Falling Down

"Feels good to exercise your rights, doesn't it?"

Joel Schumacher isn't associated with scintillating satire or trenchant commentary: see his tone-deaf racial drama A Time to Kill (1996). It's amazing that Falling Down (1993) is so good. Thanks to a sharp script and Michael Douglas's pointed performance, it's bleakly funny and surprisingly nuanced.
Bill Foster (Michael Douglas) loses his job with a defense contractor. Pushed over the edge, he goes on a rampage through LA, dispensing justice to criminals, immigrants and assorted scum. Retiring police detective (Robert Duvall) notes the pattern of Foster's seemingly-random assaults, piecing together his movements. He discerns that Foster may be targeting his ex-wife (Barbara Hershey) and daughter (Joey Hope Singer).
Falling Down's opening sets the stage: Foster stuck in traffic, annoyed by chattering onlookers, honking horns, a buzzing fly, a cacophony of everyday annoyances. His outburst seems a righteous release, whether battering Korean store owners, fighting Latino punks or holding up a fast food restaurant. He shows equal hatred for panhandlers and rich golfers. He's the quintessential Angry White Man, seeking revenge upon a stratified, multicultural society that no longer values him.
Many films would leave it there, encouraging vicarious revenge thrills with a token "violence is bad" tag. But screenwriter Ebbe Roe Smith repeatedly mitigates our sympathy. A white supremacist (Frederic Forrest) considers Foster a kindred spirit, sharing Nazi memorabilia like a Zyklon-B canister. We learn that Foster attended anger management classes and stalks his wife. If Foster shows glimmers of self-awareness ("I'm the bad guy?") he soon embraces his persona, doffing army fatigues and toting a bag of stolen firearms.
Nonetheless, Michael Douglas makes him uncommonly sympathetic. Established as a towering rage machine, Douglas slowly peels back Foster's resentment and vulnerability, becoming deeper while descending into madness. When threatening criminals or calling his wife he seems a creep; when watching home videos or befriending a family he inadvertently takes hostage, he seems vulnerable. Douglas achieves an admirable balance, making Foster sympathetic without our rooting for him.
Detective Prendergast provides a faultless foil. His own life is a mess, from his fragile wife (Tuesday Weld) and affair with a colleague (Rachel Ticotin) to his impending retirement; his coworkers treat him with condescension. Nonetheless, Prendergast isn't out shooting people, pointed up Foster's insanity. Robert Duvall underplays with restraint and humor, ably working his way through a midlife crisis.
Falling Down mixes trenchant observations (a fired banker screaming that he's "Not economically viable!", echoing Foster's rage) with broader humor, like a kid teaching Foster how to fire a LAWS rocket. Smith's script is cleverly constructed, weaving satire with a whodunit structure. The ending seems underwhelming, a gunpoint confrontation that's inevitable but not entirely convincing. Still, Schumacher's staging allows for tension: we don't now if Foster will hurt his daughter or wife
Among the supporting cast, Barbara Hershey and Tuesday Weld feel one-note, more plot devices than people. Rachel Ticotin makes a likeable partner-paramour for Prendergast. Raymond J. Barry, D.W. Moffat and John Diehl assay minor roles. Vondie Curtis Hall's protestor and Michael Paul Chan's obnoxious store owner make strong impressions, though Frederic Forrest's Nazi creep is a scene-stealing class of his own.

Falling Down easily could have been another Death Wish or Joe, celebrating rage against a permissive society. Instead, Schumacher shows such outbursts as empty, destructive and pointless, our vicarious identification a sick joke. A remarkable achievement from a director best-known for giving Batman nipples.