By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
Make no mistake: TheCell is, easily, the most unforgettable film of a pedestrian, forgettable summer. You will walk out of the theater and be grateful for the light and the heat; it is, in places, a rather chilling and claustrophobic film. In places, The Cell is also a rather dazzling film: There are things here you haven't seen before, and things you will not want to see again--say, the bleached corpse of a dead woman, a man's entrails being yanked from him as a child might toy with a piece of spaghetti, or a horse being sliced into segments, with each throbbing piece trapped behind glass like something on loan from the Sensation art exhibit Rudy Giuliani tried to ban from Brooklyn. This is the closest Hollywood has gotten to Art in a long time; someone ought to hang The Cell on the wall. Or from the rafters.
Here's a movie that, for better or worse, feels like the future instead of a made-for-cable past; it picks up where The Matrix and Being John Malkovich and Three Kings left off last year, embracing cinema's limitless possibilities instead of its moribund so-whats. It's the first film of the summer that makes you hold your breath, that stokes the imagination, that satisfies the filmgoers desire to be transported--no, transplanted--to a dizzying, lavish, and ultimately horrific place they've never even considered visiting. In this place, a comatose serial killer (Carl Stargher, played by Vincent D'Onofrio) sets up his own "very twisted kingdom"--a claustrophobic crawl space populated by stop-motion, cut-and-paste demons; human dolls fashioned out of female flesh and junkyard detritus; and memories that become tangible enough to kill anyone who dares enter such a grisly sanctuary.
Such a task is left up to Catherine Deane (Jennifer Lopez), a psychologist who uses transcendental technology that allows her to enter the broken minds of little children who hide from bogeymen by completely withdrawing from reality. In the real world, Catherine and her patients hang from the ceiling in body suits that look as though they're made of sinew; in the dream world, Catherine interacts with her patients, providing therapy against a brilliant, breathtaking backdrops--be it a sun-bleached desert or a luminous life-sized snow globe. Her work is enough to drive anyone mad, and Catherine is a breath away from her own insanity: She can't help but take her work home with her.
When FBI special agent Peter Novak (Vince Vaughan, looking puffy and haggard) asks her to enter the mind of Carl in order to locate his still-living victims (he kidnaps random women, keeps them in a glass cage, then drowns them slowly before turning them into "dolls"), it doesn't take her long to agree. Catherine, we can tell, almost gets off on visiting the minds of the unhinged; trespassing is her kick. She and Carl are almost kindred spirits: Just as she conducts her therapy while dangling from the ceiling, so does Carl conduct his macabre experiments while being held aloft--from a dozen steel rings implanted in his back, no less, which he connects to chains that suspend him over his creations. That the image is familiar, a rip from Hellraiser, makes it no less terrifying.
But director Tarsem Singh, best known as the man who lensed R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion" video, is less a visionary than he is a brilliant junk collector. Carl's mind looks like a Nine Inch Nails video gone awry, or the short, stop-motion films of twin brothers Timothy and Stephen Quay, who used grotesque puppets instead of actors. It doesn't take long before Lopez and D'Onofrio become marionettes: We're so engrossed by the monstrous background that, soon enough, they fade into it.
Forget X-Men, which never transcends its aspirations to be more than a superhero story: The Cell is the cinematic comic book, a movie in which the fantastic and implausible become second nature. It owes its existence not to The Matrix and Silence of the Lambs, two films to which this will no doubt be compared, but to Neil Gaiman's Sandman, in which a pale, leather-clad character named Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, flits between the world of the conscious and unconscious until there's no distinguishing between the tangible and the intangible. In such a narrative, "there is no solid status quo, only a series of relative realities," Hellraiser author Clive Barker writes in the introduction to one Sandman collection, The Doll's House. "Anything is possible, because the tales occur within the teller's skull."
In this case, the teller's skull is a dank, rusty, bloody basement filled with water and the rotting corpses of women soaked in bleach until their skin turns a whiter shade of pale. Carl is indeed king of his dementia, with a crown of jewels resting atop his bald, battered head. He's also a devil, complete with horns, a snake, and, most intriguingly, a repressed, innocent 10-year-old child (played by Jake Thomas). It's the latter that disappoints most: Carl's evil is too easily explained away, a pat answer to a difficult question. At the end, first-time screenwriter Mark Protosevich and Singh tease us with the fantastic before finally delivering the mundane.
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