INNER SPACE
by Chris Dashiell
After a series of mainstream commercial hits (Erin
Brockovitch, Traffic, Ocean's Eleven), and a self-reflexive
minor work (Full Frontal), Steven Soderbergh has returned to
the experimentation of his earler films with Solaris,
an adaptation of the Stanislaw Lem novel that had been previously filmed
(in 1972) by the Russian auteur Andrei Tarkovsky. From a film with major
studio backing (Fox) and a big name star (George Clooney), I was expecting
something reductive. To my pleasant surprise, Soderbergh has given us
a quietly poetic meditation on love, mortality, memory, and the human
longing for the eternal. Not your usual multiplex fare.
Chris
Kelvin (Clooney), a psychiatrist living in an unspecified future age,
is sent on a mission to a space station orbiting the planet Solaris
after receiving a cryptic plea for help from an old friend. When he
gets there, he finds his friend dead, and two survivors who seem to
be going crazy: a fidgety geek (Jeremy Davies) who talks in riddles,
and the mission commander (Viola Davis) who has locked herself in her
cabin. It seems that they have been visited by beings who appear exactly
like important people in their pasts. Before long, Kelvin receives his
own visitor - his dead wife Rheya (Natascha McElhone), and he is overcome
by his desire to be with her and to change the tragic fate that separated
them.
The
science fiction plot is really just a hook on which to hang a spiritual/metaphysical
fable. Moody, disjunctive scenes in which the main character confronts
a rush of feelings when seeing his wife again, alternate with glimpses
of the past in which the calamity of their relationship is gradually
pieced together. It takes some time to come to terms with the nature
of the "visitor" as well. Rather than an unconscious projection, "Rheya"
possesses subjectivity and a memory that corresponds to Kelvin's. Her
dawning realization of identity brings to light the fragmentary and
often deceptive nature of human memory.
Visually
stunning (shot by Soderbergh himself under a pseudonym), Solaris
achieves an hypnotic effect that is analogous to the metaphorical action
of the eponymous planet. Combined with the eerie music (Cliff Martinez),
the picture put me in something close to an altered state. I wish I
could say that it triumphs on every level, but in my opinion George
Clooney was miscast. The role called for a more cerebral type - a dreamer
or poet, not flighty but inwardly directed. Clooney is quite the opposite
- a vital, outward type of actor. He tries hard, but the way he carries
himself tends to shatter the fictional dream, and it also makes the
central relationship between him and the intense, romantic McElhone
less than convincing. It's a tribute to Soderbergh's stylistic integrity
that this flaw doesn't ruin the picture, but only mildly reduces its
power.
The
planet Solaris, a mesmerizing, oceanic swirl of color, is rich with
symbolic potential. It can be God, death, the human soul, or all of
these and more. A great deal of the film's attraction lies in its willingness
not to explain, but to evoke the unexplainable. The drama, or perhaps
one should say the poem, occurs entirely within the mind of the main
character - his need to believe that love can transcend death warring
with his fear of being overwhelmed by the infinite. It is enough to
pose these questions, and in fact posing them is just the point of this
beautiful, haunting film.
I'm
Going Home is a film of mortality and loss, albeit more modest
(and more gentle) than Solaris in its approach. Quiet and subtly
observant, the film offers a perspective on the autumn of life that
has the ring of experience, as well it might, coming from 93-year-old
Portuguese director Manoel Oliveira.
Aging
actor Gilbert Valence (Michel Piccoli), after a performance in the title
role of Ionesco's Exit the King (a marvelous, lengthy sequence
providing a deliberate contrast with the film's view of life), is informed
that his wife, daughter and son-in-a-law have died in a car crash. Avoiding
the direct depiction of grief, the film then jumps ahead a few months.
Valence watches from his window as his 12-year-old grandson, his daughter's
only child, leaves for school. We then follow the old man as he strolls
through Paris, enjoying the little pleasures of life, relaxing at his
favorite cafe. He plays Prospero in The Tempest, argues with
his agent, who thinks he's too isolated, and has his new shoes stolen
by a junkie. Something of a crisis occurs when an American director
(John Malkovich) asks him to fill in as an emergency replacement in
a film version of Ulysses, playing Buck Mulligan, a part that
is clearly too young for him.
Oliveira's
focus is on the habits of life, the small comforts that fill our days,
rather than the big dramatic moments. In a film that starts with a tragic
loss, this approach resonates in interesting ways. The camera is distant
without being cold, the script unsentimental without being cynical.
Serene acceptance, love of the quotidian - the director's vision is
expressed in the unspoken and the unnoticed, as if the action was happening
just off the edge of the screen. Paris is one of the characters - a
love of the city permeates the film, and a sense of humor about living
in such an odd place as a city. I'm Going Home has the wisdom
of age, without tears or illusions.
Running
through it is the theme of acting - not the usual metaphor of social
role or mask, but the relationship of soul and expression. Piccoli is
excellent in a role that allows him to show many different aspects of
the actor's life and character - his self-assured screen presence carries
us through the character's quirks and vulnerabilities with ease. I must
say that the idea of having Valence play Buck Mulligan is so ridiculous
as to break the film's spell - the point, of course, is that he's horribly
miscast, but I think a more plausible example of that could have been
found. It's a minor point, in any case. I'm Going Home succeeds
in hallowing our ordinary present tense with thoughtful and affecting
skill.
©2002 Chris Dashiell
CineScene
