Lilith Saintcrow

Let’s get the ordinary out of the way. I did a ton of work this weekend, both in meatspace and on the Web, getting stuff updated and (not so incidentally) putting together the Japhrimel Lives! bumper sticker. Then, yesterday, I did some Halloween shopping (I will only decorate for ONE holiday per year, and All Hallows is IT) and…

…went to go see The Prestige with the Quiet Selkie.

Oh. My. God. Can we say pure, total, uninhibited Muse crack?

I knew we could.

Cherie Priest and the Selkie have both written their reviews; so what can I say that neither of them has? Pretty much nothing. Still, I’m going to try, because this movie deserves every bit of praise it gets.

First, let’s get something out of the way.

Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale are pretty, pretty men. And all dressed up in cravats and suit jackets and pomade? Be still my throbbing bad-girl heart. We all know about my ginormous soft spot for a sweaty Hugh Jackman, and my equally ginormous soft spot for any Christian Bale at all. Both of them turn in gleefully-obsessive performances as Rupert Angier (Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Bale), two young and hungry apprentice-magicians who, as a result of a terrible accident, become locked in a spiral of greed, one-upmanship, ambition, and obsession.

The most amazing thing about this movie is, there isn’t a bad guy. Both Borden and Angier are equally conflicted, equally bad, and equally human. This movie really doesn’t rest on a villain. Instead, it rests on the capacity of ordinary people to become villains once they’ve lost perspective.

My husband has a book about game theory called Moral Calculations. Consider this: You auction off a one-dollar bill to the highest bidder, but the rules state the second-highest bidder also has to pay the amount of his last bid even though he gets zilch. You would think nobody would play under those circumstances, but they do–it’s like a law of human nature. Very quickly people stop being concerned about winning the dollar bill, and become concerned with winning, period.

Thus are monsters born. The Prestige rests on this same principle–what will a man do to win once he’s stopped caring about anything but the game?

It’s impossible for me to tell you about the plot for fear of spoiling. So let me say this: Bale and Jackman are amazing. Halfway into the movie I had no trouble believing they would rip each others’ throats out all for the sake of a magic trick. David Bowie turns in a performace as Nikola Tesla, nailing a Serbian accent and Tesla’s hairstyle as well as the amoral results-matter wizard/scientist Tesla represents in this little tale. Rebecca Hall is stunning as Borden’s wife Sarah, who knows something is wrong with the man she loves and who breaks herself against the wall of his (seeming) indifference to her pain. Michael Caine just gets more and more superb with age. The only weak link is Scarlett Johansson, who was apparently cast just for her lips. (Come on. The woman hasn’t had a good movie since Ghost World. Lost in Translation doesn’t count, because that was Bill Murray’s show.) Still, Johansson is surrounded by such high-caliber acting (and prettinesss, let’s not forget teh pretty) that her gawky woodenness manages not to be much of a detraction. Oh, and we must mention Andy Serkis, with his diabolical eyebrows and his V-shaped mouth. He’s a joy to watch even in a supporting role.

The clothes. My God, the clothes. The dresses, the suits, the cravats. The antique pressed-tin wall behind Jackman in one scene. The carriages. The top hats. This is like a Merchant Ivory film with a big brain and steady nerves, holding a razor against the viewer’s throat.

The main strength of this movie is its tight plotting. There isn’t a single wasted scene and precious little wasted verbage. If you go for popcorn, blink at the wrong time, run to the loo, or rummage around under your seat for a dropped M & M, you’re going to miss something and be dissatisfied. The time structure in the movie is fluid, too–we skip back and forth between the present and the past with such abandon it’s amazing the whole thing is so coherent. There’s barely a falter in the pacing for the whole two hours and change, and even the gaffes (an occasional falter in Bale’s lower-class-London accent and Jackman’s modern idiom sneaking through, not to mention Johansson looking like a Victorian Valley Girl in all her scenes) are forgivable. (The movie’s sly dig at Thomas Edison was laugh-out-loud funny, though I think the Selkie and I were the only ones laughing.)

So. The Prestige. I can’t say enough good things about it. It’s based on a book by Christoper Priest that I’m going to have to add to the TBR pile. I liked it so much I’m going to go see it again with Jan midweek, and I might even take the DHM with me next week (after the Book Signings of Doom week) to see it again. I won’t even grumble if I have to pay full price to do so. It’s worth it to see a movie that doesn’t depend on nudity, car chases, an overarching musical score, or steroid-laden violence to scare the stuffing out of you and make you think.

Plus there’s Muse crack in it. Tons of Muse crack. I have this idea about a wizard, you see…

This entry was posted on Monday, October 23rd, 2006 at 10:03 am and is filed under Neato Keano, Real Life, Reviews. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.