Dir. Brad Anderson, Spain, 102 mins, English Cast: Christian Bale, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Aitana Sanchez-Gijon, Michael Ironside, John Sharian Trevor Reznik. Anonymous and distinctive, the name might seem a little Hitchcockian to film fans; a name that could come from many backgrounds, could merge into many backgrounds. Screenwriter Scott Kosar and director Brad Anderson lead us here into the background to Trevor's life, which becomes the foreground of the film. There is a delightful deliberateness to The Machinist, an awareness of the possibilities of production design, that matches the bruised look of the air and every surface with the appearances and experiences of the characters. The emaciation of Reznik (Christian Bale) elicits a shudder; Bale looks to have lost every one of the 63lb claimed. Reznik is a machinist, an outdated job in a an outdated and resolutely unspecific industrial urban area. His job is the only steady thing about him. This in spite of his regular visits to prostitute Stevie (Jennifer Jason Leigh playing with type, but playing it well) and to the same airport coffee bar, to be served by Marie (a creditable Aitana Sanchez-Gijon). His life appears to be a tormented mix of memories and visions, and as the extent of his insomnia is laid bare it is difficult to know whether these events are imagined or experienced by him. Even his work starts to destabilise, until his universe (and therefore ours - this is a study of a man alone) is entirely fractured. The Machinist moves towards its half-satisfying climax laying ever-heavier clues before us as to the reason for Reznik's behaviour. The moments of final revelation (which it is not necessary to reveal here) are curious: the peak of the plot is not the focus of the performances, cinematography or pacing. This schism is reflected in the fact it was funded by Spanish money, exquisitely shot by a Spaniard (Xavi Gimenez) in Spain and is now released by the arthouse arm of a major studio. It is a most un-Hollywood film in some regards: its unappealing characters, its relative lack of dialogue, its unconvincing American location belong to arthouse cinema. Yet it is wholly American studio in its desire to confuse and then clarify, to investigate and then explain, in the way it stops showing and starts telling. The Machinist has neither the driven conviction of the plots of Hitchcock nor the breadth of play of, say, Mulholland Drive. Bale's cadaverous physicality threatens to overwhelm his performance at the times when Reznik is at the service of the plot rather than that of the atmosphere. Yet for all that the viewer is shown the path to follow, it is an interesting path and there is exploration amidst the explanation; The Machinist may leave the impression of being less than the sum of its parts, but they are exciting and distinctive parts nonetheless. Richard Dilks |
