It all sounds very familiar: a severely handsome young neo-Nazi, having imbibed a Saturday night’s worth of booze and bitches, curb-stomps (in slow motion, of course) a person of color, who screams and sputters and pleads for his life.
The victim dies. The neo-Nazi in question, Michael Downey (Andrew W. Walker), is arrested and assigned–what else–a Jewish lawyer to defend his case. Sarcastic, fast-talking attorney Danny Dunkleman (David Strathairn) decides that Michael must learn the error of his ways by constructing his own defense. Michael, he says, must figure out on his own how to explain his crime to a jury.
From here a friendship is forged, marriages crumble, careers are placed on the line and through each other, Michael and Daniel learn important life lessons. It’s pretty standard stuff, and Walker’s effort is certainly no match for Edward Norton’s work that came before him. With its ho-hum premise, Steel Toes appears to be headed straight back to the vaults, Forgotten Neo-Nazi Movie #959695.
But then Toes makes a turn-around. Michael fails to embark on obligatory and epic rants about reversed racism and the moral decay of modern society. Daniel points out that Michael is hateful and ignorant, though he doesn’t harp on this fact. There’s very little talk of Nazi ideology and the horrors of the Holocaust. A wise choice, because ultimately Steel Toes isn’t about any of these things. It’s about Michael and Daniel. The two men are up against the unpleasant task of looking past what the other represents, because Danny needs to win the case and Mike hopes to get out of jail someday. By concentrating on the characters’ relationship, rather than preaching and monologue-ing, Steel Toes remains watchable, even enjoyable.
But here’s where things begin to fall apart again. Steel Toes works best as a character study, and the scenes between Danny and Michael are gold. But the film is far too dependent on witty dialogue and there isn’t much beyond the banter. Coupled with awkward, misplaced flashbacks, it’s a sketchy construction that eventually crumbles. We learn that Danny’s marriage sucks. He works too much. His friends resent him for defending a Nazi. Mike, one the other hand, feels powerless and inadequate. His fellow skinheads promptly stop visiting him in jail, and he goes insane with loneliness…all stuff we could have predicted in the first five minutes. We never learn anything significant about either of them. Daniel and Michael begin the film as mere caricatures.
The largest pillar in this shaky foundation is also the weakest. Like Edward Norton and Ryan Gosling, and even 19-year-old Tim Roth a million years ago in Made in Britain, Michael is uncannily and inarguably dreamy. Tall and chiseled with pronounced cheekbones, an artfully broken nose and sad, gleaming black eyes, he smokes cigarettes like he’s making love to a woman. Much of the film’s intrigue spawns from super-close-up soap opera shots of his face. If Michael were a gross turd–a fat, drooling, zitty, sweaty nincompoop–his character wouldn’t be one-tenth as compelling. The strength of his performance depends largely on the automatic charm that comes with being gorgeous.
Steel Toes begins rocky, blossoms into a charming little film, then pisses itself away into an awkward, amateurish mess. The dialog becomes silly and the plot chokes and dies. Even the sound quality appears to get worse. And it’s a shame. But the few truly inspired scenes are worth the not-so-great ones. Somehow, the film stays charming. And a dreamy Andrew W. Walker doesn’t hurt, either.
Steel Toes is playing now at the Hollywood Theatre.