Gravity starts
with noise, a rumble that crescendos to an almost unbearably deafening roar,
the title displayed in stark white letters on a black background, and then –
silence. The screen cuts to a shot of Earth from space, a tiny object emerging
from behind the arc of the massive planet and drifting slowly toward the
camera. It’s an unnerving sensation to sit in a movie theater so quiet you
can’t move, let alone whisper or reach into the popcorn bag on your lap for a
handful. From the very opening moments, director Alfonso Cuarón takes your
breath away, and he refuses to give it back until the title card flashes across
the screen again 90 minutes later.
To
abuse a cliché and the notion of hyperbole, Gravity
isn’t a movie so much as an experience. You’ve probably heard people say that about
all sorts of movies, and you’re probably rolling your eyes at this very moment,
but in this case, it’s completely true. The story is serviceable, essentially 127 Hours set in space, but there’s a
reason why critics came out of Venice and Toronto gushing about the special
effects and not, say, the nuanced character development or innovative plot arc:
simply put, the movie is an absolute marvel to look at – and that’s putting it
lightly. Even without IMAX or 3D, it’s impossible not to get swept up in the
awe-inspiring scope of the imagery, the graceful, dizzying ballet of the camera
as it circles around the astronauts and zooms out to remind the audience just
how tiny they are compared to the vast universe. To describe the visuals
further would almost do them a disservice, as you can’t appreciate just how
damned gorgeous they are unless you see the film, so suffice to say that
cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki and
visual effects supervisor Tim Webber should be all but locks to win Oscars in
their respective fields.
So
breathtaking are the visuals and so powerful is the suspense, generated in part
by the operatic score by Steven Price, that it’s easy to forget that the
narrative itself is rather under-developed. Although – or perhaps because – she
is the only character with a significant amount of screen-time, Sandra Bullock’s
Ryan Stone never feels like a fully three-dimensional person; we don’t find out
anything about her beyond that she’s a bio-medical engineer on her first mission
to space and still grieving for her daughter, who died in an accident when she
was only four years old. Matt Kowalski, the somewhat pompous, albeit undeniably
competent, veteran astronaut who serves as a mentor figure of sorts for the
inexperienced Ryan, barely registers despite being played by the typically
charming (and devastatingly handsome) George Clooney.
You’d
think that this would be a fatal flaw, and for the majority of movies, it
probably would be. But for Gravity, you
barely notice, at least not until long after the credits have rolled and you
really start to think about what you’ve seen. A key reason for this, the glue
that holds the film together, is the heart-rending performance by Bullock. One
of the movie’s most well-publicized
elements, aside from the 11-minute opening take (which is as amazing as it sounds),
was the revolving door of casting rumors: Robert Downey Jr. was in talks to portray
Kowalski before Clooney replaced him, and everyone from Angelina Jolie to
Natalie Portman and even Blake Lively was reportedly attached to the lead role at
one point or another. In retrospect, it’s hard to not to wonder how any of
those actresses, as talented as they are, were even being considered. Bullock,
with a casually chic pixie cut and her characteristic low, honey-warm voice, is
perfectly cast as Ryan, slipping into the skin of a woman whose crippling grief
threatens to overwhelm her will to survive with such unaffected grace that it
never occurs to you to stop and marvel at the effort the role must have
demanded. Even though the character of Ryan may not have much complexity, she
feels real in the moment because Bullock forces us to live through her pain,
her fear, her hopelessness, her desperation. This is acting at its most
authentic and most powerful.
As mind-blowing
as the visual effects are, Gravity’s
biggest surprise is that in addition to being as intense and terrifying as any
horror movie, it is also as moving as any character drama. Cuarón uses space as
a backdrop to explore timeless, universal themes of rebirth, the strength and
fragility of life and letting go (contrary to the tagline stamped on every promotional
poster), and despite the extensive amount of CGI machinery, the film never
loses touch with its underlying humanity. It’s The Tree of Life without the pretentiousness, Melancholia without the dour cynicism. I entered the theater
anticipating a spine-tingling thrill ride, but I left feeling something no movie
has made me feel in a long time: wonder and, most unexpectedly, sweet, soaring
joy.
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