FAVORITE FILM NUMBER TWO: 21 Grams (2003)
Life is a random series of events. Whether you agree with that statement or not, there's no denying that joy and tragedy affect everyone, oftentimes serendipitously. While most events leave little impact, others are of such magnitude that they can build or shatter a person entirely, a concept beautifully explored in Mexican film director Alejandro Gonzalez Iñárritu's dark, cerebral drama, 21 Grams (2003).
Iñárritu, who, alongside screenwriter Guillermo Arriaga, has broached many heavy, broad human themes in his films throughout the past decade, including animal cruelty in Amores Perros (2000), miscommunication in Babel (2006), and familial desperation in Biutiful (2011), brings his A-game to work in 21 Grams. 21 Grams, which, like his first and third film, revolves around the lives of three people affected by a tragic, violent (automobile) accident, is no different, and like the other films, primarily deals with mortality and how it can interconnect disparate people. However, the beauty of Iñárritu's work lies not only in the way that it gracefully weaves in a number of other powerful themes and topics (including, but not limited to: love, grief, guilt, hope, anger, vengeance, regret, forgiveness, redemption, abortion, organ donation, religion, and attempted suicide), but also in the way that it does so under the veil of an evocatively non-linear storyline that emphasizes the true nature of human thought and experience.
21 Grams (the title of which is derived and inspired by a 1907 scientific experiment in which Dr. Duncan MacDougall theorized that the immortal human soul exists because of a small loss in body weight at the exact moment of one's death) follows the irresolute lives of three different people: Paul Rivers (Sean Penn), a terminally-ill, unhappily-married mathematics professor in need of a heart transplant, Christine Peck (Naomi Watts) a happily-married, suburban housewife, mother, and recovering drug addict, and Jack Jordan (Benicio Del Toro) a spiritual ex-con who, along with the help of his wife and two small children, has also recovered from drug abuse and alcoholism. When tragedy strikes in the form of a freak hit-and-run car accident, all three of their lives are changed in ways they could never have imagined and their fates become intertwined.
The movie benefits from many strengths. The acting on the parts of the three main stars, as well as supporting moments from Melissa Leo, is superb, the cinematography, mixing in cold and grainy, drably-filtered scenes with warm, fluorescent ones and picturesque visuals of balmy, raspberry-colored morning skies, flocks of birds, and deserted swimming pools, by Rodrigo Prieto is quietly stunning, and Gustavo Santaolalla's otherworldly score tugs at your heart strings. In terms of the story itself, not only does the non-linear structure, in which we frequently and unpredictably jump back and forth between clips that we would chronologically say occur in the "beginning," "middle," and "end" of the film, challenge our perceptions of conventional storytelling (especially in cinema), but it also gives us a painfully real, yet strangely beautiful and lyrical sense of reality. All of us, at some point in our lives, have probably been affected by some completely unexpected, tragic loss, have been immersed in guilt, or have been otherwise burdened by some harrowing emotional experience. Similarly, there are certain nuances to human behaviors and emotions that we may not want to comfortably admit we possess. For instance, many of us believe that in a time of crisis, we would immediately act in a way that is morally just and compassionate (e.g., if we saw a child in the middle of the road we'd instinctually run out, save them, and if need be, sacrifice ourselves). However, while that is ultimately our hope, many times people cannot predict how they'll act in a moment of emergency. Iñárritu, keenly aware of that, approaches the concept in a fresh and captivating way, and one particular scene attests to that.
{{SPOILER ALERT: Although I'm only attempting to highlight the beautiful and spiritually powerful moments of this film, in doing so, I may incidentally give away important plot information (however, it's not my intention to do so). If you've not seen the movie yet and wish to see it, refrain from reading the following two paragraphs. Otherwise, read on at your own risk.}}
One of the characters, tormented by guilt, lays immobile inside his pallid jail cell, languid and unable (or unwilling) to eat. His once warm and sanguine, spiritual appetite has disappeared, and now all he can think about is how he's been betrayed by the One he trusted most. Visited by his close, right-hand mentor and reverend--who advises and then unpleasantly importunes him to be faithful, regain his trust once again, and ask for forgiveness--he angrily protests that he has no reason to ask for forgiveness. God, whom he trusted most, abandoned him in his ultimate time of need and left him with no strength to salvage the accidental wrong he committed. Later on, in a tender moment of complete resignation, this character defaces a tattoo on his arm--which reads "Jesus Loves"--with a knife. Iñárritu, who's deeply religious himself, based this character on the biblical figure of Judas whom he was taught about as a child, and challenges what he sees as a deeply-seated paradox. If, according to the Bible, Judas truly had free will, then why was it predetermined that he'd betray Christ and hang himself? This question of free will vs. determinism is the paramount question that, along with Del Toro's riveting performance, drives the passion and intensity of the scene.
Another powerful concept dealt with in this film that parallels guilt is grief and the incapacitating effect it can have on those who are helplessly swept up in it. In another scene of this movie, Iñárritu poignantly attests to that concept as well. Accompanied by a stirringly solemn accordion piece, a character visits the diner that her family ate at hours before the accident occurred, as well as the street where the accident itself occurred. Following that, we jump forward in time to the private lair of this person's home. Now we aren't seeing a person whose emotions are restrained because of the public world around her. Now we are seeing a human soul in its ultimately private and vulnerably true state. Curled up on her bed, sobbing her eyes out, this character can't help but compulsively listen over and over again to the last phone message her family left her before dying. It's a resonant scene for anyone who has ever been through and/or has seen someone in the throes of sadness.
The movie may initially seem confusing (due to its unorthodox, fragmented story-structure), but as the story progresses, the lives of the three main characters slowly coalesce, and various facts and incidents that we may not have understood are gradually elucidated, we realize that 21 Grams is a true cinematic work of art. By the "end" of the film, it leaves its viewers in a misty-eyed, profound state of astonishment. It is a movie well worth its weight.
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