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Now
you see it: (l-r) Giamatti and Norton in The Illusionist.
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Stiff
Sleight of Hand
By
Laura Leon
The
Illusionist
Directed
by Neil Burger
Set
in turn-of-the-last-century Vienna, The Illusionist
is about as fresh and innovative as, well, century-old Viennese
pastry. Somehow, for all its old fashioned melodrama, complete
with romantic flashbacks, it is a fairly solid, mostly satisfying
bit of filmmaking, and yet a textbook case of a movie being
less than the sum of its parts.
Based on a short story by Steven Millhauser, The Illusionist
refers to the master conjurer Eisenheim (Edward Norton), whose
ability to make orange trees grow out of on-stage buckets
or phantasmic spirits arise seemingly from the dead delights
packed houses, including Chief Inspector Uhl (Paul Giamatti),
lead snoop of Crown Prince Leopold (Rufus Sewell). For his
part, the heir to the throne prefers science over fantasy,
fact over theory; his is a merely passing interest until his
fiancée, Duchess Sophie (Jessica Biel), takes an interest
in Eisenheim. Suddenly, the debate over reality versus imagination
takes on romantic, not to mention political, overtones, as
the magician pointedly lays claim to Sophie’s heart. Leopold
entrusts Uhl to take care of this problem, and is none too
pleased when his policeman also seems mesmerized by Eisenheim’s
gift.
To say more would be to give too much away. That said, one
can see the finish line almost immediately. The frustration
with The Illusionist lies with its utter lack of tension,
of a sense of urgency, which, if present, might have been
enough to let us forget, or at least forgive, the complete
obviousness of the plot. Eisenheim and Sophie are in the midst
of a dangerous political plot; their knowledge of it should
make their situation all the more perilous. The idea that
the people, moved by Eisenheim’s abilities and cunning, begin
to question their government should add to the considerable
stakes, and yet director Neil Burger has no clue how to impart
that necessary edge. When Eisenheim takes the stage, surrounded
by imperial police just waiting for the word to arrest him,
the audience should be on the edge of their seats, but the
feeling is one of great comfort, even laziness, on the part
of the viewer.
That inability to rouse out of a comfortable stupor is due,
in large part, to the sumptuousness of the movie. The filmmakers
deserve kudos for fashioning a stunning feast for the eyes,
set against a palette of muted fawns, yellowed ivories, tobacco
browns and sooty blacks, with occasional flashes of clarets
and Prussian blues. It may sound drab, but it’s rich and imparts
the feeling of having been transported into a delightful fairy
tale from an era gone by. This is particularly true of the
flashbacks, which detail Eisenheim’s and Sophie’s youthful
romance. The acting is superb, despite the on-paper sense
of being a motley collection of thespians. Norton is subdued,
almost Mephistophelean. Sewell’s Leopold is delightfully contentious,
yet obviously intelligent. Biel, of TV’s 7th Heaven,
channels the young Ingrid Bergman in her stately beauty and
crystal intellect. But it’s Giamatti who holds it all together,
as a butcher’s son turned bureaucrat aspiring to greatness
in Leopold’s empire, an amateur magician who, nevertheless,
can’t help but look at the facts of the case. He straddles
the gap between the real and the imagined, and in so doing,
provides the most alive, refreshing aspect of the movie. Too
bad Burger couldn’t figure out how to use this to the advantage
of a better-realized picture.
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Missed
Kicks
The
Protector
Directed
by Prachya Pinkaew
The
Protector, starring Thai martial-arts sensation Tony Jaa,
starts out promisingly, delivering on its marketing ploy of
combining Americanized, Jackie Chan-style humor with director
Prachya Pinkaew’s brand of Thai exoticism. But aside from
the escapades of an adorable baby elephant, the film loses
its light touch within minutes, and gimmicky filmic effects
obliterate any indigenous color. The Protector’s descent
into pedestrian, chip-socky fare is especially disappointing
since it’s been touted as a sequel to Ong-bak, Jaa’s
and Pinkaew’s 2003 breakthrough. The story of a naive villager
who kickboxes his way through big-city corruption to recover
a sacred Buddha, Ong-bak balanced thrilling choreography
with a cohesive and moving plot.
The
Protector appears to have had similar ambitions. Jaa’s
naïf, Kham, pursues a sacred object—a regal elephant believed
to embody the power of divine kingship—to a cityscape of iniquity,
this one in Little Thailand in Sydney, Australia. Apparently,
the location was chosen merely to contrast Thai and Aussie
accents, since the filming is mostly confined to back-lot
interiors. Kham is aided by a Thai policeman who doesn’t do
anything other than stand around not getting shot, and he
is thwarted by a roster of cheapie kung-fu caricatures, including
a nefarious femme and a sadistic detective who walks on to
kill his cohorts for no discernable reason. Choppy editing
(entire scenes seem to have been cut for cost- effectiveness)
and a hack-job screenplay fatally detract from the bare bones
(pachyderm bones, as it turns out) of Pinkaew’s story.
Even so, it’s possible that martial-arts buffs will find several
scenes to be worth the price of admission: Kham levels a room
full of bureaucrats as though playing a game of bone-breaking
Twister, showcasing Jaa’s astounding Judo skills; and the
climactic battle between Kham and a Western colossus crisply
delineates the star’s use of weight and leverage to topple
a massively larger opponent. And the match occurs in a burning
temple that’s filmed in mystically desaturated colors, with
a horde of enemy apparitions popping up like Ghosts-in-the-Box.
From the temple extravaganza on, however, the production must
have run out of inspiration as well as time and money; the
mythological backstory is concluded with all the finesse of
a dung sweeper, and Kham fades out like a bored specter. Jaa
and his newfound international audience deserved better.
—Ann
Morrow
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Classifieds
