Catch Me If You Can has Steven Spielberg’s grubby sentimental paw prints all over it. That’s not really a compliment, but at least the man has a distinct style. He has taken the fascinating true story of a teenager who posed as a Pan Am pilot, flew all over the world and forged checks for millions of dollars and mangled it with way too much pathos and backstory. Frank Abagnale was a world class con man, and what interested me is how he got away with his crimes. What interests Spielberg is finding some pop psychology explanation for everything Abagnale ever did. He explains the crook’s motives until he’s supposed to be a good guy.
Leonardo diCaprio plays teen Abagnale, who runs away from home and poses as a Pan Am pilot in order to cash forged checks. Soon, he is flying all over the world, seducing stewardesses and suckling the teats of corporate America. On his trail is Tom Hanks as a hungry agent in the FBI’s check fraud division. His division rarely gets a criminal as exciting as diCaprio, and he sinks his teeth into the case. Whenever he thinks he’s close, diCaprio slips out a window or through an airport. Over the years, the two men develop a mutual respect; by the time diCaprio is caught, they’re friends.
Can’t anyone ever just be a rascal anymore? Why does everyone’s crimes have to be the result of a broken home and a yearning to be loved? Spielberg spends half the movie working to get our sympathy for diCaprio by telling us that, really, he’s a good and misunderstood kid. Fuck, I liked him for being so bold and I’m not opposed to rooting for the thief sometimes just because he’s a good thief.
I wanted more chasing and crimes, to see how the kid did it. But Spielberg thinks a character can’t sneeze without some corny backstory to explain it. He even tacks on a couple extra endings just to explain a little bit more and leave less for us. Christ, Spielberg, leave the viewer to unravel the moral ambiguities and decide for himself rather than make the movie look like a defense attorney’s penalty-phase argument. Only Spielberg could make a movie about a grifter feel so fucking homey and cozy.
Catch Me If You Can has the perfect tone and look. It takes place in the early 60s when jet travel was exotic and sexy, unlike today’s dingy airborne buses. Pilots were greatly admired and highly paid, and stewardesses were young, unmarried and really hot looking in those tight uniforms. Vietnam hadn’t made everyone into a sourpuss, and convertibles still looked cool. DiCaprio is really pretty damn good. The movie is suited perfectly to his breezy style. Hanks is pretty damn corny, though, with a sloppy Massachusetts accent and his clothes doing more acting than him. At least he gets credit for driving a ’63 Galaxie just like yours truly (except mine’s a fastback and doesn’t have as much paint).
It’s still a pretty good movie, but it could have been a hell of a lot better in the hands of a more ruthless director. Three Fingers for Catch Me If You Can. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have some yogurt, carrots and Mickey’s Big Mouths to consume.