Entrapment, extreme emotional manipulation, premeditated rape. The comprehensive dissolution of the dignity and the identity of a woman. There you go, that's what Passengers is about. Is it all the more reprehensible for devising such elaborate, seductive decoys with which to distract us foolish consumers, or then for failing to devise decoys with which to actually satisfy us? I can attest to the plain, perfect, literally naked pleasure in beholding the sight of Jennifer Lawrence in a swimsuit sent from the heavens, or of Chris Pratt's remarkable rear on multiple occasions. But this is ephemeral pleasure, and itself dwarfed by that provided by even the most meagre pornography. Otherwise, Passengers is merely slick, sexy trash, the most expensive disposable waste conceivable. It's a vapid romance, a ridiculous sci-fi thriller, and a loathsome drama. Jon Spaihts has mistaken the flickering of a few dim lightbulbs in his mind for genuine invention, or ideas of actual substance, and becomes so bafflingly preoccupied with tending to these trivialities that he neglects to resolve the vilest idea of all, residing in clear sight at this film's hollow core. "Gee, don't they make a cute couple, though," we're presumably supposed to respond, or perhaps, "Gee, isn't the production design snazzy?" Distraction enough it is not, and Passengers' own admission of such only makes its eventual regression even less palatable. And yet, gee, don't you just wish you could reach through the stereoscopy and grab Chris Pratt's nude buttocks? Ok, so I did get distracted. Just a little bit.
One scrappy opportunist succeeds, another fails. The difference is sincerity: Joy Mangano had it, David O. Russell does not. His tribute to hard-working women, Joy, is so overly keen to imprint its importance upon its audience that it comes off as calculated from the first, ill-advised text card; Russell's general ineptitude ensures that all this calculation fails to pay off, and the overall sensation of watching Joy is equal parts disappointment and despair. It's a forced misfire, a poor attempt at fakery, and an opportunity undone by its scrappiness. Joy deserves better, and Jennifer Lawrence deserves better. You sense her investment in the integrity of her role, detecting a devotion to verisimilitude, no matter how unbecoming, that the rest of the film can't quite nail. Joy is cold, unyielding, out of her depth and resilient - an invaluable characteristic that doesn't merely maintain audience sympathy, it engenders it and builds it up to fleeting ecstatic highs that somehow feel all the higher for that they're almost wholly unearned. The guilty pleasure that one often experiences watching a David O. Russell film - that of succumbing to the artless messiness of his mise-en-scene and convincing oneself that it's as legitimate an approach as any other director's - is somewhat lost here, unfortunately. Russell tries to construct this feeling of deconstruction, over-editing in places and under-editing in others, jolting the film too quickly, pointlessly and unsuccessfully from drama to comedy, making Joy a decidedly difficult film to latch onto, despite Lawrence's efforts. It's also a shoddy piece of work, blighted by clunky ADR, terrible makeup, and the world's most immovable forehead, perched above Bradley Cooper's equally immovable cheeks.
Fan service has rarely been less fun! But what The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 2 lacks in good humour (and fuck me is it lacking), it recompenses with a suitable show of strength. It's a solid film, direct and uncomplicated for the most part, assembled with less a sense of artistry than of duty. With a level of seriousness that borders on severity, Mockingjay - Part 2 almost appears embarrassed by the prospect of commercial cliche, yet repeatedly finds itself forced to adhere to it. It's a strain of a film, sober and dogged, and admirable for these traits, even if they rather sap away most of the potential enjoyability. The concessions made in that direction, though, are consistently the film's weakest sections - a sewer attack straight out of Resident Evil, a tacky coda set in the future, an air of silliness that slips in every time it succumbs to some degree of dramatic hubris. The simplicity of the objective that drives Jennifer Lawrence's hero eventually comes to mitigate the political complexity that arises from a narrative that keeps all strands strung up until near the end, before gradually dismantling them. For a film whose demeanour is tough and physical, Mockingjay - Part 2 is strikingly cerebral and philosophical; the screenplay lacks the depth of perception to truly know how to wield this attribute, but it gives the film's overlong final act a sense of purpose and uncertainty, much like the former films in this franchise. This too is no fun - when the liveliest thing in your blockbuster is Donald Sutherland recalling memories of Bernardo Bertolucci, something's surely amiss - but it's nevertheless the best thing about Mockingjay - Part 2: driven by intellect and emotion, and awakening those things in its audience.
