Last night we of the Ritz Film Group got together for our twice monthly meeting. The movie of choice was the Alfonso Cuarón-directed Children of Men. The plot: In London, 20 years from now, humans have lost the ability to procreate. An alcoholic activist gets drawn into helping a young pregnant woman to sanctuary. And then the shit hits the fan.
Since I hadn’t seen a commercial in months (thank you TiVo), I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that Clive Owen and Chiwetel Ejiofor were hot, so even if I got bored I’d have something beautiful to stare at.
I think we all got much more than we bargained for. Even those who knew what the movie was about admitted to watching the second half with their mouths agape and their hearts all aflutter. Maybe it was the shaky cam-style directing, which added to the flick’s documentary-like feel. Perhaps it was the long moments of silence, during which only the pop of gunshots and the rumble of falling rubble could be heard. The movie definitely taps into mythic sites, and comparisons to the birth of Jesus couldn’t be denied. At times I thought the writers took the messiah thing a little too far—it’s in the back of your mind the entire time so there was no need for a pregnancy’s unveiling in the barn, which of course called to mind the manger.
It’s an exciting film, one that’s as moving as it is engrossing. The spiritual undertones became overtones as some of the characters chanted the Buddhist phrase “Om mani padme hum” during times of extreme hardship. The filmmaker’s political views were apparent, especially during scenes involving the refugees, some of which called to mind the photos from Abu Ghraib.
If nothing else, see it for Michael Caine’s outstanding portrayal of the pot-smoking hippie Jasper. He grows pot that makes Clive Owen taste strawberries when he coughs. Priceless.
