4.5 stars. Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity, horrific mass injury and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.25.13
Félix Bergés and Pau Costa have
been deservedly lauded for their special effects; the replicated tsunami —
which killed more than 230,000 people in 14 countries, on Dec. 26, 2004 — is
completely terrifying, as depicted here on the screen.
But these images, although
breathtaking and grim, aren’t the strongest element of director Juan Antonio
Bayona’s film. That honor belongs to Oriol Tarragó and Marc Bech, who designed
and edited the chilling sound effects. Indeed, that’s how The Impossible opens: on a black and silent screen, with a rising, gurgly sort of rumble that intensifies
until we scarcely can stand it, wondering precisely what the sound signifies.
We imagine the worst, our minds
racing in ghastly directions, this directorial choice far more powerfully
placing us “in the moment” than what might be shown.
Then we nearly jump out of our
seats as a passenger jet screams into the suddenly illuminated frame, taking
our protagonists to what they expect will be an idyllic Christmas holiday in
Thailand.
This won’t be the last time
Bayona unsettles us with his imaginative application of sound and sound
effects. He plays us masterfully, utilizing every element at hand: visual, aural
and psychological. The result is impressive, if arduous: often quite difficult
to watch.
And it sure makes the star-laden,
so-called “disaster flicks” of the 1970s look damn silly and superficial, by
comparison.
Sergio G. Sánchez’s screenplay is
based on the events as experienced by María Belón, Quique Alvarez and their
three sons: Lucas, Tomas and Simon. They’re played here, respectively, by Naomi
Watts, Ewan McGregor (renamed Henry), Tom Holland, Samuel Joslin and Oaklee
Pendergast. The actual family is Spanish; the script’s one major deviation from
fact is to re-cast them as British.
This isn’t merely a concession to
box-office popularity, Watts and McGregor undoubtedly being perceived as a
draw. This cinematic family’s pale skin and clearly privileged manner — Henry’s
high-level job in Japan allowing the luxury of their global travel — more
visibly shorthands the cultural divide, once tragedy strikes.
And that’s important, because —
as recently confirmed by Simon Jenkins, who was 16 when the tsunami hit, and
was compelled by this film’s release to write a letter to The Guardian, over in
England — this casting decision stirringly amplifies the generous, selfless
behavior of the Thai survivors who, in the immediate wake of the catastrophe,
did everything they could to offer assistance.
Jenkins’ letter speaks glowingly
of the “profound sense of community and unity” that he experienced: “The Thai
people had just lost everything — homes, businesses, families — yet their
instinct was to help the tourists.”
Dozens of moments in this film
will build a lump in the throat — indeed, after a time, the emotional intensity
never diminishes — but the simple, unexpected gestures of kindness, often
across language barriers, are the most powerful. A door, ripped from its hinges
and used as a makeshift stretcher. A cell phone. A child’s shy smile, and
gentle stroking of a friendly arm.
Devastating.
The story begins peacefully, even
idyllically, as Maria, Henry and their three sons arrive at the lush Orchid
Resort. These characters are sketched quickly — but vividly — in these early
scenes: Henry the loving husband and father, perhaps concerned about the
stability of his job; Maria a doctor who has put her practice on hold, to raise
her family.
Lucas has reached the mildly rebellious
age where stirrings of independence prompt him to lose patience with his two
younger brothers. Middle son Thomas, unusually timid, is fascinated by stars
and constellations. Five-year-old Simon is cheerful and untroubled, still too
young to believe the world is anything but a happy, magical place.
“Magical” being the operative
word, particularly on Christmas Eve, as the resort guests set dozens of
candle-warmed luminaries aloft, and watch them ascend into the heavens.
Cinematographer Óscar Faura makes the moment romantic and lush.
Christmas comes and goes; Boxing
Day arrives equally untroubled. The family joins other tourists in the resort
pool. Henry, Thomas and Simon tussle in the water; Lucas crosses the deck to
retrieve a large plastic ball; Maria chases a loose page from the book she’s
reading, finally snatching it while crouched in front of a plate-glass barrier.
(Oh God, we think.)
Birds shriek overhead, flying
away from ... something. The low roar that has been at the edge of everybody’s
awareness — ours included — builds. Lucas pauses, and Bayona trusts young
Holland’s tense pose and stunned expression to convey the horror of this
suddenly approaching wall of water.
Then, chaos.
Maria eventually surfaces,
battling for sunlight while countless other people, knocked senseless after
being hurled into hard objects, silently drown. She spots Lucas, similarly
struggling; they fight implacable currents while trying to reach each other.
Fingers clutch, part, clutch again. (Bayona mercilessly toys with our emotions
like this, repeatedly, as the drama unfolds.)
This lengthy second act is
devoted to Maria and Lucas, as the boy takes charge after realizing the
severity of his mother’s injuries. The first shattering moment comes as they
reach the (possible) safety of shallow water, and Lucas recoils from his
mother’s bared and gashed breast. Holland’s face is a powerful blend of anguish
and embarrassment, as he says, barely audibly, “Mum ... I can’t see you like
that.” (She doesn’t yet know about the gaping tear on the back of her right
leg.)
Watts, in turn, continues the
moment: Despite the pain building by the second, now that panic is subsiding,
Maria grimly tries to cover herself, instinctively understanding that her son
needs the assurance of propriety, if he’s to hold it together. Lucas, in turn,
quickly realizes that he dare not cry; if he does, his mother will lose her
fragile hold on self-control.
Watts’ Academy Award nomination
is a given; rarely has an actress been to hell and back so many times, and so
persuasively. Her hold on life itself seems to slip away, as Maria’s wounds
take their toll. I’m deeply disappointed, though, that young Holland hasn’t
been similarly acknowledged. He charts an impressive emotional course as this
saga progresses, his manner and actions never less than absolutely authentic.
Holland’s Lucas becomes our
surrogate, the boy rising to various challenges in the manner we’d hope to
possess. I’m reminded of young Ross Harris in 1983’s Testament, as the
resolute boy who bicycles throughout his fallout-infected town, serving as a de facto messenger for friends and neighbors.
Holland has a similarly poignant
scene when the action shifts to the Takua Pa hospital, with lone survivors
wondering whether family members might be alive elsewhere in this huge, now
largely makeshift facility. He initially promises to help one man, and soon
Lucas is trolling the corridors, calling off names from an ever-expanding list.
Bayona, torturing us anew,
juxtaposes elation with heartbreak.
Coincidence, trauma and
misidentification — in great part due to the language barrier — build to a
point that’s impossible to bear. Bayona is quite adept at such emotional
manipulation, having profoundly disturbed us with 2007’s chiller, The Orphanage. The Impossible is a different sort of horror film, with moments,
images and emotions so raw that they’re capable of leaving mental scars.
Watts and Holland get the lion’s
share of screen time, but the acting throughout is sensational. Joslin’s Thomas
visibly struggles to overcome his own terror when put in charge of Simon; the
transition is poignant beyond words. Pendergast’s tiny face, in turn, turns
painfully desperate when circumstances prevent Simon from going to the
bathroom: a remnant of civilized behavior the little boy can’t bear to part
with.
Geraldine Chapin pops up briefly
as an old, weary but perceptive woman who helps Thomas ease his fears. Ploy
Jindachote is memorable as a hospital caregiver who approaches Lucas with
gentle sensitivity; little Johan Sundberg is haunting, as a displaced child.
Faura’s cinematography is superb,
initially conveying this land’s delicate beauty, and then — in the aftermath —
the oppressive, fetid, heat-drenched devastation. Editors Elena Ruiz and Bernat
Vilaplana deserve considerable credit for both pacing and intensity. Bayona
similarly understands when to bring the camera in for a close-up, and when to
pull back, to convey the utter helplessness of frail human beings beset by
Nature at her worst.
The Impossible is profoundly hard
to endure at times, and yet it’s also profound in a spiritual sense: a
testament to human resilience and compassion, and the willingness of total
strangers to pull together, in a crisis, for the collective greater good.
Frankly, it’s refreshing to see
such a positive, uplifting depiction of people as selfless citizens of the
world.
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