Dir.
Michael Winterbottom, UK, 2004, 92 mins
Cast: Tim Robbins; Samantha Morton
This is the future: global warming and genetic cloning have created a dualised society. In the civilised, technologically evolved cities people with papelles - a form of passport-cum-insurance - live in relative comfort, free from disease and the ravages of ozone depleted sunshine, while outside - 'al fuera' - live the disenfranchised people who for various reasons cannot obtain a papelle. Years of genetic tomfoolery has led to the introduction of a law, 'Code 46', which prohibits relationships between people with a close genetic match.
Tim Robbins is William, an investigator for the insurance company that issues the papelles, who travels to Shanghai to locate the culprit behind a series of papelle frauds. Under the influence of an 'Empathy Virus', which he has taken to aid his work, he is able to read the suspects' minds and discovers without difficulty that the culprit is Maria (Morton). Rather than apprehend her, the two fall in love, and unwittingly fall foul of 'Code 46'.
In being not-quite-a-science-fiction film, Code 46 merges rather than bends its generic genetics. A futuristic love story, it's a thoughtful vision of a world that's not a huge leap of imagination from our present one. It's also the merging of various creative talents doing what they do best; from Winterbottom's subtly discordant update on our current society, through to Frank Cottrell Boyce's excellent script, which artfully creates a futuristic world almost entirely through language, and to the performances of Robbins and Morton, who both bring with them a history of intelligent and varied roles.
Winterbottom defines this divided world using contrasts of nocturnal existence in a technologically driven city, shot largely in interiors, and a searing sun blazing on refugee-style camps in the desert. Rather than build huge sets or create a multitude of distracting gimmicks, he's created a bleak, entirely practical world not so far removed from our own. So familiar images of the poor and dispossessed remain, though now rather than war and famine, dislocation is a simple matter of insurance; people still commute to work, but in the twilight; and they still travel through airports and in cars, but now day trips from Seattle to Shanghai are seemingly a matter of course.
Then there's the script, which creates its own language - an evolution that is entirely likely as we become increasingly globalised. Whereas other, Hollywood sci-fi films rely largely on sets, costumes and effects to create their version of a future (one where early 21st century stars can still make wisecracks to a contemporary audience) Cottrell Boyce has, entirely through language, created a future 'culture'. From Seattle to Shanghai to the Middle East everybody speaks a mish mash of English, Mandarin and Spanish, with snippets of other languages thrown in. Has increased communication led to a more homogenised society, where the three most widely-spoken languages have won dominance over all others? Even Maria's accent reflects this, veering from English to American to an almost Mexican drawl within a single sentence. It disrupts the flow of the dialogue, which in turn prevents us from being lulled into complacency.
There is impressive support from a host of familiar names and faces - from Om Puri to Tariq from Eastenders - but it's the two central performances that centre the film in a universal setting of ill-fated love. William is a man thrust outside of his comfort zone, yet Robbins presents him strangely at ease in doing so, so compelled is he to be with Maria. Morton as Maria does what she does best; her character seems to possess an ethereal ordinariness, down to earth in an other-wordly way. For such an intimate story, there's no deep psychological investigation of their motives or background but rather a sense, always, of something greater that shapes their lives.
It's a world grim enough to repel and familiar enough to accept, as becomes increasingly clear through Maria's voiceover, both cynical and accepting, even at the bitter end. There' s a dystopian feel, though no-one's fighting the status quo, or pushing for a revolution. Even with the lovers, there's a tragic acceptance of their fates, whether engineered or enforced. Ultimately it's a cold, bleak offering, with little hope, but somehow manages to retain some heart, and it's that that makes it such compelling viewing.
Kerry McLeod
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