double review: "The Congress" and "Snowpiercer"

I recently saw two high-concept science fiction movies, one good, one bad. Both are highly inventive, even unique, in terms of both narrative concept and visual style.

First, I saw The Congress, starring Robin Wright as (a fictionalized version of) herself. The movie depicts Wright as a single mother raising two charming and highly articulate children, one of whom is suffering from a sensory degenerative disorder. Wright works with a sincerely caring specialist (Paul Giamatti) in attempts to keep her son one step ahead of the disease, but it is a losing battle, and the doctor sadly predicts that young Aaron will eventually be both blind and deaf.

Meanwhile, the story is set into motion when Wright gets some tough-love from her agent, Al. Al explains that the movie business is tough enough on actresses, who often age their way out of a career even under the best of circumstances. But, Al continues, Wright's situation is even worse, because she has built up a doubly-bad reputation, due to her tendency to say "no" to most roles offered to her, and also to her tendency to walk out of the few contracts she does sign, often at the last second.

(Harvey Keitel, showing his age and covered with way too much make-up, plays the agent. I have no complaints about Keitel's performance, but it's a pretty unwise casting choice to have such a recognizable actor in a movie about celebrities; at first, we confusingly assume that Keitel, like Wright, is playing himself.)

Al explains that Wright's career is pretty much done unless she says "yes" to her next offer, no matter what it is.

That next offer turns out to be a doozy: Hollywood studio executive Jeff Green (brilliantly played by an alternately charming and sleazy Danny Huston) wants to digitally scan Wright into his studio's computer, so that they can cast Wright in any movie they see fit, and digitally insert her into the film without having to deal with her characteristic uncooperativeness. What's in it for Wright? A large sum of money and the illusion of eternal youth. The catch, however, is two-fold: She will have absolutely no say in how the studio uses her public image, and Wright herself can no longer act again. Ever.

These early scenes of The Congress, which take up roughly the first twenty minutes or so, are very, very good. The concept is original, the Hollywood insider stuff is fun, and the existential questions raised by Mr. Green's proposal are intriguingly explored. But then . . . well, then, things go a little screwy. Actually, very screwy.

Cut to twenty years later. Wright, now looking a bit elderly, is enjoying retirement, despite her quiet disapproval of her Hollywood career, in which her digital likeness -- thought by the world to be the actual Robin Wright -- stars in a series of sci-fi action movies.

Wright attends a convention at the Miramount Hotel, which takes up most of Abrahama City. And here's where things get really weird, because everything up to this point has been presented as live action, but Abrahama City is an "animated zone," where everyone and everything is a cartoon. Once Wright enters the city, she too becomes a cartoon version of Robin Wright.

But why? I mean, what does the switch to animation have to do with everything that has preceded this twist? Answer: nothing. The switch from live action to animation all-too-clearly exists for one purpose, and one purpose only: as an excuse for Ari Folman to show off his crazy visual ideas.

Abrahama City is basically the bad-acid-trip version of Who Framed Roger Rabbit's "Toontown" idea. The visual style is equal parts Al Hirschfeld, Ralph Bakshi, and Loony Tunes, with a slight touch of Bosch thrown in for good measure. The characters themselves, who are aware that they are cartoons, verbally cite these influences. The buildings, characters, and landscapes of Abrahama City are all in near-constant transformation. The narrative is as disjointed and meandering as a dream, without any of a dream's poetry or whimsy. And I can't adequately express how frustrating all of this craziness is to the viewer, for the simple reason that the first twenty minutes fought so hard to establish its sci-fi idea as a part of the real world.

Because of how excellent the opening scenes are, I really wish I could recommend The Congress, but I just can't. The animated scenes, which take up most of the film, are just too awful and unfocused.  I will say this in the movie's favor: There is one scene during the live action sequence, in which Wright, while being scanned, has to convey a wide range of emotions for the sake of the computer program. To help her, Al tells her his life story, up to and including his paternal-like business relationship with her. The story is alternately infuriating, humiliating, hilarious, and deeply touching. This monologue is brilliantly written, and while Keitel's vocal performance is excellent, the camera mostly stays on Wright, who responds to each twist in Al's story in a way that mirrors our own reactions as well. This is an amazing scene. How unfortunate that the movie couldn't live up to its promise, and instead got bogged down with all that "animated zone" crap.

Snowpiercer is equally high-concept, and its premise is even more ludicrous than the initial premise of The Congress: The world has entered another ice age, and the last survivors of humanity are the inhabitants of the Snowpiercer, a massive train, powered by a perpetual-motion engine, that travels on a globe-spanning track. While the first-class passengers live in luxury in the front of the train, the tail of the train is overcrowded, spartan, guarded by brutal police, and inhabited by disenfranchised civilians who are allowed only one type of food: unappetizing, gelatinous, black "protein bars" made primarily of cockroaches.

Chris Evans stars as Curtis Everett, the reluctant leader of a rebellion, who is determined to lead a difficult charge all the way to front of the train, taking one car at a time.

There are enough plot holes in the premise alone to make this seem like a pretty dumb idea for a movie. But if you're patient, the intelligent script by Bong Joon-Ho (who also directed) and Kelly Masterson does eventually answer or at least address most (not all) of these narrative concerns. One thing to admire about Snowpiercer is that once it establishes the reality of its fictional world, it sticks to its internal logic with complete consistency. If the action makes sense for a character, even an essential character, to die, for example, that character will die; they won't be saved by any of the deux ex machinas so common in so many action movies.

Make no mistake, this is a balls-to-the-wall action movie, and the action is sometimes brutal; the plot does, after all, center around an armed rebellion. People die, people get hurt, people suffer. But that's the reality of war.

If all of this sounds a little too unpleasant for your evening's escapism, the harshness of the subject matter is balanced out by a constant sense of hope that underlines all of Curtis's experiences. He doesn't seek to seize control of the train for personal gain, but to end injustice, and to make a difference in society.

Another enjoyable aspect of Snowpiercer is the visuals. As Curtis and his men proceed through the train, each car seems more visually fantastic than the last -- and yet, unlike the visuals in The Congress, which mostly exist without rhyme or reason save to indulge Ari Folman's every passing artistic whim no matter how pointless, the visuals in Snowpiercer actually make sense. Yes, it seems fantastic to have an entire massive train car being used as a greenhouse, to pick one random example, but then you think, "well, I guess they'd have to have one, wouldn't they? And if they'd have to use a train car for a greenhouse, this is probably what it would look like."

One of my favorite aspects of Snowpiercer, however, is the climactic meeting between Curtis and his nemesis, the designer, engineer, and ruthless dictator of the train and its society, Wilford. If you haven't used IMDb or Wikipedia to learn who plays Wilford, I ask you not to; the actor is so right for the role, that his appearance is a delight to discover.

Minor spoiler here: Wilford is in the tradition of a very specific type of villain. Like Captain Nemo in the Disney version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, or Christof in The Truman Show, you have every reason to hate this guy until he gets a chance to explain himself. And lo and behold, his rationalizations for his acts of villainy actually seem reasonable. Son of a gun, despite all of his horrific deeds in the past, you suddenly find yourself sorta liking the guy.

Alright, so I won't tell you who plays Wilford, but I will point out a couple more highlights in the cast. John Hurt lends an air of dignity to the proceedings via his role as Curtis's mentor, Gilliam (whose name is an obvious homage to sci-fi living legend Terry Gilliam). Song Kang-Ho nicely balances comedy with sympathy in his role as the brilliant but eccentric Nam, whose knowledge of the train's design plays a vital role in Curtis's revolution. And Tilda Swinton is delightfully over the top as Wilford's sadistic, self-righteous second-in-command on the train.

Yet as good as the actors are, the real kudos go to the writers for creating such unique characters. Yes, this is an action movie, and the action is done very well. But it all would have been for naught without such a good story.