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JUSTIN TANNER REVIEWS INFINITY POOL
INFINITY POOL Brandon (”Possessor”) Cronenberg’s ultra violent third movie, even with its plethoric gut stabbings, cum-spattered hand-jobs and nuclear-level camp-acting from a completely unhinged Mia Goth (”X”), had me absolutely rapt. Until the last half hour, that is, by which time I was restively hankering for a quick getaway. Similar to Mark Mylod’s disappointing “The Menu”, which squandered its great premise through the diminishing returns of a dwindling imagination, “Infinity Pool”, try as it might, simply can’t keep up with its own demand for sensation, peaking too early and allowing the story to lapse into wearying repetition. But while it works, it really works.
The premise, about a heavily guarded resort in some unnamed third world country where, for a price, rich tourists can engage in unsavory activities — consequence-free! — is smart and wicked and the meticulous way Cronenberg lays out the details of the plot keeps us leaning in, blithely creeped out and eager for the next icky thrill. Alexander Skarsgard (”The Northman”) plays James Foster, a failed author being bankrolled by his wealthy wife, Em, portrayed with a remarkable lack of energy by Cleopatra Coleman (”Dopesick”). The unhappily married couple’s mundane holiday of toothless bickering is suddenly energized by the entrance of a sexy duo, played to the paint-scraping hilt by Goth and — in a more judiciously droll turn — Jalil Lespert (”Tell No One”). The pushy adventurers easily commandeer the Fosters’ vacation, inviting them on a picnic outside the security gate, where all sorts of mayhem ensues. While the story is in the process of unfolding and we’re being kept deliciously in the dark about what exactly is going on, the film maintains our breathless interest. And the thrilling moment, when all the pieces lock into place, absolutely throbs with giddy possibility. But almost immediately Cronenberg starts to short-change the narrative opportunities he’s set up. Just when the plot is crying out for something truly bonkers to blow our minds, it hits a wall and starts to double back on itself, relying instead on a series of uninteresting reveals — and an overlong epilepsy-inducing strobe-lit drug hallucination — that grind the story down to a nub. The acting is a problem as well. Skarsgard, who was dynamic and fierce in Robert Eggars’ “The Northman” is saddled here with a drab milksop character who, instead of being charged up by the life-altering experiences forced upon him, seems to tediously wither as the movie goes on. Even an act of inordinately brutal self-abnegation can’t rescue him from becoming a palpable drag on the tale’s momentum. And Goth, who starts out fun, bringing a much needed sass to the proceedings, eventually lapses into shrill monotony, and without a director to guide her back from the ledge, quickly wears out her welcome, descending into a leering, cackling annoyance.
Among the large cast, only Jalil Lespert hits all the right notes, expertly juggling the varying levels of allure and menace required. Still, while it works, “Infinity Pool” is a compelling watch. Cronenberg has an expert way of building a plausible alternate universe where anything seems possible, and though third act problems eventually derail the train, the first hour is well worth a look. IN THEATERS
AFTERSUN I’ve rarely felt so keenly that I’d somehow missed the boat as I did after watching Charlotte Wells’ intimidatingly slow “memory film” “Aftersun.” I kept checking the running time to see how far I’d made it without getting even remotely involved — for the record it was twenty minutes — and by the end I was scratching my head, strangely unmoved by what I’d just seen. The film, about a largely uneventful vacation that a thirty year old dad takes with his eleven year old daughter, has been met with rapturous praise. And Paul Mescal (”The Lost Daughter”), who plays the troubled father, received an Oscar nomination for his work. Admittedly, the actors are great, especially Frankie Corio who plays the daughter. But there is almost no drama to be found anywhere, and the pace is glacial to the point of inertia. Information, if it is given at all, comes in oblique glimpses that do not illuminate. Clearly, obfuscation is what Wells is after: There are scenes that might be flashbacks or flash forwards. The father might be dead or alive. But I have to admit, even after reading a synopsis on Wikipedia and various reviews, I’m still not sure what happened. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy a slow pace. In Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s stunningly brilliant film, “Memoria”, the opening is a static shot in a dark apartment that seemingly goes on for minutes. But there is still an underlying tension that holds the viewer rapt. In “Aftersun”, however, almost every single shot is held too long — and seemingly without purpose. And the lack of story, even when enhanced by Oliver Coates’ (”The Stranger”) portentous score, left me cold. It was like trying to overhear a conversation being mumbled by uninteresting people from across a crowded room.
I suspect, however, that the real culprit here — the actual blame for my acute level of uninvolvement in the film — might be due to the dreary relationship I had with own my father. I have no memories to warm my heart where dad is concerned, just trauma. And my family vacations resemble “The Hills Have Eyes” more than “The Brady Bunch.” So I’ll admit I’m not the best audience for Charlotte Wells’ trance-like treatise on the malaise of a thirty-year-old man. Though, frankly, I do find it difficult to get too upset by an identity crisis coming from someone still in their third decade. Nonetheless, it’s hard to discredit the universal praise heaped on the film. And my inability to connect with it on anything meaningful should not automatically dissuade you from seeking it out. One critic even suggested that a second viewing is essential to understanding the depth and beauty of “Aftersun.” So perhaps one day I’ll brave that somewhat daunting recommendation. Probably not today though. STREAMING ON AMAZON PRIME
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