Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story
Nobody has made a movie out of "Tristram Shandy" before because, really, why would anyone try? Written during the 1760s, when the formal conventions of the modern novel were still coming together, Laurence Sterne's uncategorizable work is a prank and a sideshow -- an endless comic digression in search of a story line, full of puns and odd fonts and pages that are all black or marbled like endpapers. It's full-on metafiction 200 years ahead of schedule: howlingly funny if you can get on its wavelength, impenetrably bizarre if you can't.
Clearly, director Michael Winterbottom ("9 Songs," "24 Hour Party People") relishes a challenge. His new film "Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story" does to cinema what Sterne did to literature -- dismantles it with a shaggy-dog grin -- and if such gamesmanship isn't particularly novel (pardon the pun) in this day of Charlie Kaufman movies, the movie's still a wickedly droll put-on. Better yet, beneath the fun lurks a dry and weary sigh at life's refusal to match the tidiness of art.
Winterbottom is lucky to have corralled as his leading man Steve Coogan, the bitingly suave star of British TV comedies and "24 Hour Party People." Coogan plays many roles here: the rural 18th-century gentleman Tristram (who mostly narrates, since the character isn't even born for much of the film), Tristram's father, and an actor named Steve Coogan, a tetchy sort who's starring in a movie being made of "Tristram Shandy" directed by a fellow named Mark (Jeremy Northam). That's right: This is a film about the troubles of making a film about a book about the troubles of writing a book.
Still with me? Well, then: Winterbottom has cast as the hero's bumbling, obsessive Uncle Toby Rob Brydon, a marvelously straight-faced comedian (and occasional foil to Coogan in the past) who quickly realizes his character is the true heart of the story and starts agitating for equal billing. The opening scene in the "Tristram" makeup trailer sets the tone: Brydon twits Coogan about his false nose, Coogan insults Brydon's teeth, and the two bristle about who'll get the most screen time. "We'll see after the edit," huffs Coogan.
Then it's into a lavish, mud-splattered re-creation of Georgian England, complete with music stolen from other movies (Michael Nyman's score for Peter Greenaway's "The Draughtsman's Contract" is an apropos lift, as is Nino Rota's from Fellini's "8 1/2," another movie about the futility of making movies). We're treated to a farcically unpleasant vision of childbirth circa 1740 -- cue the forceps and shrieking housemaid (Shirley Henderson) while the menfolk unwind with sherry downstairs -- and the incident of Tristram's unfortunate circumcision via window sash.
As in the novel, though, the point keeps getting put off for the journey. "Digressions," wrote Sterne, "incontestably are the sunshine -- they are the life, the soul of reading -- take them out of this book, for instance -- you might as well take the book along with them."
So it is with Winterbottom's film, which keeps diving behind the camera to show us a production on the verge of collapse. Coogan excels at playing the smart, vain fop (as British fans of "I'm Alan Partridge" know), and his struggles with his ego take the form of tormenting the wardrobe department over a "shoe issue," resisting being lowered into a fake womb for one shot, and deciding whether to flirt with the production assistant (Naomie Harris) who thinks he knows as much about Fassbinder movies as she does. This despite the presence of the film-Coogan's girlfriend (Kelly Macdonald) and newborn baby. To watch this actor simultaneously struggle with a porta-crib and his own throttled lust is a unique comic distraction.
The movie needs a star, everyone agrees, and a quick call is placed to Gillian Anderson to fill the role of the Widow Wadman, Toby's great love. The actress accepts, Brydon gets to play opposite his "X-Files" crush, and Coogan sees his screen time shrink even further. "Why make the film?" someone asks. "Because it's funny?" comes the reply. "Is that enough?"
Why write a novel, or commit anything to the structure and filtering -- the diminution -- of art? Because it's funny? Or because it's the only way to make sense of what we're given? Sterne's "Tristram Shandy" is a cock-and-bull story indeed: a horselaugh at the notion that life can fit between the covers of a book. Winterbottom's "Tristram" is a messy, profligate love letter to the absurdity of even trying. "What kind of story is it, anyway?" someone wonders toward the end of the film. The point is that we never stop figuring that out.
Ty Burr can be reached at tburr@globe.com.
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