Children of Men

In many ways, this is something of a blasé film-buff darling by now. It re-introduced the edit-happy world of mainstream cinema to the concept of the long-shot; and it did so through nearly interminable takes careening through dilapidated Sarajevo-like city streets, densely populated sidewalks, and lonely roads through the forest.

Regardless of the film's merits, however, many have accused Cuarón of being nothing but a technical show-off. A man who has orchestrated a purely visual masterpiece; that is to say, a movie that is pretty, but lacking in characterization and depth.

These nay-sayers are half right. Going through the cast of characters, I am forced to admit that most of them are not really that well developed.

Michael Caine's Jasper is immensely likable, but he is such a stereotypical portrayal of rebellion, that he's finally rather cornball. Does the political freethinker HAVE to be an ex-hippie? Do they have the monopoly on iconoclasm? And if he needs be an ex-hippie, does he also have to sport long hair and smoke weed? It's as if the writers had gone to Google Images, looked up "Hippie," and then based Jasper off of that.

There's also the Psycho-esque heroine, Julian, who dies half-way to prove how serious the situation is. Julianne Moore succeeds in making her role somewhat enigmatic, but she hardly channels any feeling; she's stuck on some noncommittal chord, unable to play any other tone. From interviews, Cuarón says - and I paraphrase - that Julian is at a point where she cannot show emotion. I suppose, then, that Moore's nonchalance was intended. That said, if apathy was the goal of her performance, she doesn't really communicate this either. Instead, she underacts to the point where it's difficult to determine where, or to what cause, she is directing her passion and effort. She's a revolutionary, but she seems more flustered than inflamed; she's nostalgic about her once-strong relationship with Theo, but her intimations at love and playfulness seem slight, like friends at Summer Camp; she's apparently wrecked by the loss of her son twenty years prior, but during a conversation pertaining to him, she's hardly despairing - more like stern and cold.

Chiwetel Ejiofor turns in an impassioned performance as Luke, the leader of the Fish group, but he doesn't have much to work with. He's angry; so angry, he is willing to sacrifice the life of a child, the salvation of the world, in favor of the success of his politics. This is exemplified in his final appearance, where he shoots at Theo despite the fact that the baby is practically right next to the latter. He would rather kill the man who's ruined his plan, than save the infant. That's powerful stuff, no doubt about it; but there's nothing else to Luke. This is all he is about: endless indignation.

Then there's Miriam - the mid-wife, played by Pam Ferris . She is entirely memorable; a tough, brave, free spirit. Of the supporting players, she is probably the best one. But she suffers from what I'd like to term "The Idiosyncrasy Syndrome." This is a movie-character ailment, in which the subject exhibits random mannerisms for no reason. This occurs when the filmmakers want to make a character unique; therefore, they tack on weird quirks, but never explain why the character has those quirks, or how those quirks pertain to their substance as human beings. An example of this would be the Sniper in Saving Private Ryan. Why does he quote the Bible before each kill? Is it a way of honoring the victim? Is he asking God for forgiveness? Is it some fun shit to say before popping a cap on someone, as Jules from Pulp Fiction would phrase it? I don't remember an explanation... if Spielberg's movie does have one, and I simply don't remember it, don't hesitate, dear reader, to inform me of my error. At any rate, our friend Miriam offers no reasoning behind her particularities; why does she do the "Voodoo Hoodoo"? Is she a devout follower of this religion? Is she just naturally superstitious? Is this an element of her outsider-ness, as brave in the originality of her beliefs as she is in life? I don't know, although that last option sounds enticing. But the film never really implies one thing or another. Is she just silly, or are her strange ways part of her overall rebellion? Who knows!

So what does that leave us with?

The main characters. Who are, thankfully, the most well-defined.

There's something audacious about Kee (portrayed with whispers of bubbly cuteness by Claire-Hope Ashitey). Notice how she immediately agrees to escape when Theo reveals Luke's plans. She ignores her fears and instantly recognizes the gravity of the situation. This moment also shows the extent to which she trusted Julian; Kee allows herself to be led by Theo, a complete stranger, solely because of the complimentary words accorded to the man by the red-haired insurgent.

Also interesting is Kee's fluctuating determination in her cause. Her change in mindset does not occur on-screen, but is rather implied. During a monologue, she reveals how, when she first got pregnant, the thought of ingesting some Quietus, and relinquishing her responsibilities in death, was not altogether disagreeable. That she would think of killing herself, even while holding inside her the hope of an entire civilization, denotes a weakling, a scared buffoon who would trivialize the fate of mankind for the benefit of her own harmony. Yet the person we see is hardly a weakling; she never gives up, and even when Theo passes away in the end, she still does not get sidetracked. As the boat approaches, her attention shifts away from the inanimate Theo, and towards the bluntly-named "Tomorrow," the hope of a future. She has gone from banal and fatalistic, to sternly optimistic.

That is the same development exhibited by Theo, except his progress is made during the film's time span. His personal change is not back story, but the very narrative that moves the plot. His arch is not precisely a novel one in the history of cinema: he's only in it for the money at first, but as the story comes to an end, he turns increasingly unselfish. That's not unlike Han Solo, although Theo's persona is a bit more complex, and his turn, his volta, is likewise more subtle.

Money dominates Theo during the first scenes; he's not greedy, but is acting out of necessity. Julian suggest his poverty when she offers Theo some cash. She knows he needs it. He replies otherwise, but his negation comes across as an attempt at dignity, not an earnest argument in favor of any supposed wealth. He spends time gambling at the dog races; when he wins something, he insists on grabbing his returns, despite his being "in a hurry" to meet with the Fishes. In a bar, he tells Luke he'll escort the girl, a fugee, for bigger pay; he's willing to withstand any danger, as long as he gets money out of it.

Understanding this, consider the things he does near the end. As Kee is about ready to give birth, a border patrol asks Theo to give up his watch. He doesn't think twice, nor does he protest the loss of a material product. Quickly, he takes off the time piece - anything to get Kee to a safe haven as quickly as possible. Similarly, during the birth scene proper, he buys a lantern off of Marichka, effectively forsaking the little money he has in his possession, in favor of facilitating Kee's labor. At the end of the film, Theo is practically content with renouncing his own life; he offers not one word of complaint. Thus does Theo go from egotistically worrying about his own subsistence, to abdicating all that is important to him as an individual, for the betterment and continuation of the world entire.

He is not, as I said, an entirely original hero; but rarely has a film been so delicate and unobtrusive about the transformation of its protagonist.

Other things that are interesting about him. His re-encounter with Julian, considering their 20-year parting, might seem anticlimactic. Clive Owen's expression seems but slightly bemused; not entirely surprised. But it is important to remember that during that time Theo must have seen her picture in countless newscasts and papers. She has left his life, but she also has not. Their relationship has been over for decades, but she has continued to be part of his everyday wanderings, appearing constantly on bar-corners and computer telecasts detailing her newest violent escapade. When she kidnaps him, it is as if he had seen her just yesterday, because in a very real way, he probably had.

Later, when Jasper is killed, he reacts against Miriam, in a flurry of agitation that may seem out-of-place. Why is he angry at the mid wife? What has she done? Nothing. Yet he still associates her with "The People Who Have Gotten Him Into This Mess," which is to say, the Fishes and Julian. For Theo, the world is divided into a pair of groups: Life-Before-Kee and Life-After-Kee. Jasper belongs to the former group, Miriam to the latter. When Luke kills Jasper - a symbol for Theo of constancy and stability, since they've known each other for so long - the film's hero somewhat blames Miriam, who he's met through the Fishes, and because of the pregnancy that has brought about the life-altering events that have led to the death of a dear friend. It is not fair to be angry at Miriam; but it is understandable why Theo would be.

No discussion of "Children of Men" can possibly forget to mention the meticulously constructed filmic landscape. It is bewilderingly detailed; possibly to the level of a "Blade Runner" or a "2001: A Space Odyssey."

Notice the following:

Pollution is rampant. Smog covers the cities. The water is green with slime. Greenery is indiscriminately burned. Graffiti invades the walls. This isn't the cleanest place.

The irony of the "Ark for the Arts." The British Government is willing to fund a massive building for the express function of housing foreign masterworks. However, it spends millions to prevent foreign people from likewise entering the country. So, paintings and sculptures are a "go," but human beings are a "nay"? Hypocritical of this here government...

The lure and power of the media is absolute; the first shot in the movie illustrates this fact. Dozens of men and women stand entranced by the images on a thin-screen television. They pay dearly for their somnambulism. Moments later, a bomb explodes, and they are all killed. Digital billboards inundate the entire city; Quietus, Fertility Tests, Illegal-Immigrant Watch; all these important facets of Cuarón's futuristic world are shown by tangential advertisements hidden in the background, emphasizing how the barrage of messages from the authorities and the corporations dominate the dead space wherein the character move. That is, the very context in which Theo walks is soaked with ideological "recommendations" urging him to act certain ways and buy certain products.

Despite the bureaucratically accepted existence of Quietus - a drug designed to ease suicidal needs - marijuana remains illegal. More hypocrisy!

All of the images seemingly inspired by modern-world events - the Guantanamo style immigrant-detention center, the deportation of illegal aliens, the scenes of urban warfare - are not just ways of drawing parallels between the fiction of the film and our current state of affairs. They are also psychic cues. We respond to these images not just because of their importance within the plot, but also because they connote a historical baggage. That is, when apartment buildings go boom, we not only fear for Theo's life, but we are also consciously or unconsciously reminded of Bosnia and Iraq. The look of the film, by recalling unrelated true events, adds a special "oomph" value to the proceedings.

It should be clear by now (I hope, or else I've lost my time) that "Children of Men" is hardly shallow. If some of its characters are infantile in their elaboration, the core pieces of the movie are nevertheless as intricate as Emmanuel Lubezki's cinematographic wizardry. In no way is the film perfect, but Cuarón has achieved something of note here. If it falls short of the great science fiction works, then it should be noted that, asides from Spielberg's "A.I: Artificial Intelligence," nothing else in the past decade has been as close to speculative perfection as this.