March 22, 2006
v for vendetta
V for Vendetta stinks of books. Not in the sense that it’s based on an annoyingly lit’ry graphic novel from the Eighties, but in that same way that one knew syntagm-by-syntagm that The Matrix was propped up by a certain amount of critical reading, even without the Baudrillard product placement.
This is a mixed blessing, to say the least. Among purportedly pro-revolution Hollywood movies, V4V knows enough to dodge the obvious critiques: the individual hero, if he is such, diligently steps aside and lets the next generation have responsibility for changing their world, represented both by a teeming “Dude, we’re all Spartakus” collectivity and a radicalized woman-child. That seems to get it about right, and moreover the narrative doesn’t flinch from its own logic, except perhaps for the fortuitous set of eventualities whereby, the twin heads of the repressive regime having been dually dispatched, the headless government troops decline to fire on the uprising. One wishes as well that, at the climax, having persuaded her hangdog pursuer that the explosive-laden train must indeed be launched, Evey had inhabited the devil-may-care drive of anarchic destructivity enough to say “Wanna go for a ride?” rather than their both deboarding. Still, as a sort of bare-bones political text, oh, it’s fine.
That’s the problem: the film’s good enough that the ways in which it fails to be much good are particularly frustrating. These failures transpire at many levels: the confusion of preservationist values with resistance; the inability to make as good a use of the ever-lurking perversity of Natalie Portman’s murderous naif schtick as Luc Besson or Andy Samberg; the docile trot down the path from V’s mask to a lair congruent with the Phantom of the Opera’s.
But the decisive failing is in the cinematographic style; unlike The Matrix, or Bound, there’s no visual invention to speak of, no interesting shots, only a flat palette and a will to execute. Predictably well-read, the film doesn’t have a way to look. Without a substantial visual sense, there's no formal tension — no grinding of elements against each other, as one might hope from an account of conflict. This empties the narrative of drama; indeed, having successfully pre-produced its own anxiety — will the film be a political cop-out? — all it can do is palliate said anxiety at each turn. It’s like hearing somebody sing a pop song for the first time; they’re so studiously getting the notes on melody and the words enunciated on time, the performance lacks any spirit worth mentioning.
Or perhaps it’s akin to watching a particularly successful paintball player: another well-executed weekend diversion, hoping to be about life and death.