By the late 1980s, Coppola had developed a reputation with studios for spending huge budgets to create uncommercial films that were obscure to audiences and almost guaranteed flops. But his reputation with critics was slightly different. Reviewers—chief among them Pauline Kael—took him to task for making movies that were all style and no substance.
It wasn’t until 1986’s Peggy Sue Got Married that critics felt he was finally capable of making a movie that was plain old satisfying, and Coppola wasn’t even really involved with the development of that film. He was brought on as a director after some of the casting was done, and one could argue that its success with the critics was thanks to the fact that he was less involved than if it were his project from the get-go.
This lesson seems relevant for the development of Tucker: The Man and His Dream, when Coppola not only got George Lucas on board for its production, but welcomed his advice for making the film more commercially friendly. Coppola told the press that the final film was not the version of the Preston Tucker story he would have filmed at the height of his powers, belying the extent to which the film brims with signatures of Coppola’s style.
Indeed, Coppola never seemed averse to choosing style over substance. He tends to weave his narratives around explicit formal elements, be that repeating snippets of audio and surveillance-like camerawork in The Conversation (1974) or sickly, dark lighting that often obscures much of the on-screen action in The Godfather (1972). The tone of Tucker may be more positive than it would have been were Lucas not involved, but Coppola establishes this triumphant story of individualism and perseverance through formal elements nonetheless.
Take the low-angle shots which generally frame Preston Tucker. This is a classic tactic by filmmakers to make their subjects appear larger than life: we’re literally looking up to the hero of this film almost the entire time. So much of Tucker’s bluster comes simply from how he’s shot. He’s not even framed diminutively during his low moments, which comprise much of the film’s second and third acts.
Likewise, the constant camera motion mirrors Preston Tucker’s own restless spirit and seemingly bottomless supply of energy. This is perhaps one of the better examples of Coppola’s tendency to indulge in style and miss out on something important for the narrative. We never really have a moment to catch our breath, a quiet moment to reckon with Preston Tucker as a real human being. We’re always being whisked away into his next flights of fancy or follies, leaving Tucker feeling somewhat remote to us. This is not the pace our lives move at and, in turn, something feels artificial about the film.
Of course, Coppola wants this artifice. We know from the production history of the film that Coppola originally intended this as a musical, and indeed it retains the vibrant colors, ever-present music, and vivacious acting that define the musicals of Hollywood’s classical era (ranging from the 1930s through the 1950s). We know, as well, that Coppola was trying to channel Frank Capra’s parables of opportunity in America, and with that come the black and white depictions of our hero as the noble everyman and the people in business and government as unseemly bad actors.
