4.5 stars. Rating: R, for drug and alcohol abuse, profanity, nudity, sexuality and dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang
I can hear Rod Serling’s laconic
précis, were he summoned across the bridge of time to introduce this story:
“Portrait of a man, going down
for the third time ... and he doesn’t know it.”
 |
| Whip (Denzel Washington) likes Nicole (Kelly Reilly) at first sight, and the attraction is mutual. Unfortunately, she's a recovering addict, and he remains an unrepentant alcoholic. She's knows he'd be bad for her — perhaps even fatal — but does she have the strength to resist him? |
Flight will catch people by surprise, the same way Million Dollar Baby took its sharp turn
in the third act. Advance publicity has centered on the horrific, mid-flight
plane crisis, and the suggestion that something “unexpected” turns up during the
subsequent investigation.
But John Gatins’ superb, richly
nuanced script is much, much deeper than that; indeed, it probes into the very
soul of a profoundly flawed man who expects a single heroic act to compensate
for a lifetime of ill-advised behavior. Gatins’ narrative also takes intriguing
detours, the first one so disorienting — as a new character is introduced —
that you’ll briefly wonder if somebody added a reel from an entirely different
film.
Let it be said, as well, that Flight gives Denzel Washington yet
another opportunity to demonstrate his amazing range and subtlety. He’s simply
fascinating to watch, even when at rest ... because that’s the thing; he never is truly at rest. His fingers twitch;
his eyes dart through double-takes; he radiates the nervous tension of a caged
animal waiting to bolt.
We can’t take our eyes off him.
Don’t want to.
Director Robert Zemeckis, having
finally shaken his obsession with motion-capture animation — The Polar Express, Beowulf, A Christmas Carol
— returns to the probing, tightly focused, intensely intimate character drama
that he delivered so well in Cast Away
and Contact. This new film is a raw,
unflinchingly uncomfortable portrait of a man who takes for granted his ability
to remain in control, a politician’s superficial smile on his face, despite the
deeply rooted rage and despair that threaten to overwhelm him.
At the same time, Zemeckis,
Gatins and Washington deliver an unnervingly grim study of an alcoholic: a
drama so memorable that it deserves to be placed alongside earlier classics
such as The Lost Weekend, The Days of Wine and Roses and Leaving Las Vegas.
Probably not what people will
expect, if they’re drawn to this film by the poster art that shows a capable,
if mildly anxious Washington, resplendent in his airline captain’s uniform.
Like I said, this one will surprise you.
Every so often, Hollywood raises
the bar on verisimilitude, when it comes to airline disasters. I still vividly
recall the crash that opens 1965’s The
Flight of the Phoenix, which I saw as a child: so much more realistic than the overcooked nonsense of Airport and its various sequels and
clones. A generation ago, a new standard was set with the crash that opened
1993’s Alive; earlier this year, The Grey offered a similarly ghastly wreck.
Zemeckis and his production team
trump all those earlier efforts, and then some; Flight depicts an airline catastrophe so vivid, so terrifying — so
disturbingly credible — that it’ll put people off flying the same way Jaws kept folks out of the water.
But we don’t get there right
away.
Our first glimpse of Washington’s
Whip Whitaker is startling: a man blasted awake one morning in a hotel room
littered with empty liquor bottles, remnants of cocaine and an unselfconsciously
naked woman who might be regarded as attractive, in other circumstances, but
somehow looks vulgar here. The disconnect is jolting: This is the ruggedly handsome, impeccably dressed fellow in that
movie poster? Really?
Indeed.
Next thing we know, Whip is
heading for his first assignment of the day, on an ordinary mid-autumn morning:
piloting SouthJet 227 from Orlando, Fla. He greets young, clean-cut co-pilot
Ken Evans (Brian Geraghty), who senses something amiss in his boss’ behavior;
in-flight stewardess Margaret Thomason (Tamara Tunie), obviously a longstanding
friendly acquaintance, greets Whip warmly.
(My wife to me, sotto voce, at this moment: “If we don’t
have mandatory drug testing for all
flight personnel, before every
take-off, we need it right now.”
(No kidding.)
The weather is stormy, but not
bad enough to preclude take-off. The ascent is bumpy and swift, Evans
repeatedly questioning Whip’s audacious but, yes, ultimately savvy control
decisions.
Elsewhere, Nicole (Kelly Reilly),
a onetime photographer turned heroin addict, scrambles around town for a fix;
she finally scores after visiting a pal on a porn film set. She returns to her
seedy apartment, fends off a crude advance from her seedier landlord, and eyes
her needle kit with bleak, hopeless despair.
Back in the air, all hell breaks
loose as the plane experiences a catastrophic mechanical malfunction. The next
10 minutes are just as shocking, if in a more horrific way, as Whip’s
introduction, back in his hotel room. The packed theater during Tuesday
evening’s preview screening was dead silent; everybody was transfixed.
Later, on the ground and in a
hospital, Whip regains consciousness — surprisingly unscathed — and gradually
perceives imminent danger, thanks to the presence of longtime friend and union
representative Charlie Anderson (Bruce Greenwood) and a clearly disapproving
sharpie, Hugh Lang (Don Cheadle), who must be an attorney.
It suddenly hits home: Regardless
of the miracle Whip just pulled off, regardless of his uncanny piloting
intuition and heroic cockpit behavior, he’s about to be crucified by the
results of a mandatory blood test whose results already are in the hands of the
National Transportation Safety Board. The likely upshot: serious jail time, not
to mention loss of his pilot’s license.
No matter. Whip has lied his way
through everything else; he can lie his way through this. After all, lying is
what alcoholics do best.
Mostly to themselves.
Chance has thrown Whip into the
same hospital where Nicole is recovering from her latest overdose. They meet
while sneaking cigarettes in a stairwell, a scene pregnant with tension between
these two, and suffused with gallows humor supplied by James Badge Dale,
instantly memorable as a dying cancer patient who also wants a smoke. Dale does
wonders with this brief, throwaway appearance: the sort of conspicuous
performance on which long careers are built (and supporting actor Oscar
nominations are granted).
The worst possible result occurs,
as Whip and Nicole bond; we realize, instantly, that these two would be
terrible for each other. She’s one more overdose away from certain death, and
she knows it; he remains in denial, insisting that he’s “in control,” “doesn’t
have a problem” and merely “drinks because [he] wants to.”
Suddenly, disconcertingly, we’re smack
in Days of Wine and Roses territory.
Or, pointing to a current, equally haunting example, Smashed. We think things can’t get worse. They can. They will. They
do.
Reilly first hit my radar a
decade ago, in L’Auberge Espagnole;
she then popped up in costume dramas such as The Libertine and Pride &
Prejudice before landing the role of Dr. Watson’s wife alongside Jude Law
and Robert Downey Jr., in the re-booted Sherlock
Holmes series. Her increasing visibility has been matched by similarly
enhanced acting chops, and her work here is sublime.
Nicole is the ultimate tragic
figure, trying to pull her life back together; Reilly’s nervous, haunted gaze
cements Nicole’s conflicting feelings. She’s attracted to Whip, no question,
but genuinely fears being sucked into his orbit.
Cheadle’s performance is equally
nuanced. Lang hates Whip on sight: sees right through the man. At the same
time, Lang can’t help admiring his client’s skill; then, too, Lang has been
hired to do a job, no matter how distasteful he might find it. Lang emerges as
another of this story’s many fascinating characters, rich with contradictions.
John Goodman delivers a memorable
comic turn as Harling Mays, Whip’s spirited best friend ... and drug supplier.
Goodman is larger than life, introduced on camera as he struts down a hospital
corridor to the beat of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil”: a figure
of high camp who nonetheless may be the most honest character in this story.
Mays is, unapologetically, precisely what he seems.
His relationship with Whip is
equally fascinating. In a way, they’re co-dependent: Mays clearly is devoted to
Whip, and yet cheerfully helps fuel all of his friend’s worst habits.
Gatins’ dialogue is pungent and
intense, often rich with implication. Zemeckis, as well, makes the most of
upending our assumptions at every turn. A scene between Whip, Evans and Evans’
wife (Bathany Anne Lind, also memorable in a brief scene) is fraught with
tension, almost scary; we expect it to move in one direction, and then it becomes
chilling for an entirely different reason.
Throughout everything, though,
we’re constantly drawn to Washington: his furtive glances, his nervous bearing,
his cocky arrogance. We come to fear Whip’s persuasive manner and broad smiles,
even as they fascinate us.
At 138 minutes, Flight feels a bit overlong and
self-indulgent, although Zemeckis and editor Jeremiah O’Driscoll never lose
their grip on the rising tension. This is a harrowing, totally compelling and
absolutely unforgettable drama: one that will make you swear off flying and drinking.
For the past few weeks, Argo appeared to have the upcoming
Academy Awards race to itself. The field just got a lot more interesting.
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