A magnificent madman
For sheer spectacle and barnstorming energy, it is hard to imagine a more keenly pleasurable film than The Aviator.
And while he might not seem an obvious casting choice, Leonardo DiCaprio is thoroughly persuasive as Howard Hughes, mogul, movie buff, flying genius, playboy and five-star eccentric.
A glittering return to form for Martin Scorsese after the disappointment of Gangs Of New York, this will be a strong contender in the forthcoming critics' awards, both for its performances and for its technical brilliance - even if it never soars to the visionary heights of its director's finest work.
The story begins in the late Twenties, as Hughes cuts an instant dash in Hollywood with the fabulously costly First World War flying epic Hell's Angels, a silent picture which he remakes at even vaster expense when the talkies come in. Soon, though, he has turned his attention elsewhere, setting new aviation records and inventing pioneering aircraft, most famously the world's biggest flying machine, the Spruce Goose.
En route, Hughes dates some of America's most desirable women, including Katharine Hepburn (an uncanny impersonation by Cate Blanchett) and Ava Gardner (Kate Beckinsale, slightly less effective). He also wages a successful campaign on behalf of his own company, TWA, against Pan Am's then monopoly on transatlantic air travel.
The film's scale and visual élan are dazzling. An endless stream of superbly designed and shot setpieces includes a recreation of daredevil flying sequences from Hell's Angels and its lavish premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theatre; Hughes's nocturnal antics with Errol Flynn (a vivid cameo by Jude Law) or Jean Harlow (Gwen Stefani); and the public hearings where, on the edge of a nervous breakdown, he impressively defends his corner. Scorsese seamlessly blends colourised archive newsreels with new material and computer wizardry with live action footage.
The Aviator ends well before its subject's descent into reclusiveness, although there are flashes of it in his fixation on hygiene, lifelong breast fetish and anxiety about his deafness, leading to one extended spell of near insanity after a (terrifyingly rendered) plane crash.
Its main flaw is a failure to account for this increasingly bizarre behaviour beyond the brief suggestion of an over-protective mother. DiCaprio's stellar performance can hardly be faulted, but the script doesn't match Raging Bull, Scorsese's great 1980 biopic of boxer Jake La Motta - but then that earlier film remains quite an achievement to be measured by.
