Monday, April 11, 2016
Michelle (Winstead) is waylaid on a lonely highway and wakes to find herself imprisoned—shackled, even, at first—in a room without windows. Howard (Goodman) tells her she is safe and there has been an attack, a big one. He won't let her leave the house. He mentions Russians and Martians as possible culprits. It seems likely Howard is crazy (always a winning plot point), but soon enough we see compelling evidence that the outside air is indeed as poisonous as he has warned. The reveals, when they come—and remember, we probably haven't even seen the half of them yet—are ludicrous. Technically, I have no complaints. As movie-movie, it is perfectly functional. There are plenty of setups for plenty of suspenseful scenes, followed by plenty of suspense. Will she ever be able to reach the thing? Did he already forget about the thing? Et cetera. Michelle is ferocious about winning her freedom, so that's a plus. The use of confined space is pretty good. But the violence, though relatively infrequent, can be awfully unpleasant. And my belief that this movie ever knew what it was doing ended with the last scene and no resolution whatsoever. Now it's Psycho. Now it's War of the Worlds. Now it's Night of the Living Dead. Now it's Silence of the Lambs. Good grief. Winstead is fine and who doesn't approve plucky young woman heroes in this day and age. But Howard turns out to be mostly a stunt, and that's lame. There's way too much totally kewl koncept and not nearly enough plausible resolution. I leave you with these words: Remember Lost!