Shutter Island (Martin Scorsese, 2010) – Up is down. Black is white. Wrong is right. We all live underwater. Martin Scorsese has made a genuinely bad movie. The greatest living director’s incredible streak has finally come to an end. and Tầm nhìn của Phim Mới

Shutter Island is the story of an investigation of a disappearance of an inmate at the Ashecliffe Hospital on Shutter Island in the Massachusetts Bay. US marshal Teddy Daniels arrives at the island facility with his new partner Chuck Aule, and begins questioning the patients, all of whom are violent offenders, and the staff. The staff members seem coached upon questioning, and the case just doesn’t add up. It seems the hospital is keeping secrets, and even his fellow marshal Chuck comes under suspicion.

Meanwhile, Daniels is suffering from the loss of his wife, who died in a fire, articulated by dreamscapes of suffering and death. Scorsese and cinematographer Robert Richardson paint Daniels’s guilt-ridden visions with glowing reds and oranges and an artist’s attention to detail. Are his visions the result of an overactive subconscious, or are they possibly induced by someone in order to discredit him?

The film works best in its first hour, as all the plot elements are set into place. The story sets itself up as a potential paranoid freak-out with delicious implications for how Scorsese would bring all the pieces, fantasy-projection and otherwise, together for its climax.

Max Von Sidow’s first scene with DiCaprio is among the most curious and interesting, as he engages in a fascinatingly masculine psychological tete-a-tete with our protagonist. Ben Kingsley also registers quite well in his various scenes. Mysterious, vaguely menacing yet polite and calming and clearly in control, we are left torn about his status as would-be villain.

At a certain point, the film comes to a screeching halt, as one scene after another involves characters explaining the plot in excruciatingly boring exposition. The film becomes dramatically inert, just as it should be digging its hooks in and hitting its themes home in earnest.

Where did Scorsese’s dramatic sense go? “Dramatically inert” is a phrase I wouldn’t ever expect myself to write in a review of a film by my beloved Marty. I’m still in a state of shock as I write this, and I’m not sure when I’ll pull out of my funk. As soon as I finish, I’m cracking a beer and curling up to a screening of The Color of Money to console myself.

Much of the blame can be laid at the hands of screenwriter Laeta Kalogridis. Its an awful script with lines like “What is that tower? – It’s an old lighthouse.” and “I’m going to go to that lighthouse.” More importantly, it’s structurally flawed, as I have said. Time and again, important plot twists that need to be felt rather than simply known, are stated aloud with the nuance of a billy club. Show, don’t tell, guys.

Leo doesn’t fair very well either. While he’s striving for a deep characterization of a complex, troubled cop who lost his wife tragically, he comes across as a bratty, pissed-off, uber-confident type A, a young version of the Harrison Ford shtick, furrowed-brows and all. It doesn’t help that he’s playing off the great Mark Ruffalo, often in the same frame. He doesn’t look good in comparison.

There are ideas embedded in the denouement of the plot that reveal a lot going on in its head. The film is playing with the paranoid element of American thrillers. Conspiracies are pervasive in our cultural dialogue and the conspiracy plot is pervasive in our dramas. This film is a complex deconstruction of how the psychological predilection for conspiracy theory can go awry. However, the flaws in the dramatic structure of the film, especially in the second half of the picture, are deadly, and insurmountable.

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