Flak Magazine: Review of The Time Machine, 3-19-02

It's cute that Guy Pearce has followed up the temporally challenged Memento with The Time Machine. In a post-Sept. 11 period whose movie slate has been rejiggered to emphasize jingoistic war movies to a terrified American public, it's a grace note that's pleasing to hear. It's not a note that stands alone, though; it's part of a movement in what's been a strange symphony of professional development for its lead actor.

L.A Confidential was the dawn of two talents from Down Under. Russell Crowe (Bud White) went on to a Oscar nomination opposite Pacino, did the sports parable Mystery, Alaska and landed the Maximus role that won him an Oscar.

Meanwhile, Guy Pearce's subsequent projects (Ravenous, Rules of Engagement, Memento, The Count of Monte Cristo) definitely did not lend themselves to loaded box office takes. As a result, he's now the redheaded stepson of the Confidential cast, the one major player (Ed Exley) who isn't internationally known. As if working with the A-list talent represented by his brief filmography wasn't enough indication that Pearce wants his shot at face recognition and fame, stepping into The Time Machine is. An actor resigned (or excited) to chase leading roles in art-house fodder would've bristled at the chance, but here Pearce is, ready to ride a major studio project into the bright lights.

And this time, that studio is Dreamworks, which provided Crowe with his king-making Gladiator role. Would this film likewise provide Pearce with his springboard, his chance to land on movie posters in dorm rooms worldwide? Your sense of cosmic justice might suggest it. But if it does, you clearly have not considered director Simon Wells, the instrument in this symphony most grievously out of tune.

Yes, it's nice that the great-grandson of H.G. Wells gets to make a CGI-loaded version of grampapa's great book. Simon's previous credits include Balto, The Prince of Egypt and An American Tail: Fievel Goes West. None of these, mind you, were geared for a double-digit age demographic. Wells makes that clear in Machine, which in no way credits the audience with any capacity to handle detail or explanation. The viewer has no concept of how time travel works; to have Guy Pearce read off soup ingredients as his engineering specs would have been better than the nothing we get.

At the same time, viewers may find with the actual story of Machine incomprehensible — in which the hero goes back in time, then (oops!) real far ahead — but this matches H.G.'s original plan. Simon and company weave a romantic subplot into the first act that teaches Alexander Hartdegen (Pearce), our hero, of fate. Seems his love Emma (Sienna Guillory) can't help but die on the night he proposes to her, no matter what he does. It's almost as laughable as Brad Pitt bouncing off cars in Meet Joe Black.

After that lesson is learned, Hartdegen takes a random walk through the near future until he's knocked unconscious at the wheel. He wakes up 800,000 years in the future, where he defends a dwindling tribe of sexy bush people from the ferocious underworld race that uses them as food. And how does he save them? He sees the grisly future and returns to change their fate, something he couldn't manage with his sweet Emma. He couldn't change the past, so he went to change the future, which he couldn't do until he went forward and made it the past, only to revisit it as the present. The message of always looking forward and not regretting the past is lost in the confusion.

If this is really Pearce's best shot at getting a Gladiator-type role, that's mighty unfortunate. He is somehow expected to hold this shambles together with a commanding and conflicted performance, and he just doesn't give it. He is controlled, calm and not the least bit concerned with any part of his time-traveling. Hartdegen is unmoved as buildings go up and fall down before his eyes. When he wakes up in the distant future, he's about as confused as a man who awoke in his own backyard. There is no evidence of soul in Pearce's performance; instead, it's a prissy showcase of a theater accent Ryan Phillippe would die for. Pearce doesn't show that he has an ounce of Leading Man in him. Face recognition from Memento may buy him another shot at slam-dunk stardom, but his performance in Machine, clearly his most commercial project by a long shot, doesn't throw its sword at you and bellow "Are you not entertained?".

Still, while he flubs his solo, it's hidden in a shitty symphony. The deck is loaded against Pearce — he has to make the shoddy scriptsmanship believable and keep people interested in the children's story Simon is telling — but no part of this movie succeeds at making The Time Machine memorable. Despite all the potential of the set-up, no one hits the right note.

— Andy Stilp (andy.stilp at gmail dot com)