Film Critique: Christian Bale Excels in “The Machinist”
Some of my favorite films are character studies that explore the aberrations of the human psyche. On the surface, they keep us riveted with dark comedy and suspense; more deeply, they force us to question our perceptions of reality, identity, morality, and existence. As a sub-genre, existential psychological thrillers make up the bulk of these tantalizing films, with class-masters like Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick, Roman Planski, and Christopher Nolan at the helm.
Unlike orthodox horror and thriller flicks (which tend to fall between banal and nauseating), psychological thrillers are fueled by character and anima much more than plot or decor. Nowhere are these influences more evident — or deftly employed — than in former “Fringe” producer-turned-director Brad Anderson’s The Machinist.
The movie stars Christian Bale (The Dark Knight, The Fighter) as Trevor Reznik, a reclusive factory worker who hasn’t slept in a year on account of freakish insomnia. Sleeplessness and paranoia have emaciated the machinist, who weighs just 119 pounds (Bale, a famed method actor, shed 63 pounds for his role). This proves a constant, haunting reminder of Reznik’s austerity, punctuated only by an adoring prostitute (J.J. Leigh), an incongruous airport waitress (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón), and various hallucinations. In one scene, the clinking of his cigarette lighter incites a pantophobic panic attack.
If the archetype sounds familiar, it should: Bale’s chilling performance evokes the characters of pre-war realists like Kafka and Dostoevsky. Classic protagonists like Raskolnikov [Crime and Punishment], Mr. Golyadkin [The Double], and Gregor Samsa [The Metamorphosis] could be twins of the schismatic Reznik — he is rapt in Dostoevsky’s The Idiot throughout the film. Screenwriter Scott Kosar, on the other hand, fills the milieux with modern parallels, like the noir of Christopher Nolan’s Insomnia (2002), and the objects of his earlier Memento (2000). This medley of allusion and allegory not only makes for compelling art, but infuses the cinematic experience with pangs of multi-layered déjà vu.
Yet The Machinist stands — and stands out — on its own. Fomented by the leers and machinations of one “Ivan” (John Sharian), a sinister new coworker who seems to exist in Reznik’s reality alone, the mood swells from a Gogolesque malaise to that of a “carny funhouse riddled with distorting mirrors.” Who manipulates the game of Hangman scrawled on an indestructible post-it note? Why the leitmotif of Mother’s Day? Is Reznik’s state of consciousness improving or deteriorating?
In the face of these questions, Bale’s interpretation of Reznik transforms the protagonist’s self-doubt and terror and into a startling — if self-conscious and often volatile — show of psychological determination. Though we are primed to be suspicious, even hostile, toward Reznik’s character from frame zero (I won’t give it away), his vulnerability as an unreliable narrator also lends richness to his struggle for empathy from both audience and director. His circumstances are further textured by prostitute Stevie (played by the pertly sexual Leigh), in a Freudian homage to Sonya from Crime and Punishment or Nastasja in The Idiot. Stevie yearns to fulfill Reznik sexually — she is perhaps the only woman who could be attracted to him — but she completes his emotional persona as well. That is, she seems to, until he pursues a Spanish airport waitress named María (Sánchez-Gijón), who echoes the nightly refrain, “If you were any thinner, you wouldn’t exist.”
But if these dynamics unfold like cubist snatches from a Picasso — the film is Spanish-made, after all — its visual atmosphere adheres to the eerie, underwater hues of his Blue Period. Swashed with chilling shades of slate, steel, and seaglass, cinematographer Xavi Gimenez’s close-cropped camerawork reifies Reznik’s projections of death and the macabre onto his world. Hugging the characters in this ghoulish intimacy, the fisheye lens captures what it must feel like to be a yearlong insomniac. What’s more, an award-winning score from composer Roque Baños underscores this elegiac dreamscape with low, discordant woodwinds, a Theremin reminiscent of Wise’s classic The Day the Earth Stood Still, and violins suggestive of Psycho. Provocateur “Ivan” proves to be the surreal exception to this subdued ambiance, with pearl-white teeth, coal-black aviator glasses, and a blood-red convertible to boot.
Don’t expect the film’s ending to emulate the grand surprises of Shutter Island (2010) or The Illusionist (2006), but The Machinist nonetheless provides a satisfying, hermetically believable finale. In genuine psychological thriller fashion, it concludes on the same scene with which it began, when we at last come to comprehend the roots of Reznik’s fear, mania, and anguish… finally letting out long-bated breath. As praised by the late, legendary Roger Ebert:
Most people never question their assumptions, and so reality exists for them as they think it does, whether it does or not. Some assumptions are necessary to make life bearable. Others may lead us, as they lead Reznik, into bleak solitude. So near the end of the movie, we understand him when he simply sighs, “I just want to sleep.” ₪
Thanks to Lydia Gaukler for the inspiration to publish this review. Special thanks to Paramount Pictures for images used throughout. Questions? Comments? Corrections? Please do say hello.
