David O'ConnellPassengers
March 31st 2009 02:28
Anne Hathaway has been tossed in at the deep end in Rodrigo Garcia’s Passengers, a lame-brained drama whose indecisive tone suggests the meddling of many incompetent hands at the wheel. Mildly insecure therapist Claire Summers, still in the final throes of her PhD, receives a call one night when a plane crashes, only a handful of survivors emerging from the wreckage. Police mentor Perry (Andre Braugher) assigns her the task of leading a focus-therapy group for this shellshocked bunch as they attempt to deal with the tragedy and find closure.
One survivor is of particular interest and receives her special attention: Eric (Patrick Wilson) a mildly euphoric stockbroker who feels rejuvenated, almost born again after his brush with death. The other survivors are a rag-tag configuration of scarred and resentful ciphers, and naturally a conspiracy theory evolves from their scantily-detailed sessions. Paranoia soon descends, one survivor’s recollection mutating like a virus through the group, their vividly stimulated imaginations even convincing Claire of dark agents acting on behalf of the airline attempting to wipe them all out to cover up a mysterious explosion that may have occurred just prior to their terrifying plunge.
Inexplicably, the narrative then relegates these mildly diverting concerns to the sideline as the middle section of the film concentrates on Eric’s attempt to win over Claire’s sympathies and get her into bed, all under the dubious guise of unlocking suppressed memories that assist both he and the group at large.
With the whole thing grinding down to an episodic retread of thousands of lame romantic dramas that one might suspect Days of our Lives writers of tinkering with, interest becomes utterly deflated. A spurious attempt to pick-up the pieces of the puzzle in the third act sees therapy group members mysteriously disappearing off-screen via the backstage door and a barely awake Claire trying to unravel the truth with the increasingly erratic Eric – with whom she’s naturally crossed ethical borders to “treat” – by her side.
Hathaway’s performance is one she won’t want to revisit anytime soon. Awkward and unconvincing in nearly every scene, she seems to be going through the motions, imagining ways of spending her cheque as she sidesteps every dire line of dialogue with its facile, dumbed-down psychology for beginners. Scrunching her elfin face into its half-heartedly assembled consternation mode, her few seriously dramatic moments come across like amateurish first-take warm-ups for the crew.
Andre Braugher, David Morse and Clea Duvall emerge from their miniscule roles with some of their dignity intact, but the emphasis on his character leaves Patrick Wilson with little room to maneuver as he waits for this train wreck to reach its destination, even though he plies his trade with the usual skill, offering an easy charm that’s at least halfway believable.
The final insult arrives with the twist ending, and no amount of undernourished ineptness in Ronnie Christensen’s diabolical screenplay can prepare you for the unmitigated disaster that seeps from the true wreckage of this film. It beggars belief, this ludicrous conclusion, turning the safe haven of a cinema into the refuge of a lazy, second-rate screenwriter, one who inspires a public service announcement for those who contemplate renting this on DVD in a pained and confused nano-second of deliberation some day: This Is Tripe.
One survivor is of particular interest and receives her special attention: Eric (Patrick Wilson) a mildly euphoric stockbroker who feels rejuvenated, almost born again after his brush with death. The other survivors are a rag-tag configuration of scarred and resentful ciphers, and naturally a conspiracy theory evolves from their scantily-detailed sessions. Paranoia soon descends, one survivor’s recollection mutating like a virus through the group, their vividly stimulated imaginations even convincing Claire of dark agents acting on behalf of the airline attempting to wipe them all out to cover up a mysterious explosion that may have occurred just prior to their terrifying plunge.
Inexplicably, the narrative then relegates these mildly diverting concerns to the sideline as the middle section of the film concentrates on Eric’s attempt to win over Claire’s sympathies and get her into bed, all under the dubious guise of unlocking suppressed memories that assist both he and the group at large.
With the whole thing grinding down to an episodic retread of thousands of lame romantic dramas that one might suspect Days of our Lives writers of tinkering with, interest becomes utterly deflated. A spurious attempt to pick-up the pieces of the puzzle in the third act sees therapy group members mysteriously disappearing off-screen via the backstage door and a barely awake Claire trying to unravel the truth with the increasingly erratic Eric – with whom she’s naturally crossed ethical borders to “treat” – by her side.
This looks Serious
Hathaway’s performance is one she won’t want to revisit anytime soon. Awkward and unconvincing in nearly every scene, she seems to be going through the motions, imagining ways of spending her cheque as she sidesteps every dire line of dialogue with its facile, dumbed-down psychology for beginners. Scrunching her elfin face into its half-heartedly assembled consternation mode, her few seriously dramatic moments come across like amateurish first-take warm-ups for the crew.
Andre Braugher, David Morse and Clea Duvall emerge from their miniscule roles with some of their dignity intact, but the emphasis on his character leaves Patrick Wilson with little room to maneuver as he waits for this train wreck to reach its destination, even though he plies his trade with the usual skill, offering an easy charm that’s at least halfway believable.
The final insult arrives with the twist ending, and no amount of undernourished ineptness in Ronnie Christensen’s diabolical screenplay can prepare you for the unmitigated disaster that seeps from the true wreckage of this film. It beggars belief, this ludicrous conclusion, turning the safe haven of a cinema into the refuge of a lazy, second-rate screenwriter, one who inspires a public service announcement for those who contemplate renting this on DVD in a pained and confused nano-second of deliberation some day: This Is Tripe.
I think I love you. Am I dead or alive??!!
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Comment by Matt Shea
20/20 Filmsight
Great review Dave.
A shame because it seems like there may have been a small slice of promise in this concept.
Comment by Cibbuano
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Comment by David O'Connell
Screen Fanatic