Hollow Man Could Have Been Worse; Croupier’s Aces

Written by Godfrey Cheshire on . Posted in Arts & Film, Posts.



Hollow Man
Directed by Paul Verhoeven


Ideally, this movie is not
seen at home or in the company of other people. You run into it when you’re
for some reason stuck in Willy Lomansville for a night or two. You’re too
tired to read or go out (oh yeah, you remember: there’s nowhere to go),
so you turn on the tv to the place where there are no commercials. A movie has
just started, a movie you wouldn’t even think to go see in a theater or
to rent. But there it is. You gape at it for a few minutes, thinking, This
is lame, maybe I should check out that Gideon Bible
. You keep watching,
though. You realize that the movie’s look is polished, it has some interesting
second-level stars and even a few ideas bouncing around. Mostly because your
brain’s at low ebb, you curl up and think, This isn’t so bad.
And in the context, it isn’t.


I offer this mainly as a
route toward explaining why Paul Verhoeven’s Hollow Man didn’t
make me angry. Perhaps it’s just that we’re so far along in the summer
that most of the disgust and ire the season naturally generates is largely spent.
But beyond that, Hollow Man doesn’t broadcast the self-importance
of, say, X-Men or The Perfect Storm, crummy movies that on some
level want to be taken seriously. Aside from its capital-intensive veneer, Verhoeven’s
sci-fi thriller looks like it might’ve been made to go straight to HBO
or Cinemax.


You will have gathered that
it has nothing to do with T.S. Eliot. Or, for that matter, Ralph Ellison. Though
the title clearly called for was The Invisible Man, that was presumably
off-limits, and "Hollow Man" makes precious little sense (except metaphorically:
I’ll get to that). While H.G. Wells receives no credit, the premise that
he supplied to James Whale’s 1933 The Invisible Man–mad scientist
makes himself invisible, wreaks havoc–is, in fact, the same one operative
here.


Except that we’re no
longer in the innocent English countryside. The film’s Prometheus, Sebastian
Caine (Kevin Bacon), lives and works in Washington, DC, where his research into
invisibility serves the Pentagon. When the story opens, he’s just made
a crucial discovery but is equally interested to find out who’s sharing
the bed of his ex-girlfriend, Linda McKay (Elizabeth Shue), who happens to be
his chief lieutenant. She, in turn, is anxious that he not find out she’s
sleeping with their coworker Matt (Josh Brolin). Does she suspect Sebastian
might turn into a homicidal maniac if provoked by jealousy (or given the chance
to be made invisible)? The hint is planted at this point, but for the first
act Sebastian remains the nominal protagonist–a little hyper and controlling,
perhaps, but no monster.


Hollow Man has all
the hallmarks of a film that was made due to the availability of certain special-effects
technologies, a cart-before-the-horse approach to filmmaking that’s perhaps
no screwier than many distortions of creative will in Hollywood. The movie’s
first half-hour forms a buildup to the first major display of that f/x wizardry,
which comes when Sebastian and his team test their new serum on an ape. Strapped
to an operating table in the scientists’ underground bunker, the beast
is injected with a colored liquid that gradually renders all of his internal
organs and veins visible while leaving his skin transparent. The effect, in
other words, is exactly like those plastic "Invisible Man" statuettes
used to teach biology in school–which is appropriate enough, since the
movie itself recalls other stereotypical diversions of childhood.


You know what’s coming
from the first, and after a few more predictable plot twists, it does. Sebastian
decides to test the invisibility serum on himself. His colleagues are instructed
to keep him confined to the bunker and monitor his every move (they see him
by using heat-detecting cameras and goggles), but they don’t count on the
personality changes that accompany his disappearance from the realm of the visible.
Does the serum make him nuts, or is it the power that comes with invisibility?
That question is posed by the movie, and the answer is: Who cares? What counts
is the mayhem that ensues.


To feign visibility in order
to return to the aboveground world, Sebastian dons clothes and puts on a rubbery
mask that has holes for his mouth and eyes. Without sunglasses he does indeed
look like a hollow man, although of course he’s still as flesh-and-blood
as anyone else. But it’s when he’s au naturel, completely invisible,
that he wreaks the most havoc, and the film really gets to show off its special
effects.


Naked, Sebastian can only
be seen when he’s defined by some sort of gas (steam, say) or liquid (water,
blood). Utilizing the sort of f/x technology that was strikingly novel at the
time of Terminator 2, the filmmakers get a lot of mileage out of the
secondary characters’ desperate efforts to render Sebastian visible. This
happens in the tale’s final act, when, a la Alien, he pursues his
coworkers through the now sealed-off bunker, murdering them one by one.


It’s precisely because
this is all so unoriginal that it verges on appealing. A mad scientist who lays
waste to the innocent human world with his nutty forbidden knowledge–didn’t
I see at least 50 movies like this on late-night tv when I was a kid? At least.
Hollow Man takes itself seriously enough to know it’s supposed to
deliver the same kind of thrills, but not so seriously as to think that by doing
so it’s reinventing the genre.


What’s more, Verhoeven
is undeniably skillful at this kind of high-tech, tongue-halfway-in-cheek action
romp. Hollow Man is the fourth large-scale sci-fi movie he’s made
since moving from Holland to Hollywood in the mid-80s, following RoboCop,
Total Recall and Starship Troopers. All of those films have elements
of a foreigner’s satiric critique of American culture, and if Hollow
Man
is perhaps the least ingenious and thought-provoking in this regard,
it’s still full of Verhoeven’s stylistic energy, his mix of manic
conviction and unapologetic, almost aggressive cheesiness.


So yes, it’s as fun
to watch as any movie that contains heaps of bad dialogue (Andrew W. Marlowe’s
screenplay doesn’t stint on the cliches) and that ends with a giant fireball
can be. But is fun all there is to movies? Verhoeven’s other American films,
Basic Instinct and Showgirls, hint that his work is driven not
just by a mania for perfection and an underlying cynicism about the value of
the movies that mania is expended on, but also by a certain guilt about both
the work and the cynicism. As an auto-critique, one not unknown to European
auteurs who "go Hollywood" (see Wim Wenders’ The State of
Things
), this line of thinking is corrosive enough to leave any filmmaker
feeling like, well, a hollow man.


Maybe the title isn’t
entirely misguided. And maybe there’s a hint of Eliot to the enterprise,
after all. But if Hollow Man can be seen as a confessional self-portrait,
it also cancels out that implication with the joke that its subject, in reality,
can’t be seen.



Croupier
Directed by
Mike Hodges



Back on the micro level
of real cinema, the summer’s happiest news by far has been the word-of-mouth
success of Mike Hodges’ Croupier. For reasons that defy understanding,
the British film was effectively dumped by its producer, Film Four, which didn’t
enter it in international festivals or do the other things one normally does
to attract foreign buyers. Eventually seen but passed on by the larger U.S.
indie distributors, it was released by Shooting Gallery Releasing, a newcomer
that’s been doing very good work but had yet to turn up a real hit. Now,
thanks entirely to the kind of advertising that money can’t buy, it has
one.


I was sorry to be behind
the curve on this one, but happy to discover, when I finally caught up with
Croupier last week, that its success is so well-deserved. Hodges’
contemporary noir centers on a young would-be writer (brilliantly played by
Clive Owen) who, unable to get his creative juices flowing, takes a job running
the roulette wheel in a casino, a locale bristling with enough ethical and psychological
pitfalls to inspire any writer–at least, one who can avoid being caught
in the quicksand himself.


Written by Paul Mayersberg
(who previously scripted The Man Who Fell to Earth and Merry Christmas,
Mr. Lawrence
), Croupier’s screenplay is immediately captivating
not only in the way that it adopts a writer’s viewpoint–which includes
a use of voiceovers that’s unusually rich and purposeful–but also
in how particularly its characters are drawn. The protagonist, for example,
grew up in South Africa and went to boarding school. Movies seldom give us this
kind of precise, detailed information without meaning to capitalize on it plot-wise
within a few reels. But in Croupier it serves to make the characters
almost startlingly specific, which in turn helps make them unavoidably intriguing.


Also unconventional is Hodges’
carefully mannered style, which is polished and meditative rather than grittily
realistic. Departing from the naturalism that’s so common to British art
films with contemporary settings, the film was shot mostly in a studio in Germany.
The result is a subtly expressionistic realm that’s ideal for Hodges’
elegant camera moves and the tale’s aura of slowly unfolding psychological
menace.


That tale keeps you guessing
throughout, not only about what will happen to the characters but also about
the intent and nature of the film itself. That it ultimately declines to become
a thriller–or at least a neat, tidy, obvious one–may strike some as
a fault. But it left me all the more enthralled by Croupier’s long
suit, an extraordinary meshing of mood, character and authorial probing.


This is easily one of the
year’s best films, and certainly the choicest British import since Mike
Leigh’s Topsy-Turvy. Be sure to catch it during its summer of understated
triumph.



Correction: Due an editing
error in my review of Abbas Kiarostami’s The Wind Will Carry Us
last week, the word "gnostic" appeared capitalized. It may be a minor
difference, but I didn’t mean to imply that the filmmaker belonged to any
organized group or sect, especially one that flourished many centuries ago.


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