Limbo
dir. John Sayles
Screen Gems
Limbo is one of the most Saylesian of John Sayles' films, and your opinion of him as
a filmmaker is going to be the deciding factor as to whether his latest picture is
worth your time. These opinions can be pretty well divvied up into three camps:
A. John Sayles is not only the father but the godfather of American independent
films. His whole filmography is about bucking conventions–who else could make
the Library-of-Congress-recognized Return of the Seacaucus Seven? The Brother
From Another Planet? Men With Guns? And who could even conceive of such a
wild and diverse collection of films being made by the same person? His characters
are uniformly honest and affecting, nearer to people than most made-for-movies
constructs. He's a storytelling giant with ideas to burn, an assured director who can
speak eloquently even when using the trickier portions of film grammar.
B. John Sayles in an errant auteur, a tedious left-wing pedant with no style to speak
of and a catalog populated by superficial characters. He's got no more subtlety than
the preacher he played in the preachy, union-infatuated Matewan. He makes dull
films for dull people who probably only like him because they think he's some kind
of godfather of American independent films.
C. John who?
Limbo, a portrait of a city in decline that improbably transforms into a Swiss Family
Robinson redux, is definitely for the "A"s. It has all of the signature Sayles
elements, like a stupendous cast grounded in three 24-carat performances–those of
David Straithairn, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio and Vanessa Martinez–and
fantastic cinematography, this time of Alaska, courtesy of Haskell Wexler. It also
has his egalitarian, elliptical structure, with that ellipsis taken to the most extreme
extent conceivable in the film's ambigious, gimmick ending. It's a frustrating but
ultimately satisfying film if you have any affection for Sayles.
For the "B"s and "C"s, however, it's only slightly recommended. With its
thoroughly imperfect characters, meditations of the working class and inclusion of
such afterschool-special topics like self-mutilation and mothers-coping-with
daughters-coping-with-mothers, it will seem terribly pretentious if its emotional
texture isn't real for you. The slight recommendation is given on the strength of the
film's virtuosity in exploring the intracacies of narrative. These nuances are so often taken
for granted that viewers owe it to themselves to stay sharp by exposing
themselves to the occasional mindbender.
The most mindbending aspect is that ending, your reaction to which will confirm is
you're a glass-half-full or -half-empty person. For the record, I think that the glass is
half-full and, moreover, that Sayles' talents are overflowing.
— Sean Weitner (sean@flakmag.com)
