Children of Men Review

Post-apocalyptic tales are a dime a dozen in Hollywood, but rarely has the genre reached such heights as are scaled in Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men, an adaptation of the P.D. James novel of the same name. Cuarón creates a dystopian future that is haunting in its genesis: the world has fallen into a state of tragic disrepair following a worldwide infertility epidemic.  It’s this emotionally grounded horror that allows viewers to connect with the film and its subject matter more than other entries in the genre where the impetuses of similar situations are alien invasions or zombie apocalypses. Cuarón’s final product is powerful because it’s recognizable take on our world, as the talented director subverts seemingly neutral imagery (such as a school) to reflect the horrors of a dying world.

Cuarón’s relentless pacing is established right from the film’s onset, when a quiet moment of communal mourning gives way to a terrorist attack.  The shocking turn of events, along with the sophisticated sound design and sudden cut to the film’s title, demonstrates the intense cinematic journey about to unfold. Cuarón’s vision is so thorough, so inescapable, that it takes on the aspect of the proverbial car wreck: it’s so terrible that it’s nigh impossible to look away.

            

Certainly, part of the film’s appeal lies in the great performances from an ensemble consisting of established names and newcomers alike.  Clive Owen retains a shred of the action hero persona he has channeled in fare like King Arthur and Sin City while also imbuing Theo with a sense of detached involvement.  With nothing left of his own in the world, he devotes himself to a possibly pointless cause, if only to invest his waning days in an endeavor that may prove worthwhile.  Michael Caine’s carefree hippy represents a bygone era, echoed by an evocative, poignant cover of the Rolling Stones’ staple “Ruby Tuesday” that serves as a sort of anthem for his character.

Julianne Moore turns in typically strong work; the strength she lends her character makes her sudden fate all the more jarring. Newcomer Clare-Hope Ashitey plays Kee, the first woman to become pregnant in nearly two decades, and she creates a memorably blunt character that is far from the virginal Mary she jokes about being and is perceived to be while in the prison camp, where her baby takes on an almost Messianic identity to the warring factions.

            

Though the actors’ incredible work does the story great justice, as does Cuarón’s superlative direction, the most compelling and successful aspect of the film is its cinematography, for which it won the bulk of its awards upon its release.  Emmanuel Lubezki’s camerawork speaks volumes in the film, revealing more about the characters, their relationships to each other, and the larger situation, than the well-written screenplay itself.  Lubezki’s long takes are the sorts of masterful strokes that firmly deserve their place in the company of legendary shots from the work of Alfred Hitchcock and Martin Scorsese; it’s rare to see such beautiful cinematography.

            

The film’s most famous shot is the extended sequence shot that unfolds as Theo, Kee, and members of the Fishes drive to a safe house in the countryside, only to be ambushed, attacked, and chased by police.  The lengthy shot starts with normal conversation, captures the rapidly elevating situation, then explores the horror as gunfire showers the car and a life is lost.  It’s a stunning achievement; the choreography is enough to make one’s head spin, and this shot, along with other similarly lengthy takes in the film, reveals more about the cinematic world than any other element within the film.

            

These lengthy shots reflect the inescapability of the film’s world.  Theo is presented throughout the film as an observer; numerous shots find him looking through windows, watching as other characters take action and then reacting accordingly.  He isn’t passive, per se, but he fails to take a proactive approach to life, likely a result of the world’s crumbling state.  The long takes reiterate Theo’s plight, denying the viewers a respite from the intense action sequences in the form of edits, a filmic element typically taken for granted.  These shots allow the events of the film to unfold in their entirety without a break, further pulling viewers in and, in that way, stripping the film of its filmic identity.  It’s truly immersive cinematography.

            

Even the general movement of the camera throughout the film’s varied shots represents the state of the film’s world.  The camera is never completely stable; there’s always at least some minor movement, whether the camera is tracking through a scene or slightly bobbing.  This trait speaks to the world’s instability and further increases the idea that the viewer is an observer within the film’s world.

            

With the exception of the computer-generated baby (which doesn’t quite gel with the film’s gritty realism), the film doesn’t commit a single misstep, and the emotional and compellingly ambiguous final moments bring the whole package to a satisfying conclusion.  It’s a harrowing journey, to be sure, but a satisfying one, too.