Two stars. Rated R, for profanity and strong bloody violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.28.20
It starts so well.
Writer/director Leigh Whannell’s re-boot of H.G. Wells’ 1897 classic has a terrific first act, beginning with a chilling, wordless prologue as Cecilia Kass (Elisabeth Moss) stealthily slips out of bed late one night. Her wary, frightened eyes never leave the sleeping man formerly beside her; her skittish movements are those of a trapped animal attempting a final shot at survival.
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| What you can't see ... could hurt you a lot. Cecilia (Elisabeth Moss) attempts to calm herself with a soothing hot shower, little realizing that she isn't alone. |
Whannell stages this sequence brilliantly, and Moss plays it with impressive conviction. We immediately know that she’s a long-abused, likely battered woman; we instinctively root for her to escape from this massive, heavily masculine estate of long hallways and electronically controlled doors (ominously sterile production design by Alex Holmes). Cecilia’s cautious departure seems to take forever, and we nearly scream when she pauses long enough to free their dog.
They make it. Barely.
Time passes. Still terrified, she shelters inside the comfortable suburban home of childhood friend James (Aldis Hodge), a San Francisco police detective and single parent to teenage daughter Sydney (Storm Reid). They’re kind and patient, even when Cecilia remains too terrified to step outside long enough to get the mail.
Then, a most unexpected release. Cecilia’s sister Emily (Harriet Dyer) arrives with phenomenal news: Cecilia’s abusive ex, Adrian (Oliver Jackson-Cohen), has killed himself. The nightmare is over.
Or is it?
Given the title of this film, it’s hardly revelatory to mention that Cecilia’s relief is short-lived. Thanks to preternatural senses honed during years of trying to anticipate Adrian’s hair-trigger explosions of temper and violence, Cecilia begins to feel uncomfortable in James and Sydney’s home. Empty rooms seem … wrong somehow. (Whannell and cinematographer Stefan Duscio have great fun with agonizingly slow pans of … absolutely nothing at all.)
The atmosphere remains unsettling and creepy, the suspense almost unbearable. And then Cecilia recalls (and we learn) that Adrian was a brilliant inventor and optics pioneer, and her paranoia rises to a shrieking point. If anybody could “haunt” a person by being invisible, Adrian would be the one; maybe he isn’t dead.
Or maybe she’s just losing her mind.
In these early stages, this Invisible Man becomes a parable of our time: the importance of “believing the woman,” when she insists that an abuser stalks her still. And, for about the first 45 minutes, that concept is handled with cheerfully sadistic malevolence.
But then Whannell overplays his hand. At an increasingly tiresome 124 minutes, his film is at least half an hour too long. The first act’s clever subtlety — the “good stuff” — yields to insufferable contrivance and increasingly unacceptable stupidity by every character. An initially stylish thriller becomes a typically gory and mean-spirited horror flick; no surprise, since Whannell established his rep by writing, directing and/or starring in the Insidious and loathsome Saw franchises.
Frankly, I’m surprised he restrained himself during those initial 45 minutes.
A few years back, Universal Studios embarked on a highly touted “Dark Universe” revival of its classic 1930s-’40s monster franchises. The series never got beyond the starting gate, because 2017’s The Mummy — despite support from Russell Crowe’s Dr. Henry Jekyll/Mr. Edward Hyde — proved an utter disaster, and one of Tom Cruise’s all-time stinkers (and he has delivered several).
In theory, Bride of Frankenstein and The Invisible Man would have been next; the former was canceled, while the latter wound up in Whannell’s hands. Lucky us.
Not even Moss, strong as her performance remains, can save what follows.
Nor does she get much help. Dyer’s Emily is stiff as a board, although — in fairness — no actress could pull off the ludicrous emotional swings foisted upon this character. The ease with which Emily suddenly believes that her “beloved” sister has become an evil, selfish shrew is simply ridiculous … as is the next abrupt about-face. Emily isn’t a character; she’s a puppet jerked around by Whannell (rather ironic, in a movie focused on an abused woman).
Michael Dorman is marginally better as Tom, Adrian’s lawyer brother: a condescending little weasel who never seems entirely forthcoming. But he, too, endures wildly random behavioral arcs that are more contrived than credible.
Hodge and Reid therefore are a breath of fresh air as James and Sydney, who share a warm and nurturing father/daughter bond that generously expands to embrace Cecilia. Hodge is particularly fine, granting James the aura of calm and sensitivity that his long-term house guest so desperately needs.
But everything goes dog-nuts when we spiral into the third act, leading to a ridiculous climax that is minimally satisfying. But no! We then get dragged into a fourth act, by which point it’s impossible to care about anything or anybody.
And if Whannell believes his final finale is acceptable, he has completely misjudged the #MeToo movement.
Or maybe I’m expecting too much from a guy who has thrived on torture-porn. Ultimately, this Invisible Man is just another dumb horror flick.
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