3.5 stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity, fleeting nudity and brief drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.25.16
At first blush, this feels like
an old-style WWII espionage drama of the sort whose absence is lamented by
longtime moviegoers — such as my parents — who often grouse that They Don’t
Make ’Em Like This Anymore.
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| Shortly after adopting his cover identity as the devoted husband of Marianne (Marion Cotillard), Max (Brad Pitt) fears that he may have been recognized by a Nazi officer: a potential catastrophe that requires a quick solution... |
Given the French Moroccan
setting, stars with the wattage of Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard, and a
swooningly romantic script that even name-checks Casablanca, one almost expects
Bogie and Bacall to come strolling in from the surrounding desert.
Steven Knight is a terrific
screenwriter, with solid experience in the crime and espionage genres; his
highlights include 2002’s Dirty Pretty Things and 2007’s Eastern Promises. No surprise, then: He delivers a corker of a first act for Allied, and then
swings the plot into an unexpected direction that cranks up the suspense.
Unfortunately, things get messy
during an contrived third act, which piles eye-rolling coincidence atop unrealistic
behavior, the latter from characters who’ve previously been depicted as far too
intelligent, to suddenly turn brainless. Cut to a positively eye-rolling
epilogue, and the film squanders the considerable good will that it has built.
Seriously, Steven ... what were
you thinking?
In fairness, such climactic,
over-the-top melodrama also is old-school, so Knight and director Robert
Zemeckis obviously knew precisely what they were doing. I’m simply not sure
that today’s savvier viewers will be as willing to forgive such theatrical
excess, as was the case back in the 1940s and ’50s.
And it’s a shame, because the
first 90 minutes are thoroughly compelling, and — yes — luxuriously
atmospheric.
The year is 1942, and the film
opens as Canadian airman Max Vatan (Pitt) parachutes into the desert outside of
Casablanca. His emergency mission, orchestrated by the British Special
Operations Executive (BSOE): to assassinate Germany’s visiting ambassador. The
groundwork for this mission has been established by undercover French
resistance fighter Marianne Beauséjour (Cotillard), who has spent weeks among
her Nazi “friends,” waxing eloquent about the beloved husband soon to visit
from Paris.
The handsome and affable Max
looks and sounds the part ... to a point. As Marianne immediately notices, his
carefully rehearsed accent is more Québécois than Parisian, which is a problem:
French Moroccans wouldn’t know the difference, but he’d never fool Nazi
officials who had spent any time in France.
The suspenseful intensity comes
from the necessary role-playing: Despite being total strangers who’ve only just
met, outwardly Max and Marianne must appear radiantly in love, behaving as an
intimate and established couple, comfortable in each other’s presence. Max
isn’t entirely able to accommodate on such short notice, Pitt giving his
performance just a trace of awkward reticence, which — in public — Marianne
passes off as shyness around so many new people.
In private, in their modest but
charming apartment, she delights in correcting him, enhancing his
“performance,” and gently mocking him with the nickname “My Québécois.”
Cotillard shades these exchanges with just the right blend of coquettish
naughtiness and steely eyed censure; after all, one slip, and they’d both get
killed.
Max, determined to give as good
as he gets, discovers that Marianne’s weapon skills aren’t quite as smooth as
she’d have him believe.
The days pass, as the
ambassador’s invitation-only event approaches; nervous anticipation increases
alongside sexual tension. The banter becomes more playful, particularly when
Marianne explains that, in Casablanca, men sleep on the roof — where it’s
always cooler — after making love with their wives. And, since Marianne’s nosy
neighbors always are watching ... well, best to make the show convincing.
Pitt and Cotillard positively
smolder in each other’s company, their star wattage incandescent. His
half-smiles are matched by her come-hither eyes; their close proximity screams
sensuality. Zemeckis draws just the right inflections from all of the line
readings, and Knight’s dialog is consistently droll. We’re well and truly
hooked: What will happen to these two people?
In fairness, I can’t even hint at
an answer, because this is only the first act. So let’s skip the details, while
revealing that the narrative eventually resumes six months later, with Max back
in London. Life is grand — insofar as that’s possible, with the blitz an
ongoing concern — until one day he is summoned by the cloak-and-dagger “V
Section.” After which, Max abruptly realizes that all actions have
consequences, often unforeseen.
Knight’s narrative twist is a
corker, and it yanks the story into fresh, tension-laden territory: more
1960s-style, Cold War paranoia than WWII-esque espionage. And as dire as the
exigency that dictated the earlier assassination mission, the potential
consequences here are much, much worse.
Production designer Gary Freeman
has his hands full, depicting both 1942 Casablanca and war-torn England. One of
the latter establishing shots perfectly conveys the era’s stiff-upper-lip,
can-do spirit; cinematographer Don Burgess’ camera sweeps along a typical
London street, passersby crunching on broken glass from a demolished
storefront, the emporium’s manager defiantly displaying her wares on the
sidewalk, a hand-printed sign on her makeshift table proclaiming “Open, as
usual.”
That street montage is an example
of Zemeckis’ fondness for arresting camera work — a signature indulgence he
really displayed, in last year’s The Walk — always to eye-catching impact.
Indeed, the opening scene also is an excellent example, Burgess’ camera
following Max’s parachute descent from an intriguing angle.
The staging is equally important
to the unfolding drama, the first act’s wide-open rooftops and sand dunes a
deliberate contrast to London’s cramped, underground offices and claustrophobic
interrogation cells. We’ve moved from Casablanca’s war-style derring-do to the
uncomfortably oppressive atmosphere of institutional mistrust.
And, as always is the case with a
Zemeckis endeavor, the verisimilitude of time and place are absolute, with VFX
supervisor Kevin Baillie giving us several harrowing examples of life amidst
the London blitz.
Longtime Zemeckis colleague Alan
Silvestri delivers a rich orchestral score, with ample love themes and — as
necessary — unsettling atmospheric cues.
Pitt and Cotillard dominate the
screen and the story, which — ironically — becomes a minor problem. They
literally overwhelm most supporting players, some of whom are further hampered
by under-developed personalities. Lizzy Caplan is a prominent example, the
usually colorful actress given the thankless, useless role of Max’s
free-spirited sister, Bridget, who seems to exist solely to exploitatively
depict her “scandalous” (for the time) relationship with a Polish cellist
girlfriend.
Matthew Goode is almost unrecognizable,
in an eye-blink appearance as Guy Sangster, a battlefield casualty with
information that Max might find useful; Simon McBurney is appropriately chilly
as a stoic interrogator. But at least they make an impression; a dozen or so of
Max’s BSOE colleagues, male and female, remain one-dimensional, nameless and
faceless.
For the most part, the film loses
precious momentum when Pitt and Cotillard aren’t front and center, and Knight’s
third-act excesses don’t help.
Ultimately, Allied — nifty double-entendre title, by the way — is two-thirds of a very
good film. Alas, we always walk out with the climax uppermost on our minds, and
that’s a shame. Pitt and Cotillard — and Max and Marianne — deserved better.
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