In the future, some avant-gardist will make a film consisting of clips from the filmography of the loathsome Keira Knightley, rearranged to form a narrative, something that her natural limits as an actress always prevented. The film may be called Keira Knightley Redux.
It will consist of black leader.
Speaking of the avant-garde, Mark Romanek manages an interesting trick of translation here, which is to play a single beautiful note of melancholy as a basso continuo, which almost made me forget about Ishiguro's snooty-slummy Blade Runner goes Coma literary superstructure, every lovely hair in place, the symbolism tastefully under control, everything a classy lit-adap is supposed to be. I kept wanting Val Kilmer to crash through the walls. But, no.
The film is also a neo-realist celebration of IngSoc's National Health Service, every chilling detail in place, as if directed by Terence Davies and Stanley Kubrick in some tense, awkward collaboration.
For that, it deserves something. Well?
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