The Zero Theorem
(2013)
(SPOILERS) I'm prone to anticipating the arrival of a new
Terry Gilliam film more than the fare of any other filmmaker, barring perhaps
Joe Dante. And yet I have learned to
temper my expectations in recent years. Whether it’s been a continued difficulty
(of temperament?) in getting projects off the ground, the limitations of budget
infringing on his high-powered imagination, or simply that he is past his prime,
nothing he has made since Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas has attained consistent greatness. That said, I
enjoyed The Imaginarium of Doctor
Parnassus immensely; inconsistent, certainly, but it proved to be a
gloriously ramshackle greatest hits package. The Zero Theorem also nurses many of the directors favourite recurring
obsessions and themes, and in some respects it stands as a counterpoint to Imaginarium. One shows a director still
in love with the escapism that comes from dreams and the creative impulse, and
not allowing the world to dictate terms (albeit with a decidedly bittersweet,
Faustian twist), the other is a sombre lesson in the crushing effects of
abiding by its rules and becoming embroiled in the abiding madness of its
traps.
Gilliam, as ever, announces to the world that each new
picture is terrible and a complete unsalvageable mess. And then he launches into impassioned defences when the critics
inevitably lambast him. I haven’t read many other reviews, but I’m frankly
surprised he needs to spell out that Theorem
is a tragedy and not a comedy (this may be part confabulation on his part; he
adores the role of the misunderstood madman). This is very much Gilliam in the
vein of Brazil and 12 Monkeys, where the one who dares to
take flights into fantasy does not
succeed. It’s the counter to Time Bandits
and (particularly) The Adventures of
Baron Munchausen; even The Fisher
King.
Theorem cements
Gilliam’s reluctant re-development as the purveyor of cinema on a smaller, less
refined canvas. So it has been since his tumultuous encounter with the
Weinsteins. Is there a cause-and-effect to financial restrictions and not quite
getting there with the finished movie? Not necessarily; after all Fear and Loathing is one of his best
pictures, and bags of money didn’t help Brothers
Grimm. What seems to have crept in, ironically, is a lack of
self-discipline in knowing how far to hone the footage. Or perhaps it comes
from not shooting it effectively in the first place, becoming too indulgent of
experimentation and improvisation. A third possibility might be the material
itself. This current incarnation of Gilliam allows scenes to go on, even when
there isn’t sufficient energy to sustain them; sometimes that can extent to the
entire picture. Tideland’s big
problem is not that it’s “difficult” (Terry, God love him, always coming up
with excuses for why a movie isn’t accepted or is neglected) but that it’s
unfocussed, rambling and listless. Parnassus
has elements of that as well, in individual scenes, but Gilliam and McKeown
have a strong enough narrative through line to keep it going.
Where Theorem has
problems – and don’t get me wrong, there’s an enormous amount to like here, and it’s a picture that resonates
probably more than anything he’s done since 12
Monkeys, though for different reasons – is in a similar area to Tideland. It has a confined setting with
a small cast very much living in their own heads. If you let that kind of
material sprawl, you’re in danger of losing a grip, as it is so difficult to
get a clear fix on in the first place. Gilliam does a better job here than he
did with his adaptation of Mitch Collin’s novel, but he needed to be more
brutal in the editing suite; the progression (or lack thereof) of Christoph
Waltz’s Qohen Leth is too undifferentiated at times, so there is a danger of the
picture becoming one giant doodle. On the one hand, the director succeeds
admirably in expanding the material beyond its budgetary limitations and the
one basic set (there is very much a feeling of an adapted play to Pat Rushin’s
script, with “additional dialogues” from the Gilliam). But there was never any
doubt of his visual ingenuity. On the other, at 106 minutes Theorem isn’t long but there is a
persistent feeling that it could have been a better, more poignant piece if it
had been shaved down to 90, in so doing sharpening the existential
despair.
The piece must be sustained, but there is little internal
momentum; the quest for the theorem is a MacGuffin, in spite of some simple but
nifty graphics illustrating Qohen’s problem, and there’s no attempt to attach
drama to its attainment. It is a source purely of frustration. So it’s
necessary to introduce different characters to Qohen’s world to provide a push,
and yet they cannot steer the plot in a different direction because fate
decrees they are simply there to cajole him to his self-destruction. This also
means we don’t really get a grip on Qohen himself. Despite spending almost
every moment in his company, we are not invited in. And Gilliam is willing to
encourage the pervading melancholy of the piece to carry, so he introduces
slapstick abandon. Whilst this is mostly quite winning, and the choice is
understandable in order to challenge the inertia, on some level it counteracts
Qohen’s descent; he loses his soul while we’re caught looking in another
direction. While there is poignancy to the picture, it derives from the themes
announce rather than Qohen’s fate. We don’t sense the profound loss of Sam
Lowry’s demise (even given his many falls as a procrastinator, indifferent to
others until it suits him and ultimately ineffectual in his actions) or that of
Bruce Willis’s James Cole. It is this conjugation of elements that makes Theorem Gilliam’s bleakest film. It’s
all so inevitable, and the director isn’t even sure it’s worth the fight any
more. Gilliam becomes Qohen.
The existential crisis is Rushin’s however, inspired by
Ecclesiastes and the ruminations it provoked within him on the meaning of
existence, the value of life and its purpose. But this is refracted through
Gilliam’s godless world, where the reason to be is to create (to be god); what
happens when that creativity is consumed by the machine? Or, in this case, by
Management? This is a movie about a wholly misspent existence. Pursuing the
dictated path (living to work), distracted by delusions (the only fantasy Qohen
has is a faith-based one; his dream world is artificially derived) that eat up
his years, shunning those who might redeem him (fellow humans, or perhaps not)
and mistaking the only person who could make a difference (love is the only
answer, in a universe devoid of meaning; the only other clearly validated principle
is money).
Gilliam invokes the sad influences of the modern era, very
much as the giggling old man despairing at the world around him; from the
uber-surveillance that we all knew about but tried to ignore (and most of us
are so distracted, we can’t get worked up about it; passive capitulation, much
as Qohen doesn’t bat an eyelid on recognising Management’s close scrutiny of
his every move) and the isolating influence of the Internet, the iPad, all
those things that keep us from connecting while offering the lie of doing
exactly that. And yet, his characters have always been distinctly on their own,
away in the constructs of their own minds. The difference here is, the escape
is not to be embraced. The outside world is one vast Technicolor yawn; it is
only Qohen who is unwilling to embrace the shallow artifice.
This is different to the austerity of Brazil and 12 Monkeys.
And so is the protagonist. Qohen just wants to be left alone; he doesn’t even
dream of a perfect mate until he is coerced into meeting one. He is a high
performance entity cruncher, a computer whizz who, instead of straying into a
dreamscape, hangs desperately on to one he believes to be real. This derives from the phone call he received
many years ago, which tapped him into the universe, however briefly; a “great yawning maw of power” that he
managed not to through simple clumsiness not to meet. Ever since, he has
awaited a reconnection, and his life has passed him by. Qohen has lived his
life awaiting a sign from God, essentially. And now, granted his wish to work
from home (in order to be near his phone to receive the call) he is set the
task that has eluded or burnt out anyone who has tried; to solve the Zero Theorem;
the notion that everything extends from a black hole singularity, “The Big Bang
Glitch” (the big crunch theory), and will ultimately reduce to one; solving the
theorem will prove there is no purpose to anything, the exact opposite of the kernel
of something more that Qohen holds in his mind (“How would anyone believe such a horrible thing?” he asks of the
theorem’s proposition). Or, as Joby (David Thewlis) puts it, “Everything adds up to nothing. That’s the
point”.
From the point of view of Management (Matt Damon, in a bleach
blonde fright wig), the problem is just another business opportunity.
Presumably; if there was no money to be made, why would he do it (“I never said nothing is for nothing. I’m a
businessman”)? Prove God doesn’t exist, and perhaps consumerism only
increases (“There’s money in ordering
disorder”). Qohen is blown in the wind by Management, offered shallow
incentives (sex, in the form of Melanie Thierry’s Bainsley) and prodding by
those with skills he can marvel at (Lucas Hedges’ Bob, who appears to be
Management’s son). In a world based upon what we can buy, Qohen is offered the
apple of incentive. Yet Management’s overriding use of him (“You represent the antithesis of my project;
a man of faith”) is starkly calculated. There is even the promise of that phone call, but all (except
Bainsley, maybe her also) believe Qohen is mad.
Perhaps he is. There’s a push-pull here. Who knows what
Rushin believes, but Gilliam is a pronounced atheist. Perhaps not one who stops
asking the big questions or, Dawkins-like, he wouldn’t have a character spiralling
downwards on a doomed quest, but one who is conclusively led to realisation as
a release. Yet Qohen’s drive and conviction is a mistake, a misdirection. In
Management’s view he is “quite insane”,
so Gilliam must side with him even though he is wrong. The manufacture trappings of faith, and its
rebuke, are all around; they’re there in the billboards proclaiming ”The Church of Batman the Redeemer” (with
Game of Thrones’ Gewndoline Christie looking curiously like Jared Harris); “The church of intelligent design reaches out
to that special you” promises another. They’re in the dilapidated
iconography of the building bought by Qohen and its forlorn history. It was
inhabited by a group of monks who took a vow of silence until it was gutted by
fire (“Apparently no one broke the silence
to yell fire”).
But this “belief” is the closest Qohen has to dreams; ones
that may never triumph over reality, but isn’t the delusion better if it keeps
us functional, keep us hoping? Elsewhere his imaginings are only a response to
whatever he is jacked into. This is the ultimate tragedy of the last scene. The
computer generated perma-sunset beach previously saw Qohen finding brief
respite with Bainsley. Maybe he rejects her only because he feels betrayed, but
ultimately it is because he cannot break from his repeated behaviour patterns.
His focus was/is the phone call, but that faith has been subsumed into the big
bang quest (and foreshadowed by the opening shot, as if it was waiting for him
to fall all along, a great cosmic joke). This is why, when his imagination
takes over, he and Bainsley are floating amid the stars before a black hole.
Ultimate, endless emptiness where all that stands in the way of oblivion are
two carnal bodies. He cannot put down obsession, and the theorem has taken him
over, here lies incipient madness even more potent than his blind faith (but
who knows, perhaps the call was real; it was real to him; Gilliam might make an
interesting version of The Transmigration
of Timothy Archer, and he could do so on a budget of peanuts). The final
scene is all the bleaker because there is no inverted triumph for Qohen. The
lobotomised Sam Lowry has escaped at least to the refuge of his dreams. Qohen
is left alone in the world he has repeatedly maligned as unreal. He has lost
the girl, the only chance he had for redemption, and she is not even there in
his make believe. What does his bouncing of the Sun mean? Perhaps that he is
aware in his mind that even this is no solace. All is hopeless. He can’t even invest
in the make-believe.
We’re familiar with the Gilliam’s retro-futures by now, and
his arresting production design and costuming are as striking here as ever (the
grotesquery recalls that of Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas). Occasionally he is a little busy, attempting to
make up for his budget deficits with tricky graphics, smart cars and WHACKY
party scenes. I like these features –
they make Gilliam Gilliam – but it’s no use pretending they aren’t just
variants on a theme. There are other areas where he seems less considered than
before, less interested in making something refined and coded. This may be
good, it may be bad, but you can hear that cackle of glee, rather than the
inner voice questioning his better judgement, when he repeatedly ogles Thierry’s
PVC arse, indulges coarse language and installs a camera in the place of Jesus’
head on a crucifix. It’s not that the director shouldn’t get in there with the
dung and mess (he relishes it, after all), but that sometimes he just seems to
be making easy choices when he should be striving for better (and no, I wont
cut him slack for his age; nothing I see or hear of him suggests he’s any less
passionate or invested in his projects, its just that his judgement may need
testing occasionally).
If Qohen has wasted his life, you can see Gilliam’s concerns
over the future generation in cocky Bob. Conditioned and raised without a
childhood, he is ultra-bright and ultra-aware. He knows not to burn out on the
Zero Theorem, but then he burns out anyway. “I’m young enough to believe in lots of things” says Bob, and once
this wasn’t only the message of the hope of youth sold to us by the man who
brought us Kevin’s adventures in Time
Bandits; he could substitute ”old’ for “young” and we have the venerable
scoundrel Baron Munchausen. Is this as much Gilliam’s statement of how he now
perceives the world; that now he is old, he finds so little left to believe in
on any level? And so it goes for all of us, no matter which generation we are
in. We are all doomed; caught up within this modern, superficial, age,
disenfranchised from anything real and divested of any hope. All that we can do
is take refuge in the “insanity” of religion or surrender and become a cog in
the machine of industry.
Sam Lowry was at least free to think what he wanted, even to
the end. The theme of Theorem is “Everything is under control” (also a
title of a Robert Anton Wilson book), and the play on words of simultaneous
reassurance and paranoia that brings. Qohen is controlled and manipulated at
every stage. He deludes himself into thinking he is his own master, that he controls
his destiny, that he has got his way by working from home; “We can think what we want” he proclaims,
rejecting the decree of Management. This aspect is never quite played up for
its dramatic potential; while Theorem
is frequently frenetic, it is not borne of narrative movement so much as
restlessness deriving from its static nature.
Does the ultimate responsibility for his actions rest on Qohen,
or is he so co-opted, without realising it, that the subject is moot? As Dr
Shrink-Rom informs him, “I was programmed
to leave your peculiar pathology untreated”. Gilliam, who has dabbled in
the theme of Machiavellian surveillance in his previous dystopias, finds new
fuel with the spectre of the NSA in his rear view mirror. “Those sessions are private!” Qohen says of his therapy sessions,
when they have been hacked. And then he invokes the last refuge of the man
struggling against barely covert totalitarianism; “I have nothing to hide!” It is almost inevitable that, compelled to topicality within his warped visions, Gilliam conjures the spectre of
child abuse scandals, but in the context of “guilty until proven innocent”
media storms; Qohen attempts to help the ailing Bob and is accused of terrible
transgressions for his pains (Gilliam may have misjudged this; it comes across
as flippant and spur of the moment, without any direct relevance to events).
It is barely surprising that Qohen rejects Bainsley; he
wants to believe that she is really interested in him, so naïve is he, when it
is quite clear to us she is fulfilling a preordained role. So it devastates him
when he learns this is all a ruse. The saddest note is that he cannot tell the
difference when she offers him a genuine, heartfelt chance to leave it all behind
(“Will you come with me?”); one can
imagine their “escape” together, of the dramatic variety that Sam executes in
his mind’s eye in Brazil. And his
choice precipitates his undoing; when Bob succumbs and Qohen dismantles the
surveillance that holds him in check, Management dispenses with his services;
Qohen is left with nothing apart from his own empty, manufactured realm.
Gilliam rarely puts a foot wrong in his casting, and Theorem is no exception (the only
picture where he goes awry is Brothers
Grimm, and that’s down to those meddlesome Weinsteins). We’ve seen Waltz at
his most prolific playing confident, witty, urbane types (Tarantino) or
ascerbic ones (Polanski’s Carnage).
Here he is let loose on something atypical, as Gilliam’s wont to do. And he’s
great. Any faults in relating to the character are in the screenplay and
director’s hands, not the actor’s. Who and why is Qohen? We hear snippets of
how he had a marriage early in his life, but this bears no relation to a man
who never seems to have attended a social gathering let alone sustained an
interpersonal relationship. His curious habit of using the royal “We” in all
his statements is disarming (“At present
there is very little we are thinking of that brings joy”, “We prefer not to be touched”) but it is
very much window dressing.
Thierry is the latest Gilliam fantasy woman, a “yummy night nurse”, complete with
tantric biotelemetric interfacing. She doesn’t exist outside of Qohen’s longing
and the director’s lust (did I mention that he adores her PVC-clad arse?).
Sure, this the character, she’s intentionally designed that way, and arguably
there’s little depth in the men in the movie either, but Thierry is far better
than her material. She’s outstanding in fact, making Bainsley sexy, funny, and
finally deeply sad. We feel more about Qohen’s plight through her than we do
from him directly. All his protestations that his interfacing experience is not
real are to nothing when he realises there is an itch he needs to scratch. The
virtual sex thing is very ‘90s but Gilliam almost makes it work; from the
mundanity of the imagination that designs it (“Escape to Paradise”, Total
Recall-like, shows the same setting on billboards; Bainsley is using an
off-the-shelf programme) to the typically crazy suit Qohen dons to intermesh with
her.
The rest of the cast are a fine concoction of assorted
Gilliam weirdos. Thewlis delivers the Eric Idle part with aplomb, a cheerful
“friend” to Qohen and the benign representative of Management. He gets to dress
up in animal costumes and do an Elmer Fudd impression; he’s very broad, but makes
an effective antidote to Qohen’s misery and delusion. Newcomer Lucas Hedges
(he’s also appeared in a couple of Wes Anderson movies) is another Gilliam
“find”, much in the way that he used Heath Ledger and Andrew Garfield before
they got big; he fits in seamlessly with his peers. Matt Damon is more
comfortable than he was in Grimm,
sporting a crazy wig and suits that change design to match the chair he’s
sitting in or the drapes he is standing against. It’s very much practical casting
(get a name, secure financing) but there isn’t really any way Damon can go
wrong with it; his is the most reserved character (“You seem to have mistaken me for a higher power”), in some respects
the equivalent of Michael Palin’s in Brazil,
the refined face of malignant bureaucracy. There are cameos too from Ben Wishaw
and Peter Stormare as unsympathetic doctors and a scene-stealing Tilda Swinton
as a Scottish-toned Dr. Shrink-Rom (she even gets to rap, in a moment that
ought to be awful but is quite hilarious).
As usual, Gilliam’s world is an indelible one, even on a
restricted budget. The decaying architecture and doves juxtaposed with shiny
futuristic smart cars lend a whiff of a more colourful variant on Blade Runner. But a prerequisitely
distorted one, with the ever-exaggerating wide angle lens at full tilt. There’s
a glimpse of Brazil’s samurai dream
sequences in the exploding cubes that visualise Qohen attempts to solve the
theorem only for his work to be undone (the work as a computer game with joy
stick is also a clever trick; make toil look like play and you have a compliant
workforce). The broken computer screen, resembling the black hole of Qohen’s
mind suggests the glorious kind of double imaging we saw in the sea/sand reveal
on the Moon in Baron Munchausen.
Elsewhere, the director revels in silly incidentals; the “Yum Yum” ditty that emits from pizza boxes, Fellini nuns, an
all-import little person (a really fat one too!), rats who eat pizzas (the rats
are delightfully obliging, and you get the impression Gilliam would base a
whole film around them given half a chance).
Then there’s Qohen’s The Conversation-esque
take down of the cameras around his home. Regular cinematographer Nicola
Percorini delivers for the director once again, while composer George Fenton
provides an entirely fitting subdued, moody score (it’s his first teaming with
Gilliam since The Fisher King);
perhaps the most memorable moment comes with the opening; the mournful music of
loss draped over a shot of the black hole, pulling out to reveal Qohen fixated
over his monitor.
Despite it’s uncertain pace and structure, or perhaps
because of it, the climax of Theorem
feels abrupt (it did in Imaginarium
too, although there’s a sense there of making the best of things following
Ledger’s death). Perhaps a grand gesture would work against Gilliam’s intent. Yet
it adds to the feeling that the problem isn’t one of unity of vision, it’s that
he hasn’t managed to crack a problematic script in the edit. But there’s also a
more pervading issue, and I hope it’s not a sign of the director’s now predominate
state but simply a condition of the material. The Zero Theorem doesn’t dazzle because Gilliam is on too much of a
downer to do so; he’s moping, he’s negatively inspired, and you can feel his
despair. Even love is tarnished and ephemeral, illusionary. Nevertheless, a
problematic Gilliam film is still a much better film than most moviemakers can hope
to achieve; this one lingers in the mind, warts and all.
****
