action-hero route which no doubt paid higher dividends, but pretty much killed off his credibility. What was once unaffected Texas charm became trite in The Client and the Red Dog beer commercials. The losing streak continued with the beyond-over-the-top Natural Born Killers and Blown Away. Then came the real atrocities such as the homoerotic Batman Forever, Volcano, and Men In Black . Last year's Small Soldiers and U.S. Marshals forever sealed his Sellout credentials. The recently released Double Jeopardy has only proven the fact that Jones is best when taken in small measures, but once an actor has broken through the pearly gates of the Hollywood system, it is very hard to turn back.

Sellout status is not limited to just actors. Several others in the industry have made the journey from artist to hack. For instance, director Robert Rodriguez burst on the scene as a 24 year-old creative dynamo with his first film El Mariachi (in which he acted as casting director, cinematographer, cameraman, editor, director, and sound editor). The film was made on a shoestring budget of $7,000 dollars, which Rodriguez earned by submitting himself to a month of testing a cholesterol-lowering drug in a Texas hospital. The inventiveness of El Mariachi, coupled with Rodriguez's back-story, propelled him to instant fame among film connoisseurs. It wasn't long before he was given studio money to play with, which did not facilitate any additional creativity. His next projects, a short in the film anthology Four Rooms and the inevitable El Mariachi sequel/remake Desperado, were stronger on style than substance. His collaboration with fellow Sellout Quentin Tarantino on From Dusk Til Dawn was clearly the result of two egos run amok. Unfortunately, Rodriguez bought into the idea of himself as a genius who could make any material work. In addition, he happily lapped up additional funding by directing several obnoxious Tommy Hilfiger commercials. His latest and by far worst Sellout move was jumping on the teen flick bandwagon by directing The Faculty, a film that proved the combination of post-modern irony and a vacuous teen cast has run its course.

Though it has been said that money is the root of all evil, there are a few rare exceptions in Hollywood. While Tom Hanks certainly has more than his share of duds on his resume, he worked hard to secure his position and has made an effort to involve himself in quality films. His rise from likable TV actor (Bosom Buddies) to two-time Oscar winner is astounding. Even more impressive is Hanks' avoidance of the easy pay day (what studio wouldn't fork over huge money for Big 2?). From his stirring performance in 1993's Philadelphia up to the present, Hanks has infused all of his work with undeniable heart (which was the only emotionally involving aspect of last year's Saving Private Ryan). He even shows signs of becoming a fine director with 1996's That Thing You Do.

Another actor attempting the precarious balance between art and commerce is Tom Cruise. While Cruise is an easy target of derision due to his pretty boy veneer and phenomenal success (as well as his tendency to overplay the cocky upstart), he can be a fine actor when he wants to, which is something that can't be said of fellow heartthrob Brad Pitt. This was evident in Rain Man with Dustin Hoffman as well as his tour-de-force performance in Born on the 4th of July. Further proof of his hunger for quality parts was his decision to take himself out of the market for 16 months during his commercial peak to work with Stanley Kubrick on this summer's Eyes Wide Shut. And while he has returned to blockbuster mode with Mission: Impossible 2 on the horizon, it is not hard picturing Cruise making the transition to elder statesman status (ala Redford, Eastwood, or Connery) once the pin-up looks fade.

Why does the issue of becoming a Sellout even matter to anyone? Besides the fact that as an audience we are force-fed so much shoddy filmmaking, there is a far different dynamic at work here than mindless celebrity worship. Working Americans love to build up the underdog, for it is a projection of our own pent-up dreams to see them make good. However, it is quite another thing to see them stripped of taste, talent, and personality altogether. Once they make it, they are no longer the bright underdog (something many of us like to see in ourselves) but part of the elite, privileged portion of society most audiences feel alienated from. The disappointment cuts deep as, by forsaking artistry for profit, the Sellout betrays the hope so many of us harbor of breaking free from the prison of commerce that permeates our everyday existence.

In a way it is a class issue, but there also seems to be a correlation between lofty budgets and diminished quality. Some of the most expensive films in recent history have also proven to be some of the most mindless, committee-driven spectacles. No facet of production is left to chance, as witnessed by the endless test-screenings held to ensure coast-to-coast mass-appeal. The by-products of this process are obscene sensory assaults like Armageddon, Independence Day, Twister, and Godzilla - films devoid of any semblance of heart or story. This is not to sanctify independent cinema, for it has its share of pretentious misfires, but at least the audience is more likely to witness a singular artistic vision when a film is financed by someone with more at stake than a yearly bonus or prime parking space.

Yes, it is very easy to be judgmental when writing from the perspective of a critic or Hollywood outsider. How many of us would realistically stare down $20 million dollars (or even $1 million) if given the chance? And should we expect more from the Hollywood establishment than we would of ourselves? Perhaps not. However, how much is enough? How many millions must one cash in before finally doing work that speaks to the heart and intellect, not just the senses? How long can a Sellout simply go through the motions, free of passion and inspiration? And how many more times must moviegoers fork over good money, trusting in certain respectable artists, only to walk out of theaters in dismay?

The only alternative may be to cling to those precious few actors, directors, and writers who refuse to cave in to the mainstream. There aren't many examples, but some veterans have shown integrity far above the norm. Actors like Harvey Keitel and the brilliant Kevin Spacey, while not in the $20 million club, certainly have had many chances to sell out. Instead, Keitel has used his clout and 30 year experience to enliven many independent features as well as to jumpstart Quentin Tarantino's career. And Spacey has been refreshingly judicious in his choice of parts following his Oscar win for The Usual Suspects, including great performances in Seven, L.A. Confidential, and this year's American Beauty. Others worth mentioning include John Malkovich, Morgan Freeman, and Sean Penn. And of the younger talent on the scene, actresses Parker Posey and Christina Ricci have refused to dumb down in order to fit most of the underwritten or empty-headed female roles that beckon in the big-time. These are the torchbearers that point the way to fulfilling cinematic experiences.

One final point needs to be made, which pretty much sums up the Hollywood ethos: the chance to sell out is not open to everyone. If you've noticed the absence of any significant female and minority examples, it was not an oversight. The simple fact is that unless your name is Julia Roberts or Eddie Murphy, the chance to make big money belongs to white males. In that sense, the film industry is simply a microcosm of corporate America. Power belongs to those who can open a picture (draw a huge audience on opening weekend). And while it may appear on the surface that women and minorities have no pull, it is simply a matter of who film executives choose to position, as well as American's re-enforcement of those choices through box-office support. So in a way, we are all partially responsible for the racism and sexism still rampant in Hollywood. And this will continue to be the case until women and minorities finally run studios of their own. Yet this a Catch-22 situation, for in order to make that happen they need the opportunity to prosper. And as we've seen, the game is not about morality or ethics. If you want to understand Hollywood logic, simply follow the dollar signs.