The death of John Sayles hasn't been widely reported--in fact, to read his press, you could be forgiven for thinking that he was still as vital a filmmaker today as he was 20 years ago--but assiduous viewers have suspected it for some time. Though theories vary widely about the actual time of death (for instance: was Lone Star a triumphant swan song or his first post-mortem work?), the release of Silver City should cement the idea that Sayles, the great indie auteur, is no longer with us. In his place stands a lazy dramatist content to let a liberal ideology stand in for the emotional complexity that was once his métier.

The last few Sayles pictures have been howling dogs, to be sure; but they were ultimately inocuous. They felt like the meanderings of a filmmaker searching for his next real project. The reality, however, is that Sayles wasn't simply in a slump; he was dead, and a ghost was making films in his name. These posthumous works seemed like Sayles pictures--decaying dreamers at moral crossroads, difficult women refusing to bow to convention, Latinos at grips with political and social sanctions, class, race, lust, politics. They had all the trimmings. They just weren't any good anymore.

The greatness of John Sayles lay in his mastery of dramatic construction; his ability to weave a multiplicity of characters with dueling motives and disparate backgrounds into a cohesive world fueled the smart humor, psychological depth, and human empathy that made his best work--Matewan, Passion Fish, Eight Men Out, Secret of Roan Inish--a tonic to the cinema of the '80s and early '90s. In this world, the filmmaker's liberal politics, feminist sympathies, and international consciousness served as backdrop. Now those elements are the whole point, and therein lies the cause of death.

Silver City is a toothless political satire weighted down by self-satisfaction, lame performances, and a plot that seems to understand that its only purpose is to motorize the anti-George W. Bush allegory that beats ineffectually where the film's heart should be. Sayles regular Chris Cooper (wasted) plays Dickie Pilager, the numbskull scion of a Colorado political dynasty whose every move is choreographed by a political puppetmaster named Chuck Raven, played by Richard Dreyfuss (abominable). When a dead body turns up on the campaign trail--in a pretty nice sight gag, I must admit--Raven hires a private investigator named Danny (Danny Huston) to warn Pilagers' enemies that they're being watched. Of course, Danny used to be a crusading liberal journalist, and as he comes face to face with the sinister reality of the family, his long-dormant conscience begins to burble to the surface. Sub plots abound. Murder will out. And the two-hour film feels like it lasts all day.

As a piece of political allegory, the subtlety of the film's observations can be summed up by the decision to name the Bush proxy "Pilager." (Why not call him "Ray Cist" or "I.M. Perialism"?) Sayles' ghost is obviously trying to be flagrant about the comparisons to the Bush clan and their nefarious advisers. The problem is, he's not telling us anything we don't know. Allegory or no, the assertion that W. is a puppet and that his family is backed by a cabal of earth-raping industrialists is, sadly, a given. To make a film center on this insight, even as a way into describing the spiritual death of the spirit of political resistance, is itself a powerful failure. Reality is already a parody. Give us some truth. Or at least be funny. Silver City does neither; it's all just received wisdom and recycled jokes, pandering to a smug, impotent audience.

Chris Cooper is usually so great that you keep feeling like his scenes are going to liven things up, but the opposite is true: Like all Bush-is-an-idiot jokes, the character of Dickie Pilager is demoralizing and disenfranchising. If he's such a venal, illegitimate buffoon, what the hell are we doing laughing about it?

The reporter character is clearly a missed opportunity. He could be used to demonstrate the way one's youthful convictions tend to deteriorate into self-effacing glibness (or, in the case of Sayles, to harden into ideology). Instead, as played by Danny Huston, he just seems like a goofball. It's a terrible performance, in the one role that might have redeemed the picture. And again, it's further proof that Sayles, who used to know the terrain of the liberal in crisis like the back of his hand, has passed away.

Huston, himself a dynasty scion (his father was John Huston) just doesn't seem to get the jokes. The film turns on its contempt for a dimwit politician, but cancels itself out by placing a dimwit journalist at its center. If only the irony were intentional, imagine what a living Sayles could have made of it.

sean@thestranger.com