Death Toll: A Review of 'Knowing'

A note on spoilers: if you have not seen Knowing (or 2012) and were looking forward to curling up with them on a cold Winter’s evening then a) I pity you, and b) you should probably avoid reading the below. Spoilers are not overt, but are lurking between the lines

Placing the events of 9/11 into a framework of cosmological inevitability, and frequently referencing the attacks in both dialogue and visual aesthetics, Knowing works very hard to separate historical happenings from epistemological experience. The former is elided entirely from meaningful discourse, while the latter is elevated to an organising principle whose primacy is overtaken only by religious determinism.

As an MIT professor, we can assume our protagonist John Koestler is a man with a rigorous focus upon rational explanations of the physical world. When his son receives a fifty-year-old document consisting of a sprawled mass of seemingly random numbers, it is the sequence 091101 (that is, 9/11/01) which catches his eye. One drunken night on google later and he has identified a pattern in the numbers (which is more than can be said for most people after they spend a drunken night on google) – they 'predict' all major disasters of the last fifty years, with death toll usefully appended.

Thus determinism sets in early. For all Koestler's assurances that he believes “shit happens” (his wife died in a hotel fire, of which more later), the delineation of historical flow into specifically defined disasters sites – with attendant numbering of those killed and even a GPS locator of the event – smacks of straight-jacketed human perception far more than the film-makers seem to realise. Take 9/11, the only disaster dealt with in detail: what precise GPS coordinates would be given here? The address of the World Trade Centre? A field in Pennsylvania? The Pentagon? We never discover (nor whether the death toll includes those who died later from their injuries, or from the asbestos-laced ash in the streets that day); but given the film's (and American culture's) insistence in localising the events of that day at “ground zero”, educated assumptions can be made.

There is of course the possibility I have approached the film from the wrong direction: rather than questioning the inclusion criteria of the disasters (one has only thirty-three deaths, which hardly strikes one as worthy of listing, unless of course one happens to be in the direct vicinity of it, or related to one of those unlucky thirty-three), perhaps these events were only chosen by the Cassandra whose hand sprawled those numbers on that paper because they would be the first things thrown up by a google search. In the Old Testament, Moses had to make do with plagues which affected the entire populace; in the postmodern world, foretellings of doom can be tailored to suit Western-centric search engine algorithms.

As with Roland Emmerich's by turns unintentionally hilarious and intentionally hilarious 2012, Knowing gives up on the oh-so-twentieth century notion of an identifiable apocalyptic source. The characters within these films are at the mercy of mutating neutrino particles or the like, rather than marauding alien invaders or even global warming. Both films also exhibit something of an awed attitude to scheduling: one of the heroes of 2012 (nearly all of Emmerich's films are titled after dates, a tacit acknowledgement that their substance is their events, not their characters) is drafted to write “the most important timetable in the history of mankind”: a grandiose rhetorical description for a document that must by nature lack rhetoric altogether. The sheet of numbers in Knowing is puzzled over until the content of it is transposed into the more exciting – or at least visual – mode of familial protection, at which point it is no longer of any value (Waterworld pulled something of the same trick). Likewise, once it has been made abundantly clear that shit is happening right now and there's not a damn thing we can do about it, the populace of 2012 just get on with panicking rather than troubling themselves with any further explanation.

Which is to say, once science has done its bit in conceiving of a terrible thing, it is jettisoned entirely. Koestler may be an MIT professor, but that doesn't do him a bit of good. The desperation on Nicolas Cage's face as he witnesses another terrible (but blood-free) disaster can be read as the horrible realisation that for all his scientific knowledge he is helpless. Lisa Simpson felt the same way when the skeleton of an angel was uncovered in Springfield but, as we all remember, the doubt in her non-faith-belief system was misplaced. Knowing's lunge towards religiosity in the face of (a particularly 9/11 inflected) end-of-days is much like the denouement to that episode of The Simpson's: a ploy on the part of consumer interests to guarantee high grosses (it worked: the film made back its budget four times over). “The End is Near … The End of High Prices” - in deploying apocalypticism in the marketing of a mall The Simpson's echoed George A. Romero's Dawn of the Dead, while also asserting the accurate yet unappealing prospect that total consumer freedom walks hand-in-hand with the holocaustal imaginary.

Yet consumerism, like science, is a false dawn for Knowing, which peddles the safely reductionist line that we'd all be better off staying at home. Koestler's wife died in a hotel fire during a business trip, while the predicted major disasters occur on planes or subway trains (and goodness, the New York subway has never appeared such a mecca for abstractly besuited businesspeople as it does in this film). Salvation comes hand-in-ghostly-hand with a return to an ur-domesticity, even if that is a dishevelled cabin in the woods, or a cloying family hug with your estranged father.

There's no wink at the sublimity of mass death here as there was in Independence Day (remember the stripper-friend, on the roof of a skyscraper in LA, eyes as wide as her smile as she's blown to smithereens by the transubstantial glare of an alien laser-beam?), the reason for which can be explicitly traced back to 9/11. As can the obsession with choice that pervades this and Emmerich's film, but it is 'choice' in quotation marks, a choice rooted in safe populism. In the face of the President's daughter's disgust that only the rich will be saved in 2012, the pigheaded Secretary of State suggests she offer her ticket to a Chinese worker if she feels so bad about things. The passive smirk she gives by way of reply says it all: moral outrage is as much a privilege as is a room on an ark. People get chosen, they do not themselves choose, and once chosen you get with the program because to do otherwise would be to conceive of a universe that admitted the possibility of transgression, disorder, and personal agency.

Which all generates a cinema of eschatological comfort. Teleological (that is, regressive) in the same way as Will Smith's I Am Legend, Knowing peddles the line that even chaos is not chaotic. 9/11, your wife's death, your kid's partial deafness: all are cartographic points of reference on a map of divine will. Human political potential is reduced to nought, and all we're asked to do is follow the signs on our way to an inevitable and enriching (well, briefly) family reunion. Powerlessness never felt so absurd.

Killshot: A Review of 'The American'

There’s a great deal of pleasure to be taken in craftsmanship alone, especially when it is both precise and concise. In The American, George Clooney plays the titular countryman Jack (not his real name), hiding out in a sleepy Italian village, who applies his considerable technique to constructing a weapon for an assassination. His own quiet commitment is echoed by director Anton Corbijn, who treats the film as though he were planning an understated death-act of his own.

Meticulous but involving, The American finds a way to work firmly within genre boundaries without being ‘generic’. It’s one of those films “they don’t make anymore”, but the ideological implications of it suggest there may be more on the way. Jack works with his hands on tactile material to produce a one-of-a-kind tool that rates as a work of art; he is also besieged by suspicions and shady characters. America, once coloniser of the European unconscious (a phrase I borrow from German filmmaker Wim Wenders, whose work is also echoed here), is now relegated to isolationist artist whose labour will be abused by those controlling him: it is the world of earlier Clooney film The Good German inverted for the twenty-first century. In a time of collapsing money markets, only physical objects can be invested with meaning, but even these can be put to unintended uses.

With its invocations of a gothic hell-on-earth for the emotionally tormented it is also reminiscent of In Bruges, but without the jokes (the presence of Thekla Reuten, the love interest from Martin McDonagh’s comedy, only aids the feelings of familiarity). It is also any movie about hit men who themselves become targets. But despite this, the film avoids a mythic quality, even as it toys with pseudo-poetic images of butterflies and intertextual references to Sergio Leone (Once Upon a Time in the West plays in the background, although a closer narrative model would have to be High Noon).

Promisingly, Clooney’s is the only name most people will recognise from the opening credits, and this sense of his alienation amongst a population he does not understand (the language barrier is symptomatic of a more existential gulf between Jack and everyone else) adds to a sense of claustrophobia which is potent despite all the sweeping scenery. Corbijn even finds a few ways of filming his star in an original way, which for a face as overexposed as Clooney’s (did someone say Nespresso?) is quite an achievement. He also has an eye for the details: shoes being removed before a foot chase, a restaurant bill paid even in the midst of incredible tension.

Rich in allegorical potential, if not potent allegory, The American is a film to slowly relish rather than greedily consume. Closer to the work of Graham Greene than a modern airport novel, it is satisfying and sly, and feels a lot more contemporary than any fiction that might offer America as the centre of gravity and Europe as anything other than a treacherous hinterland of precarious stability.