Two stars. Rated R, for violence, profanity and dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.22.19
Oh, dear.
This is what happens, when you succumb to the intoxicating warmth of too much fawning publicity.
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| We have met the enemy, and he is us: Gabe (Wilson Duke) and his daughter Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) nervously confront a terrifying unknown, with the only weapons at hand. |
Case in point: Jordan Peele, likely still basking in the glow of a well-deserved Academy Award, for his big-screen writing/directing debut on 2017’s Get Out.
And then, for his sophomore follow-up, he pulls an M. Night Shyamalan.
Peele’s much-anticipated new film — teased for several months now, by deliciously creepy-crawly previews — is a profound disappointment.
Much worse than that, actually. Its beguiling first act notwithstanding, Us quickly becomes boring, stupid and relentlessly gory.
It’s a classic example of an enthusiastic one-sentence elevator pitch that has nowhere to go, because the premise remains half-baked and unfulfilled. All suspense-laden expectation, and no payoff. All style, and no substance.
Such a pity.
No question: Peele is a master of mood and scene-setting. He gets considerable mileage from cinematographer Mike Gioulakis’ disconcertingly s-l-o-w pans toward — or away from — a tight close-up, whether of somebody’s face or (ahem) hundreds upon hundreds of white rabbits in stacked wire cages.
Rarely have amusement park attractions and deserted — yet oddly pristine — subway stations been more unsettling.
And, yes, there’s no denying the utter horror of the moment when one faces a strikingly similar — and yet somehow defective— duplicate of one’s own self. Director Don Siegel knew that full well, when he helmed 1956’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Peele capitalizes on that same sense of paralyzing dread.
Trouble is, Siegel and screenwriter Daniel Mainwaring had a solid template from which to build their film: Jack Finney’s marvelously disturbing novel. Peele serves as his own quarterback — writer, director, producer — and fumbles the ball.
We meet Gabe and Adelaide Wilson (Winston Duke, Lupita Nyong’o) at the beginning of their annual summer getaway, at a lovely second home nestled in a quiet neighborhood not far from the Santa Cruz beach and boardwalk. The giddily enthusiastic Gabe has long anticipated this sojourn, but Adelaide … not so much. The setting revives terrified childhood memories of having wandered into the boardwalk’s hall of mirrors, and of what she confronted within (details revealed only gradually).
Gabe and Adelaide have dragged along their children: apathetic teenager Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) and adolescent, mildly withdrawn Jason (Evan Alex). The boy insistently wears a Halloween mask atop his head, as if prepared — at a moment’s notice — to pull it down, and conceal himself from … whatever.
They’re an all-American family; they have issues. They’re obviously loving and functional, and yet simultaneously mildly dysfunctional. Adelaide is take-charge practical and oddly wary; Gabe is a lovable fool. Duke’s performance is sublime; he unleashes half-baked jokes and one-liners with adorable petulance, as if worried about the reaction he’ll get not only from his wife, but from us viewers. (No need to worry; we groan approvingly. Until — and this is telling — we absolutely don’t.)
Gabe is giddy with summer excitement; Adelaide grows increasingly nervous. Zora sulkily retreats behind ear buds; Jason hides in cupboards and closets. Gabe defiantly drags them all to the beach, where they bump into Kitty and Josh Tyler (Elisabeth Moss, Tim Heidecker) and their twin teenage daughters, Becca and Lindsey (Cali and Noelle Sheldon).
Kitty and Josh drink too much; they’re also borderline toxic. We wonder how Gabe and Adelaide ever could have considered them “friend material.” We also wonder what this other family is doing in this story.
Then, late that same evening, the terror erupts: The Wilson home is invaded by four menacing, scissors-wielding strangers in matching red jumpsuits. The atmosphere of sudden, palpable danger pauses long enough for Gabe and his family to study the intruders. They look … familiar. Sort of. Jason voices what they’re all thinking: “They’re … us.”
Then all hell breaks loose.
At this point, we’re only 45 minutes into a 116-minute film, and that’s troubling. Veteran horror fans who wonder how Peele could possibly sustain tension — for more than an hour, during whatever comes next — are right to be concerned. He doesn’t. Everything is fine and edge-of-the-seat suspenseful for a little bit, as these malevolent doppelgängers demonstrate their lethal intentions.
Then Peele slides his film into cloud-cuckoo-land, and the so-called “story” becomes ridiculous. And protracted. And gory. And tone-deaf, Peele’s flimsy efforts at gallows humor now landing with an inappropriate thud. And dumber — and more pointless — by the minute.
By the time all those rabbits reappear — as absurdly arbitrary as the rain of frogs, toward the end of 1999’s Magnolia — we can only throw up our hands in resignation. And frustrated disgust.
Peele’s ill-advised effort at a half-baked “explanation” for all this, late in the game, only makes matters worse. Seriously? This incoherent blather, from the guy who delivered such a fiendishly clever — and tight — script for Get Out? The mind doth boggle.
Granted, Peele gets a lot of mileage from our instinctive fear of sharp objects; those bright, shiny scissors see a lot of flesh-penetrating action. (Dozens of ripe cantaloupes must’ve given up their lives, during the making of this film.)
And, granted, Peele uncorks a clever little gotcha as his story grinds toward a conclusion that cheekily echoes the final moments of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. This twist throws a tantalizing light on some of what we’ve just endured … but only some. It neither excuses nor justifies the middle hour’s worth of self-indulgent twaddle.
No blame attaches to the cast, all of whom are quite effective in their dual roles. Joseph is particularly striking, her brooding, condescending Zora transformed into a nimbly athletic, gleefully feral doppelgänger who revels in the hunt. Nyong’o nonetheless dominates these events, as the anxious — and, initially, seemingly over-protective — Adelaide blossoms into a mother bear who will … not … be … stopped, in her efforts to protect her family.
She, too, turns incredibly sinister, as a doppelgänger self with a malevolent grin, who rapidly scuttles about like a lethal, human-sized cockroach.
Michael Abels’ score is effectively unsettling, as are the songs judiciously dropped into the action: particularly the eerie, nursery rhyme-ish tune that opens the film.
Too bad all that potential gets wasted.
The advice can’t be repeated often enough, because people like Peele continue to ignore the message, with unfortunate results.
It’s the story, stupid. Botch that, and nothing works.
As we’re reminded anew, right here.
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