Eye in the Sky Worth Rediscovering

 

EYE IN THE SKY (2015)

Directed by Gavin Hood

Entertainment One Films, 102 minutes, R (language)

★★★★

 

 

 

Remember the lifeboat ethical dilemma that involved deciding whom to sacrifice to increase the likelihood others in the boat would survive? The grown-up version is the cold calculus upon which military and political decisions rest. Who and how many must die to justify a decision that will potentially save even more lives?

 

I am not usually a fan of military thrillers, but Eye in the Sky is a taut and thoughtful one. It's set in a section of Kenya under the control of El-Shabaab. Not many Westerners or Africans shed tears when El-Shabaab terrorists are killed. Could you push the button that launches a Hellfire missile that would wipe out four leaders and two suicide bomber recruits? Easy call? What if two were British and one an American? Still certain? What if a drone reveals a little girl selling bread outside of the compound in which the bad guys are holed up? High-tech warfare isn’t like the Vietnam War in which pilots released bombs and had little idea of what collateral damage they caused. Now we have the ability to zero in on that little girl’s face. Would you kill her in the name of saving others? Would you make such a decision if it involved one of your loved ones?

 

Eye in the Sky involves a six-year search by Colonel Katherine Powell (Helen Mirren) to locate a British woman who was radicalized, married an El-Shabaab commander, and has masterminded terrorist acts throughout the Horn of Africa. A planned capture goes awry when there wasn’t enough time to pull it off, but Powell now knows exactly where the terrorists are located. She wants to pivot from a capture plan to eliminating all six, but there are politics to be considered. Time is of the essence, but she and Lieutenant General Frank Benson (Alan Rickman) need to clear matters with the United States, British Foreign Secretary James Willett (Iain Glen), and Under-Secretary of State for Africa Angela Northman (Monica Dolan). Northman is adamantly opposed, and Willett wants to pass the buck up the chain of command.

 

Turf wars between military leaders and civilian government are commonplace. As viewers, though, we can't root for a strike that would probably kill a smart and utterly vibrant youngster we know as Alia (Aisha Takow). Plus, even if the strike were to be authorized, the military has to thread the needle between at-risk Kenyan personnel on the ground, those doing facial recognition algorithms in Hawaii, blast radius risk assessment officers in Norwood, England, a Reaper drone flying 20,000 feet above the target, and the Creech Air Force Base in Nevada, which targets and fires the missiles. It doesn't help that Second Lieutenant Steve Watts (Aaron Paul) has never done so, or that his shift assistant, A1C Carrie Gershon (Phoebe Fox) is on her first assignment.

 

The subplots within Eye in the Sky are deftly handled. We know, for instance, Benson has a daughter about Alia’s age; we strongly suspect Powell’s motives are pretty evenly split between dispassionate military duty and clinical obsession. The film also suggests that black agents on the ground are being placed in untenable situations by white commanders. As it is, we see Powell browbeats–through intimidation and word planting–a black assessment officer to lower his calculated risk ratio. Queue another dilemma; the decision makers are much older than the men and women who must carry out their orders and live with the consequences. (Add a dose of the Milgram experiment* to the mix.)

 

It may jar you to see Mirren in camo, but she is utterly believable as the icy Powell. In like fashion, Rickman's blend of analytical, forcefulness, and frosty indignation is a poignant reminder of what the acting world lost when he died in 2016. Paul and Fox also shine in roles that require them to be personally vulnerable yet antiseptically efficient. (Milgram redux?) And we should not overlook the note-perfect performance of Barkhad Abdi as Kenyan agent Jama Faral, who must think on his feet then use them to flee for his life. The editing of Megan Gill and the cinematography of Harris Zambarloukos are integral to making the film work. In just 102 minutes we shuttle between eight major characters, numerous secondary ones, and six locations. If either slipped up, the film would not cohere.

 

Would you kill the girl? Allow the terrorists to walk away, though their future actions will probably kill scores of innocents? Hope for a miracle? Eye in the Sky avoids pat solutions and leaves us unsettled. At times it's hard to know which is scarier, El-Shabaab, or the technology that takes the guesswork out of warfare and puts faces on its victims. Unlike pass-the-buck politicians, Eye in the Sky thrusts us into the life boat to confront what we would do. It is a film that I hated to love.

 

Rob Weir

 

* The 1961 Milgram experiments were psychological investigations partly inspired by Nazi soldiers who pleaded they were forced to carry out death camp atrocities. In the experiments, volunteers were badgered to administer electric shocks to other volunteers—actually actors—though the latter appeared to be in distress. Very few refused.

Bruce Ackerson Puts Whimsy Back into Art

 

Bruce Ackerson

Birds-Eye Views

Fine Arts Center, University of Massachusetts Amherst

Through May 14, 2021

Artist Website: https://bruceackerson.net/section/225137.html

 

 

 

I was only passingly familiar with the works of Northampton-based artist Bruce Ackerson until the UMass Fines Art Center launched an exhibit of his paintings titled Birds-Eye Views. It is, of course, exceedingly difficult to get to see the exhibit at present, but Ackerson has a superb Website of all that is in the UMass exhibit and more that is not.

 

 

 

Birds-Eye Views is an apt title, but it also a limiting one. Ackerson does skew our vision by placing our eyes in the sky and forcing us to gaze downward. In this regard, he reminds me a bit of Grant Wood. “Boxcar Getaway,” for instance, is fraught with danger reminiscent of Wood’s “Death on Ridge Road.” The survival odds are low for the figure attempting to allude his pursuers by leaping off a cliff onto a moving train. “Baddy Redpants” has a better chance; he has used a moving flock of sheep to put distance between himself and those chasing him. Ackerson, though, is East Coast to Wood’s Midwest, suburban to his rural, and is more interested in keeping us off balance than in inducing pathos. 

 

 

Ackerson perhaps also echoes Wood in that his style might be called deliberate primitivism. If you’re going to defy perspective, go whole hog. Don’t worry about table legs that don’t look to be 3-D, walls that lean, or cartoon-like figures. According to the UMass writeup, Ackerson’s is an “imaginative take on popular culture, modern life and the hidden world of the human psyche.” In works such as “Artist” or “Artists and Collectors,” we are not sure if the central figure is showing us a canvas or a picture window that opens onto the real world.   

 

What will strike most people is Ackerson’s sharp, often surreal sense of humor. For all the high-falutin’ ways one could describe Ackerson’s works, his own take is that a lot of it is simply “goofy.” It’s hard not to love the lack of pretense in that description. It’s also hard not to see that he’s right. “Port-o-Pool” is dips in the back of a semi; “Girls Having Fun” is three women giving two lads an eyeful, but from their perch atop a cliff the boys can’t access. Ever wonder what Santa does in the off-season? “Walk in the Woods” will inform you. If you’ve had it up to your eyeteeth with burly males throwing their weight around, check out “Two Macho Men” and let me know your preferred outcome. “Saving Timmy” will raise a snort from anyone old enough to remember the TV show Lassie.

 

 

There are several themes that come through in Ackerson’s works beyond perspective and humor. One is that a lot of them are set at the beach. This probably linked to the time he spends in Provincetown on Cape Cod; its Rice Polak Gallery is where many of Ackerson’s works are for sale.  He enjoys depicting running figures bolting out of pools or across cliffs and sand dunes, then adds twists of why they’re in a hurry. “Swimming and Cake” and “Cake Time” are mad dashes out of the water and toward a groaning board laden with yummy delights. An even funnier take on his predilection for food themes is “Pizza!” It’s as if training for the Olympics ceased to indulge in rapture that comes in a crust. Ackerson enhances the illusion via an aerial perspective that makes it look as if servers are bearing sacred offerings.

 

He also indulges us in other fantasies. “Presents for Everyone!” is the way life should be. In a different vein, “Strap-on Wings” evokes a low-altitude training school for a would-be Icarus. Think you’ve had a bad day? “One Thing After Another” will make you feel better. “Joggers” is an amusing-if-ominous sprint that (perhaps) is a backdoor commentary on those who claim the world dates only to 4,004 BCE.

 

If I had to pick one of Ackerson’s painting as my favorite, the honor would go to “Spaghetti Night.” Mom and dad y fancy themselves as jugglers and are attempting the famed “pass” maneuver, except instead of Indian clubs they are tossing pasta-and-sauce-filled plates across the room with predictable results. Three children look on, two with arms out in a supplicative manner as their airborne dinners splatter onto the floor. It appeals to my boyhood sense of wonder and mirth. I admire an artist who makes me laugh aloud instead of muttering over affectations and pretense.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Hypocrites (1915) an Important Film Lesson

 

HYPOCRITES (1915)

Directed by Elliot Reivers and Lois Weber (uncredited)

Paramount, 49 minutes, not-rated

★★★

 

 

 

 

If you have not studied film history, you might think there was never any nudity in American movies until the 1960s. Not so. Until 1934, when an older moral code began to be enforced, lots of films had nude scenes. What changed, beginning with the 1963 offering Promises! Promises! was that Hollywood started to ignore said code. In 1968, it was shelved. Hypocrites, a 1915 silent film that was the brainchild of Lois Weber, was one of numerous pre-code films that sported a clothes-off actress: Margaret Edwards. Weber wrote, produced, and codirected a project that was informally called The Naked Truth because of Edwards.

 

Hypocrites is a series of vignettes in two acts. In the first, we meet Gabriel the Ascetic (Courtenay Foote), a medieval monk. We see him feverishly working behind the locked door of his monastic cell. His abbot, (Herbert Standing) and fellow monks think he is both obsessed and standoffish and, to a degree, they are correct. They fail to see that Gabriel lives on a spiritual plane far above their own. They humor Gabriel and agree to unveil his secret sculpture before the queen and a gathering of villagers. Unveil is the correct word; when the curtain lifts, a comely female nude in marble so shocks viewers that they murder Gabriel.

 

Everything in the film is an allegory, so what happens next is open to interpretation. We see a ghostly nude (Edwards) appear before Gabriel to beckon him up at rugged hillside. As he climbs, some villagers–especially women–try to follow him. They fall by the wayside. The Truth leads Gabriel to a gate, which leads to a summit overlooking a spectacular view. Gabriel stands enraptured. Is this a prequel or a post-mortem scene? Do the gates open to spiritual enlightenment, or do they represent the Gates of Paradise? Take your pick; it works either way. What is clear is that most people are more interested in worldly things than in a saintly life.

 

In the next act, we see Foote in the guise of a modern-day (1915) minister preaching a sermon on hypocrisy. It outrages the congregation, some of whom plot to rid themselves of their sanctimonious minister. They need not have bothered. He sits disconsolately by the pulpit, dies, and only a handful of congregants mourn his passing. This is the setup for vignettes in which we witness the hypocrisy of his detractors. The nude Edwards appears in each, as if to call our attention to their serial violations of the seven deadly sins: pride, greed, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth, and lust. Truth is naked, pure, and innocent, but only nudity arouses ire.

 

Ambiguity again comes into play. Is the minister a reincarnation of Gabriel? Is this Weber’s sideways critique of Christians who focus on form rather than substance? Is the Christian hang-up about nudity the ultimate hypocrisy? Are sins committed behind closed doors somehow less serious? Weber’s film was thought to be scandalous and anticlerical in its day, but was that view crafted by titular hypocrites who willfully ignored Weber’s premise?  

 

At this stage I should remind you that this is both a silent film and one that is more than a century old. Some stock has been tinted, which helps with resolution but many parts of Hypocrites are too badly damaged to allow for full restoration. Remember also that silent films are exactly that. Aside from a few dialogue or expository slides, narrative is communicated by histrionic gestures, exaggerated lighting, and dramatic makeup. Foote’s facial mask is often suggestive of a sickly raccoon.

 

You need to know, however, that much of what you see was pathbreaking in 1915. Weber used multiple exposures and overlap to create Edwards’ phantasmagorical physical qualities. Choosing Edwards was also inspired; she is the very essence of naked innocence. Nor should we overlook that Weber was a rare female director and producer in a decidedly male film world.

 

I can't promise you will find Hypocrites to be enthralling viewing–its surfaces and acting are too dated and mannered for most tastes–but it's an important historical document. And, if I might, it made me think of the hypocrisy of many contemporary clerics. You know, the ones that rail against sex as a way of diverting attention from their devotion to violating the seven deadly sins. Sooner or later, though, most of them are caught with their pants down!

 

Rob Weir

Memorial is a Flop

MEMORIAL (2020)

By Bryan Washington

Riverhead Books, 306 pages.

★

 

 

Should a reviewer cut a gay novel more slack than one involving straight characters? How about if one of the characters is African American and the other is Japanese? Or should that reviewer simply call it like it is and say he is in the presence of a bad piece of writing? Given that I am the reviewer in question, I opt to call Memorial a dud.

 

It details the relationship between Benson, a black American, and his Japanese partner “Mike.” They have a lot of sex together, though mostly for the wrong reasons. Sex is what they do when they can’t communicate or resolve their disagreements, which is nearly all of the time. Memorial is set in Houston, where Mike has been for a long time and where “Ben” grew up in some comfort. They now live in the city’s Third Ward, a classic gentrifying but not yet transformed neighborhood. Mike, who comes from a broken home, is a slacker who goes from one low-wage restaurant to another. Ben—who is HIV positive-—works in a daycare center and is good with the kids, though he’s pretty lousy with most adults, including Mike. Not that Mike is much better. If you don’t already think that the F-bomb has grown boorish and tiresome, you’ll be ready to call for an outright ban if you pick up this novel. Take it out and this book would lose half its bulk.

 

Nothing much makes sense in the book. Mike’s mother Mitsuko is jetting her way from her home in Tokyo to Houston where she once lived. So what does Mike do? He flies to Osaka to care for his father Eiju, who has terminal pancreatic cancer. Is that noble? Not really; he despises his father and hasn’t even spoken to him in years. Plus, what kind of partner sticks his boyfriend with his mother, whom Ben has never met, to go to Japan for several months? Ben doesn’t even know if Mitsuko speaks English. She does and expresses disapproval about everything from her ex-husband to Ben and the apartment.

 

Washington tries to salvage the novel about half way through by switching from the Mike/Ben relationship to back stories that flesh out their respective dysfunctional families. This includes Mike’s attempt to help his father run his small bar, much to the chagrin of Kunihiko who has been a surrogate son to Eiju and hoped to inherit the bar. For the record, Eiju speaks with the same expletive-laced overgrown junior high school vocabulary as Mike and Ben. If none of this makes any sense to you, trust me that it’s not worth trying to understand it any more than trying to rationalize Mike’s casual hookups in Osaka or Ben’s attraction to Omar, the brother of a sullen child named Ahmad with whom only Ben can relate.

Yeah, yeah, there is a sort of coming together of the respective families, but do we care? I surely did not. Nor did I care whether or not Mike decides to go back to Osaka after his father’s death, a subplot involving the forthcoming marriage of one of Ben’s colleagues, or whether there is any hope for Mike and Ben.

 

It’s this simple. Unless you’re David Mamet and can concoct compelling drama to accompany foul-mouthed characters, the F-bomb is not cutting edge literature. I know nothing about author Bryan Washington. Maybe he has a great novel in him somewhere, but Memorial is a boring book marred by immature writing. Mike and Ben remind me of something Tom Lehrer once said: “If a person feels he can’t communicate, the least he can do is shut up about it.”

 

Rob Weir

March 2021 Music: Joy Formidable, Rob Williams, Our Girl, Frances Quinlan

 

 

 

If I told you that The Joy Formidable (TJF) sings a really great song titled “Y Golau Mwyaf ywr Cysgod Mwyaf,” where would you reckon they’re from? Wales, of course, a place where Vanna White could have made a fortune selling vowels. Rhiannon Bryan holds down most of the lead vocals, but her voice is often supplemented by the light tenor of bass/acoustic guitar player Rhydian Dafydd, who uses tones that approach falsetto to provide bell-like scaffolding for Bryan. Matthew James Thomas keeps everything steady with all manner of percussion, including tambourine jingles on his shoes. There are lots of wonderful Welsh bands, but the only other place where Welsh is the main language is a small section of Patagonia. Bands with a wider outreach such as TJF also often sing in English. The post-punk “Austere” is one example of this, though I prefer more-controlled songs such as “Silent Treatment,” with its faint echoes of Scandinavian kulning vocals, and their acoustic treatment of the curiously named “My Beerdrunk Soul is Sadder than a Hundred Dead Christmas Trees.” (The album version is loud and obscures the lyrics.) Plus, I love the tone of Dafydd’s Taylor guitar.  But if you prefer big feedback-laden noisy rock, try “Whirring.” If you didn’t pick up before that Bryan is a dynamo, you’ll be clear after this one. And her bandmates can bring it as well. It’s more hype than they need, IMHO, but their mix of soft, hard, and electronica is infectious even when it goes over the top. It’s not the same repertoire by any means, but somehow TJF put me in mind of The Cowboy Junkies minus the covers. In case you’re wondering, the Welsh in the first song translates “The Biggest Light is the Biggest Shadow.”   

 

Richmond’s Rob (“don’t call me Robbie”) Williams has a recent release, Weathering the Storm, Vol. 1 whose title holds a double meaning. It’s a commentary of the past year of coping with the Covid crisis, as well as a nod to his own recovery from depression. His is music in a country folk/indie rock vein. If you’re not familiar with his music, his song “Nameless” helps explain why: If you wonder what became of me, I’m nothing but happy/Don’t want to be famous, I’m content being nameless. He might not get a choice about the fame part; he’s too good of a songwriter to remain forever in the shadows. He currently works with a tight band that toggles between subdued and loud. “Falling Sky” is one of the latter, courtesy of older sister Leslie’s electric guitar. Like a lot of Rob Williams’ songs, this one opts for depth rather than just being catchy. It’s about a different kind of noise–the litany of media-driven doom and woe–that tries to convince us the sky is falling. Williams is also a fine narrative songwriter. “Ghostwriter” is a wordy semi-love song, though each syllable matters. It’s one of two love-that-burns-but-burns-out stories, this one between characters titled Rosie and Justin. The other is “Long Distance” and its hook line–Sarah does what Simon says–presages what happens. It’s about a bicoastal relationship that eventually dissolves when Sarah decides to stop doing what Simon says. Williams is his own man, but for those fishing for analogies, his acoustic-driven songs evoke Josh Ritter.

 

Our Girl is a trio from Brighton, England, fronted by Soph Nathan, who sings and plays electric guitar. The band has been compared to a mix of The Pixies and My Bloody Valentine. I like Nathan and she can shred, but the repertoire needs refinement. “I Really Like It” has some nice pop tinges to balance the grunge, but by the time it’s done, Josh Tyler’s simple but effective bass lines are more memorable than the noise that follows. “Two Life” is like this as well. There’s potential in the band’s blend of charm, energy, and garage guitar, but I heard four songs and they were all very similar.

 

I heard a bit of Frances Quinlan with the Philadelphia-based indie band Hop Along and enjoyed her. I was, alas, totally underwhelmed by Quinlan’s three-song set at Paste Studios. Several things. First, when you’re 34, don’t sing like you’re 14. Second, hire a guitarist. Listen to “DetroitLake.” If you don’t like it, move on as the other two have the same feel.

The Only Good Indians Thrills and Chills

 

THE ONLY GOOD INDIANS: A NOVEL (2021)

By Stephen Graham Jones

Saga Press, 312 pages.

★★★★★

 

 

Social scientists use the word “thin” when referencing cultures in which the boundaries between the natural and supernatural are porous. This describes well the world views of many indigenous peoples. Steven Graham Jones­­—a member of the Blackfeet nation—plays upon thinness in a new novel that’s equal parts mystery and horror tale. He keeps us guessing through the entirety of the novel. Are we reading about an elaborate murder revenge plot, or something beyond our comprehension?

 

It is set in and around Great Falls, Montana, where there is a Blackfeet reservation, but also a lot of Crow Natives who have migrated northward. The story centers on four Blackfeet friends from childhood—Ricky, Lewis, Cassidy, and Gabe—and opens in North Dakota, where Ricky dies after being trampled by a herd of elk. Sudden death of young Natives is, alas, an all too common phenomenon, but Ricky’s death unsettles his friends, especially Lewis, who long ago moved off the reservation with his longtime white partner, Peta.

 

Lewis is trying to break away from the reservation’s cycle of poverty. He and Peta live near Great Falls and Lewis holds down a steady job with the U.S. postal service. He makes up joking headlines to parody himself and Native life, such as “Indian Man First in History to Pick Up After Himself,” and immerses himself in reading graphic novels. He is, though, haunted by an incident from his high school years when he, Ricky, Cass, and Gabe trespassed on lands reserved for the elders and blasted away at a herd of elk. Much to his eternal consternation, he shot a calf and had to kill it rather brutally as it struggled. It was pregnant and he felt so horrible that he butchered it, gave away the meat, skinned it, and has carried the hide with him for more than a decade. Imagine the chill when he thinks he sees an elk-headed woman as he is trying to fix a ceiling fan. Is he being pranked by Shaney, a Native woman who seems to have designs on him? Have the graphic novels warped his perspective? His conclusions are chilling to say the least, as is his fate.

 

Back on the reservation, Cass and Gabe prepare for a sweat that will help teach young Nathan, the son of game warden Denny Pease, the ways of the Blackfeet, not that they are necessarily the best representatives of those traditions. Before the night is over, they too will be imperiled, as will be Denny, Cass’s Crow girlfriend Jo, and Gabe’s daughter Denorah, a high school basketball star who finds herself in a pickup game and flight for her life. And again the question arises as to who is responsible for what transpires. I sincerely doubt that you will anticipate the novel’s resolution or how it gets there, though I’m sure you will admire the resourceful Denorah. 

 

Jones is a consummate storyteller who doesn’t care whether or not you think myth and reality can collide. Does the Elk-Headed Spirit haunt in the material world, in the mind, or is it merely an elaborate and sanguinary ruse? Must old debts be paid before anyone can rest? Do ghosts walk among us, correct the past, and then fade? In a thin world view, all things are possible. Or do they merely appear to be so? The Only Good Indians bears some resemblance to literary works employing magical realism, but even this doesn’t quite get it. Think thin. Think also of maternal determination and female self-empowerment.  

 

This is a white-knuckle novel masterfully told. It will make you quake and rethink what you think justice demands. It is said that revenge is a dish best served cold. You have no idea how cold!

 

Rob Weir

Source Code is Miles Better than Tenet

 

SOURCE CODE (2011)

Directed by Duncan Jones

Summit Entertainment, 93 minutes, PG-13

★★★★

 

 

 

On February 15, I slammed Tenet as both junk science and a rotten movie. Lots of movies engage in junk—or if we wish to be polite, speculative—science and it’s possible to make a decent flick using it. I recently came across Source Code, a 2011 science fiction//action/thriller offering that does so very well.

 

If, like me, this film simply slipped off your radar screen, here’s a brief synopsis. Captain Colter Stevens (Jake Gyllenhaal) has been given a mission whose mechanics he can’t understand. He is inside of something that he presumes to be an experimental machine and is told by Captain Colleen Goodwin (Vera Farmiga) he is being sent into to an unfolding event in which there is a bomber aboard a commuter train bound for Chicago. In order to avoid a major catastrophe, he will have 8 minutes to identify and neutralize an on-board bomber. He barely has time to sputter before he is spun and jolted out of his capsule and finds himself sitting across from an attractive young woman, Christina Warren (Michelle Montaghan) who knows him as Sean Fentress. He’s confused and who wouldn’t be? Who is this woman and how does one find a bomber amidst a car filled with commuters?  How do you do process gazing into a bathroom mirror at a face that isn’t yours? In 8 minutes, not much. The train blows up in a fiery ball that kills everyone aboard.

 

Suddenly, Stevens is again in the capsule. Goodwin tells Stevens his mission has failed and she is sending him back again. Before he can sputter, “Wait!” he’s thrust back and the same scenario unfolds. This occurs several times and in each trip back he picks up clues and is drawn closer to Christina. But it doesn’t take long before the befuddled Stevens knows that something very weird is happening and demands answers. He is given just information from Goodwin’s superior, Dr. Rutledge (Jeffrey Wright), and is sent back to avert a crisis, though he does learn it’s not necessarily the one he thinks. Stevens also has reasons to think he is actually dead and is only “alive” inside a computer program.

 

This beat-the-clock thriller works because it uses some actual science to mask its pseudo-science. We know that in some individuals, brain waves can be detected as long as 10 minutes after clinical death has occurred. What this actually means is anyone’s guess, but brief postmortem delta waves do exist. The junk science part of the equation is that no one has actually built any sort of time machine and even if they had, the principle of uniformatarianism would make it impossible to alter an event that has already occurred. But here is where Source Code succeeds and Tenet failed. The latter film’s unending volleys of jargonistic nonsense call attention to its contrivances, whereas Source Code uses science­­-–delta waves—to divert attention from not actually explaining how anyone can be sent back in time numerous times. To put it glibly, our deus ex machina protagonist makes us not “see” the machine.

 

Source Code sometimes slides from thriller to sentimental fluff, but this too is a matter that is easily overlooked because, well, Gyllenhaal and Monaghan make a wicked cute couple. Wright’s Rutledge probably could have benefitted from being more nuanced and less Dr. Frankenstein. He stands in marked contrast to Farmiga as Goodwin. In many ways, hers is the most difficult role in the film, as she is called upon to decide between her orders and her moral center.

 

Source Code is sci-fi and if that’s not your genre, it won’t be the film to make you reconsider. If you do like sci-fi, though, I’d say that this 93-minute $32 million film beats the plutonium out of Christopher Nolan’s bloated 150-minute $200 million Tenet.

 

Rob Weir