Mickey 17: A testament to individuality
News of reshoots and long nights in the editing room, as
well as ever-changing release dates, are hardly good omens regarding any film.
Yet, such difficulties plagued director Bong Joon Ho’s Mickey 17, an
adaptation of the novel by Edward Ashton. The
one-step-forward-two-steps-back progress of the filmmaker’s follow-up to his
Oscar-winning Parasite made for dire expectations regarding its quality.
Thankfully such concerns have proven unfounded as Mickey is a wholly
engaging, if at times rambling, comedy-sci-fi-satire hybrid anchored by a
dynamic performance from Robert Pattinson, who tackles multiple roles with
gleeful abandon.
Sliding back and forth between past and present, we find
Mickey Barnes (Pattinson) in dire straits as the film opens. A worker for the
Marshall Corporation on the planet Nilfheim, our rather daft hero is at the
bottom of an icy chasm, about to be eaten by a herd of creatures known as
“creepers.” Seems that as we’re getting to know him, Mickey’s about to make his
exit.
However, just as his demise is imminent, we get the first of
many flashbacks and see that Mickey and his friend, Timo (Steven Yeun), were once
entrepreneurs on Earth, where their macaron company went belly up. Unable to
repay money borrowed from a ruthless loan shark, they both signed up for
off-world employment. However, in his haste, Mickey volunteers to be an
“expendable,” a high-demand position with few takers. He soon finds out why, as
these employees are put in the most dangerous situations and sometimes experimented
on as it makes no difference if they die or not. It’s been stipulated they can
be cloned upon death, as many times as necessary.
The 17th version of Mickey is the one we
first encounter and, presumed dead, an 18th iteration is
made. This is forbidden and it soon becomes obvious why, as
complications ensue with two Mickeys on the loose.
There’s a sense of knowing buffoonery to the premise, a
conceit that Pattinson runs with. His two Mickeys are opposite sides
of the same coin, the slightly younger a rather dense, well-meaning fellow, the
elder, a hedonistic, violent version whose temper gets them both in trouble on
numerous occasions.
Joon Ho adeptly combines slapstick humor with pointed
satire, as the character of Kenneth Marshall is obviously inspired by Donald
Trump. As clueless as he is arrogant, the megalomaniac is intent on colonizing
Nilfheim, and populating it with a pure race, spawned from those he’s chosen
exclusively for that task. As Marshall, Mark Ruffalo, outfitted with a comical
overbite, rends the scenery with grand pronouncements and outsized
gestures, both employed to obscure his hollow moral bearing. As his wife, Ylfa,
Toni Collette does her best to keep up with his hammy approach and for the most
part succeeds. Her statement that “sauces are the litmus test of any society”
is priceless.
Once we pass the 90-minute mark, it becomes obvious Joon
Ho has perhaps bitten off more than he can chew. In addition to the two Mickey
problem and the colonization scheme, he delves into our hero’s relationship
with his girlfriend, Nasha (Naomi Ackie), a flirtation with a coworker, Kai
(Anamaria Vartolomei), a scheme to traffic a powerful, illicit drug, a goon
sent from Earth to settle up Mickey and Timo’s debt and a plan to eradicate the
creepers.
There are a great many moving parts, some of which the film
would be just fine without. And while I was conscious that the movie was too
long, this didn’t grate on me as so many other bloated features do. The
immersive quality of the environment Joon Ho creates and Pattinson’s
entertaining turn kept me hooked despite some scenes running too long and a
climax that could have been cut by 10 minutes.
In tone and approach, Mickey most closely resembles
Joon Ho’s The Host, yet thematically it is in keeping with all his films
in its examination of the disparity between the classes. Much like Mickey, we
are all seen as expendable in today’s world, only valued as long as we toe the
line and pay our taxes. The everyday compromises we make aren’t as dire as
those facing Joon Ho’s hero, yet their cumulative effect takes its toll, much
as it does on him. With each successive cloning of Mickey, he becomes a paler
version of his former self, much as we become a less moral version of ourselves
with each concession we make. Though it sports a darkly comic sensibility, in
the end Mickey 17 reminds us of the necessity of staying true to
ourselves, despite economic inequities and political oppression. In theaters.
Curious pacing undoes Jenny Pen
I’m always impressed with actors who give 110% to a film
they know is beneath them. It’s great fun watching talented thespians giving
their all to make a sow’s ear script into something watchable. Peter Cushing
and Christopher Lee’s deadly serious turns got me through numerous Hammer
Horror films while Donald Pleasance’s committed performances in the myriad Halloween
sequels he appeared in are the only reason to sit through those guilty
pleasures.
And the work of Geoffrey Rush and John Lithgow is the only
thing that got me to the end of the seemingly interminable The Rule of Jenny
Pen. Spinning its wheels during a second act that had me experiencing
flashbacks of another ordeal that seemed as if it would never end – that would
be my experience driving across Nebraska during June 1995 in a car with no air
conditioning – the film would have played much better as a 45-minute Twilight
Zone episode. As it is, the movie is of the most frustrating sort, one in
which glimpses of greatness are seen only to be thwarted by its tepid pacing.
Stefan Mortensen (Rush) is a blunt, no-nonsense judge in the
New Zealand court system who suffers a debilitating stroke while on the bench.
With no family, he’s sent to the Royal Pine Mews Home for physical
rehabilitation, a stay he hopes will be short. Trying to get the lay of the
land, Mortensen notices Dave Crealy (Lithgow), a quietly menacing individual
who sits quietly in a corner, conversing with a hand puppet he’s dubbed Jenny
Pen.
However, as Mortensen’s stay continues, he notices Crealy’s
behavior becoming more aggressive. A former employee at the home, he has the
run of the place, allowing him to carry out a campaign of terror and abuse on
the residents. Too embarrassed or afraid to report these actions, Mortensen sees Crealy act with
impunity, his actions becoming more violent and heinous. Unfortunately, when
Mortensen does report him, he’s not believed as his prickly nature has
alienated him from the staff.
A game of cat-and-mouse between the two principals ensues
but fizzles out before it’s fully developed. A switcheroo Mortensen pulls on
his nemesis is inspired, while the payback that ensues reveals the depths of
Crealy’s depravity.
Unfortunately, this dynamic is abandoned for a series of
scenes in which Crealy abuses various residents. Again and again and again we
are subjected to his psychotic behavior, beginning with disrupting a formal
dance and escalating to sexual assault. The acts he commits in the interval go
from inspired to mundane, their repetition grinding things to a halt, boredom
setting in rather than tension building.
To their credit, Rush and Lithgow never phone it in, the two
pros so committed throughout you’d think they were going toe-to-toe in Othello. Their disparate approaches to their respective roles complement each other,
Rush bringing a poignancy to a proud man whose outward reserve ultimately
crumbles in what becomes a quest for survival. As for Lithgow, he’s having the
time of his life, maniacally cackling and leering menacingly, bringing a sense
of malevolence to simple pieces of dialogue.
One of the biggest mistakes many horror films make is not
providing a motivation for their villain’s behavior. Osgood Perkin’s overrated Longlegs
makes this error, as does director and co-writer James Ashcroft here. Hints
of Crealy’s past are provided but no explanation is given as to why he’s become
the abuser he is. These details are necessary in telling an engaging story;
leaving them out is a mistake that, in the end, hobbles Pen. In theaters.
This article appears in Opioid overdoses increase.
