29 May 2018

ANON: SciFi blast for cliché crime caper

Anon- Netflix
The future can be scary, and that’s exactly how writer/director Andrew Niccol (Gattica) likes it. Niccol’s latest, Anon, directly distributed by Netflix, takes social media privacy scares and concerns and makes those issues a substantial threat as every event every single person sees is stored forever in an Orwell-ian cloud. Anon presents an original, albeit disturbing, viewpoint on how deep privacy can be regarded making this future world as scary as it is believable. Digital ads the size of buildings can be seen as an on-board Alexa/Siri/Samantha can direct listeners for every step they take, as someone is always watching you, until they hack you.

Clive Owen stars as a detective in a nameless city under a perpetually gray twilight sky who has access to these personal, individual records. He’s a gruff, tired-looking cop who smokes (so hey, at least that vice is still around in the near future) as much as he plays voyeur into his, as well others’, memories. However, hackers who work off the grid can be paid in order to edit, thus hide, certain memories. One hacker has taken to killing such individuals and Owen is tasked to stop the murderer.

Anon, played by Amanda Seyfried, is a hip hi-tech cat that proves her prowess by slowly hacking into Owen’s own visuals, distorting what he is seeing, be that a clear intersection that is actually jamming, or an empty elevator car instead of an empty elevator shaft. The tech premise is extraordinary, tempering the best of what science-fiction at its core is supposed to offer, as the presented threat is real and believable.

Alas, all good science fiction does have its limits, as does Anon, and this neo-noir thriller exposes its fatal flaws in the programming. Once this world and its technology have been explored to its limits, the crime element of the narrative forgoes all its collective coolness resulting in a typical whodunnit-style mystery that fizzles into a who-cares climax. Owen makes a good cop, but apparently gumshoe clichés, like tobacco and the vintage cars driving throughout, remain woefully relevant. Maybe the true magic lies ahead in allowing rogue editor to hack together a more fitting finale.


As Always,
theJOE

23 May 2018

The Sisters Brothers

The American West of the 1850s is allotted to history as wild, gritty, untamed, and messy. According to Patrick DeWitt, it is also, well, quirky, at least concerning his picaresque characters, the titular hombres that make up The Sisters Brothers.

Sisters Brothers Patrick DeWittEli and Charlie Sister are two assassins sent by their boss, the Commodore, to commit murder most foul on one Herman Kermit Warm, who, as the job at hand is slowly questioned, might not warrant such an exacting fate. The brothers are committed, if routine, and take to the task like one would fry up the morning bacon.

Random peculiarities occur along the way during this road trip of a novel. Eli and Charlie encounter one bizarre situation after another, but nothing comes of such meetings other than the portrayal of a quirky story that would make Wes Anderson smile. Each meet – a weeping man, a prospector who brews dirt in lieu of coffee, and questionably-pointless intermissions with a little girl – is entirely accidental and meaningless in the overall scope of the narrative other than DeWitt wanting the reader to understand that anything can happen in such a setting. Fortunately, the dialogue and craftiness of the formal politeness presented in the overall speech and tone is what makes the novel an enjoyable read. The tale is odd with its laced-in satire that is never entirely funny, nor is it deadly serious, even when dealing with the job of death. DeWitt keeps you firmly saddle-bound through the expanse of the story, and the lives of the brothers through to the nearly anti-climactic ending of base resignation.

Slow and as rambling as a cattle drive at points, DeWitt plays with the Western convention while wrangling up a unique vision. The obligatory shoot-outs occur, but not when expected, and perhaps not often enough. After all, there’s treasure to be found in them there hills, and hot lead is not a substitute for cold gold. Right? DeWitt questions that value and explores the boundaries of the lives that rate such a cost.


As Always,
theJOE