By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Charles Taylor
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Brian Feinzimer
By CAROLINA DEL BUSTO
By AMY NICHOLSON
By Amy Nicholson
There's a scene at the brutal, bloody close of David Fincher's Panic Room that's so terrifying it rips you out of the movie's fiction and into your own sinkhole of fear. For nearly two hours, we've been following an endlessly clever variation on cat-and-mouse that has pitted a mother and daughter against three home invaders. The men—and they have to be men for this to work, for the entire setup to feel real enough to send shivers across our skin—have broken into a New York City brownstone, but instead of an empty house with hidden treasure, they've found a divorcťe, Meg (Jodie Foster), home alone with her only child, 11-year-old Sarah (Kristen Stewart). Having heard the burglars, Meg and Sarah have shut themselves in a secret chamber called the "panic room," a steel compartment stocked with food and medical supplies and equipped with a bank of surveillance screens. For much of the movie, the men (played by Forest Whitaker, Jared Leto and a persuasively scummy Dwight Yoakam) bang and clang against the room, first with futility, then with mounting fury. They want in, desperately, to do what invaders have always done—to plunder, perhaps to murder, to fuck with their victims' heads and perhaps their bodies. In other words, to do precisely what Fincher likes to do in his movies, his own cinematic panic rooms: to fuck with your head, to fuck with your body—as mercilessly as he can.
The movie opens soon after Meg decides to buy the sprawling house with its four stories and miles of hall. She has seen the panic room, and she's afraid of it—or of what it portends; soon before turning in for her first night in her new home, she mutters about disabling its alarm system. As for the house itself, it isn't simply impractical (it would take a fleet just to scrub the acres of floor), it's extravagantly, even self-consciously impractical, one of those yawning, cavernous spaces designed more for movie cranes and yards of dolly track than actual people. Yet if the house looks unreal, by turns a castle, a prison and a back-lot fantasia, its two new inhabitants have the human fear factor down. Age has softened the angles in Foster's face, and it has made her beauty less brittle and less forbidding—she no longer looks as if she'd punish you for telling her how lovely she is. In the process, she has also cast off the sanctimony she has worn in too many of her grown-up roles, while losing none of her technique. Always adept at hitting emotional cues cleanly, Foster in this role also lets herself get lost in the moment, which is something she hasn't often allowed herself to do since The Silence of the Lambs.
It takes a while to get what she's doing. Much of what Foster's called on to do in Panic Roominitially seems fairly routine—she plays "scared" up and down the scale—but as the story wears on, the actress seems to shed her reserve, her buffer of cool professionalism, to tap into a darker, richer characterization. And while she never grows frenzied, what she does with her performance in the film's climax is remarkable. At the moment that Meg expects the worst, Foster drains her face of horror, leaving an emptied-out, becalmed surprise that seems like wonderment, like awe, like the moment right before the sword pierces the saint. Foster turns Meg's terror into grace, a transformation that Fincher sets against blurs of red and a progression of screams so intense, so shockingly animal they're almost unbearable. It's an extraordinary scene not because it represents the apotheosis of the director's technical virtuosity in the film—the craft remains unassailable throughout—but because it is the one moment in Panic Room we forget that virtuosity. For the first time in this well-wrought if unsurprising thriller, Fincher's potential to become one of our greatest directors bursts through the tricks, the feints and, worst of all, the scripted clichťs. But by then, the movie's almost over.
Fincher's talent has always been obvious to me, which is why it's always a surprise when smart critics dismiss him. His detractors tend to hold the director's sadism against him, yet it's unlikely they would (or could) if he picked better material. Fincher's films are often extremely graphic in their depictions of the sordid, unpleasant and even more revolting sides of human behavior (you don't go to his films to feel good about the world), but when it comes to the aesthetics of cruelty, he has nothing on Hitchcock. Unlike Hitchcock, however, who mined poetry and pulp from the likes of Patricia Highsmith and Cornell Woolrich, Fincher has generally worked with rotten writers, including Panic Room's David Koepp, whose robust career—from Jurassic Park to Snake Eyes—remains one of Hollywood's ongoing mysteries. It isn't as if the film's premise required brilliant invention; it is, essentially, a very elaborate variant of tag. That's fine as far as it goes, but Fincher is better than that—and his script should be, too. What he needed was a writer who could transcend genre, who could reach deep into the subject of home security to tell us something about our obsession with safety and surveillance, an obsession that, even before Sept. 11, has turned homes, offices and even the country itself into panic rooms of one sort or another. The thing is when you lock up characters in a confined space—a house, a lifeboat, a wheelchair—you need to shade in their personalities and give them the breath of life, of purpose. You also need to give them something to say other than the usual tough-guy grunts and cheap pop-culture asides. When one character tells another in the film not to give him some "Elmore Leonard bullshit," I wanted to hurl a copy of Stick at the screen.
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