THE DUKE WATCHES
THE MACHINIST
THE MACHINIST
BALE - "FAT FUCKER"
Sometimes a flick arrives in the land of flickery, and said flick
seems designed purely for to fuck with The Duke’s mindset
ruthlessly.
This past however long, what’s been keeping me settled and content
and healthy of skull, is that in Fight Club a doctor says to
Edward Norton that no, nobody’s ever died of insomnia. What this
has meant is that, on the occasions when days pass without a
motherfucking wink of shut-eye, The Duke can think back and say,
well, the doctor told Edward Norton that nobody ever died from it,
so fuck it, I’ll just sit here and smoke and worry my head not one
iota.
Then a flick arrives by the name of The Machinist, and suddenly
things seem a tad more worrying. What The Machinist concerns
itself with, y’see, is a fella by the name of Trevor Reznik,
played by Christian Bale, and Reznik, it transpires, hasn’t slept
in a year.
So the fuck what, you might think. It’s not like it’ll kill him.
Didn’t you hear the doctor in Fight Club?
Thing is, it may not kill him, but if The Duke were to end up in a
state similar to this Reznik fella, I believe I may well go ahead
and die anyhow, just for the fuck of it, since it’d be more fun
than existing like this fella right here.
Trevor Reznik is a sight and a half, is what. Except you don’t
think that for a good fifteen minutes or so. What you think first
of all is, fuck Trevor Reznik, look at the motherfucking state of
Christian Bale, would you ever?
Christian Bale, in order to make things as believable as possible,
went ahead and lost 63 motherfucking pounds for the role. His diet
consisted of an apple and a tin of tuna per day. Looking at him
here, it’s all a fella can do for to push images of Auschwitz to
the back of his mind. Bale looks wretched. His spine pokes out
from his back, his head seems disproportionately large, his cheeks
swallow his eyes.
Amazingly, though, what happens is that, following the initial
shock, you start to forget all about Bale’s physical degeneration.
He inhabits his character so completely, that you don’t even see
Christian Bale anymore.
Just like when Robert DeNiro put on the pounds for Raging Bull. By
the time those scenes came around, you didn't think Holy shit,
look at DeNiro! What the fuck is this shit, anyhow, he’s the size
of six DeNiro’s! You become so entranced by the character that you
don’t even acknowledge Fat Bobby.
Anyhow, what happens in the course of The Machinist, is that
Reznik begins to get seriously fucked in the mentals. First, he
meets a co-worker by the name of Ivan, a fella who serves as the
Morpheus of the piece, almost, with his shaved head and his
sunglasses and long black coat. Difference is, where Morpheus
would spout on about “I have dreamed a dream, but now that dream
is gone from me”, Ivan prefers to think about deeper concerns, and
so says about things like “It’s Miller Time!” instead.
Philosophy, motherfucker.
Next thing Reznik knows, though, folks are telling him this Ivan
doesn’t exist. What the fuck you talking about, Reznik? It’s bad
enough you almost got the same name as that goth motherfucker from
the Ninety Inch Nails, now you gotta go hallucinating and making
up a loada cock for to regale us all?
Also, owing to a bit of the old distraction in the workplace,
Reznik ends up helping workmate Michael Ironside get his arm
caught in a machine, ripping the damn limb from his torso.
Obviously Reznik is so fucked up he never even took the time to
watch Children Of The Corn – Revelation, or he’d have known to be
careful as hell around Ironside.
Before you know it, Bale’s trying to figure out what the hell’s
going on, anyhow, and what it all has to do with this Ivan
motherfucker, who everybody keeps saying doesn’t even exist.
What The Machinist is, is one of your character study type
affairs. You can never be too sure about anything, since all the
information you’re being fed is being mediated by the protagonist,
and let’s face it, the fella hasn’t slept in a year, and I don’t
know if you saw American Psycho or not, but if you did, you’ll
know Christian Bale is the last motherfucker you want to be
trusting. For sure, he’s all nice and witty and so on, but given
half-a-chance you'll be running around the room in your underwear
as Bale chases you with a chainsaw and gabbles on about Huey Lewis
And The News.
The parallels with Taxi Driver are rather striking throughout.
That right there was another flick about a fella disconnected from
the world around him, a fella who’s only meaningful relationship
is with a hooker. Reznik pays Jennifer Jason-Leigh’s Stevie to
sleep with him, sure, but he also pays her just to sit with him
for a while. At one point she says, “So Trevor, are you gonna
rescue me from this miserable life or what?”
The main difference though, is that unlike Travis Bickle, Reznik’s
“quest” affects no-one but himself. No-one’s gonna get shot, no-
one’s gonna get liberated, not a damn thing’s gonna change, except
Reznik is gonna maybe find out why folk’s keep fucking with him
for no apparent reason, why folks seem to just disappear all a
sudden.
The depiction of insomnia in this is as spot-on as I’ve ever seen.
The Machinist perfectly captures the horror of falling asleep just
for a second, only to be rudely awakened by a paperback falling to
the floor, and then that’s it, man, the moments over. That fucking
paperback just ensured my eyelids don’t meet for another six
hours, tops. And when they do, you can be sure someone’s gonna
knock the door, or the damn wind’s gonna blow a block away or some
shit, and you’re gonna be wide awake again.
The Machinist is a remarkable piece of work, a guilt-horror in the
tradition of Poe, a film about distorted memory that brings to
mind Chris Marker’s La Jetee, not just thematically, but visually,
too, except Marker’s flick was made up of still images, barring
one particularly discomforting shot of someone blinking.
Also, Christian Bale is brilliant, and not just because of the
astounding physical commitment to the role, his body being
fetishised like as if he were some muscular Man-God from a Tony
Scott flick or some shit. He invests Reznik with a humanity, a
fragility that makes for some truly harrowing moments. We know
he's fucked up well before any particularly fucked-up shit ever
happens. He’s like a brain waiting for a tumor. At one point,
someone asks him if he’s worried about being fired. No, he says.
“What are you worried about?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Needless to say, he finds out pretty soon.
Director Brad Anderson was also responsible for 2001’s similarly
nightmarish Session 9, alongside some TV work in shows like The
Shield and The Wire, and what The Duke would suggest is that it’s
high time we took notice, is what. The Machinist is a haunting,
scarring motion-flick, and really, Bale should have had Oscar
Nominations flung at him like nobody’s business.
I mean come the fuck on, did you see how quick he beefed up again
for Batman? Shit, man.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
seems designed purely for to fuck with The Duke’s mindset
ruthlessly.
This past however long, what’s been keeping me settled and content
and healthy of skull, is that in Fight Club a doctor says to
Edward Norton that no, nobody’s ever died of insomnia. What this
has meant is that, on the occasions when days pass without a
motherfucking wink of shut-eye, The Duke can think back and say,
well, the doctor told Edward Norton that nobody ever died from it,
so fuck it, I’ll just sit here and smoke and worry my head not one
iota.
Then a flick arrives by the name of The Machinist, and suddenly
things seem a tad more worrying. What The Machinist concerns
itself with, y’see, is a fella by the name of Trevor Reznik,
played by Christian Bale, and Reznik, it transpires, hasn’t slept
in a year.
So the fuck what, you might think. It’s not like it’ll kill him.
Didn’t you hear the doctor in Fight Club?
Thing is, it may not kill him, but if The Duke were to end up in a
state similar to this Reznik fella, I believe I may well go ahead
and die anyhow, just for the fuck of it, since it’d be more fun
than existing like this fella right here.
Trevor Reznik is a sight and a half, is what. Except you don’t
think that for a good fifteen minutes or so. What you think first
of all is, fuck Trevor Reznik, look at the motherfucking state of
Christian Bale, would you ever?
Christian Bale, in order to make things as believable as possible,
went ahead and lost 63 motherfucking pounds for the role. His diet
consisted of an apple and a tin of tuna per day. Looking at him
here, it’s all a fella can do for to push images of Auschwitz to
the back of his mind. Bale looks wretched. His spine pokes out
from his back, his head seems disproportionately large, his cheeks
swallow his eyes.
Amazingly, though, what happens is that, following the initial
shock, you start to forget all about Bale’s physical degeneration.
He inhabits his character so completely, that you don’t even see
Christian Bale anymore.
Just like when Robert DeNiro put on the pounds for Raging Bull. By
the time those scenes came around, you didn't think Holy shit,
look at DeNiro! What the fuck is this shit, anyhow, he’s the size
of six DeNiro’s! You become so entranced by the character that you
don’t even acknowledge Fat Bobby.
Anyhow, what happens in the course of The Machinist, is that
Reznik begins to get seriously fucked in the mentals. First, he
meets a co-worker by the name of Ivan, a fella who serves as the
Morpheus of the piece, almost, with his shaved head and his
sunglasses and long black coat. Difference is, where Morpheus
would spout on about “I have dreamed a dream, but now that dream
is gone from me”, Ivan prefers to think about deeper concerns, and
so says about things like “It’s Miller Time!” instead.
Philosophy, motherfucker.
Next thing Reznik knows, though, folks are telling him this Ivan
doesn’t exist. What the fuck you talking about, Reznik? It’s bad
enough you almost got the same name as that goth motherfucker from
the Ninety Inch Nails, now you gotta go hallucinating and making
up a loada cock for to regale us all?
Also, owing to a bit of the old distraction in the workplace,
Reznik ends up helping workmate Michael Ironside get his arm
caught in a machine, ripping the damn limb from his torso.
Obviously Reznik is so fucked up he never even took the time to
watch Children Of The Corn – Revelation, or he’d have known to be
careful as hell around Ironside.
Before you know it, Bale’s trying to figure out what the hell’s
going on, anyhow, and what it all has to do with this Ivan
motherfucker, who everybody keeps saying doesn’t even exist.
What The Machinist is, is one of your character study type
affairs. You can never be too sure about anything, since all the
information you’re being fed is being mediated by the protagonist,
and let’s face it, the fella hasn’t slept in a year, and I don’t
know if you saw American Psycho or not, but if you did, you’ll
know Christian Bale is the last motherfucker you want to be
trusting. For sure, he’s all nice and witty and so on, but given
half-a-chance you'll be running around the room in your underwear
as Bale chases you with a chainsaw and gabbles on about Huey Lewis
And The News.
The parallels with Taxi Driver are rather striking throughout.
That right there was another flick about a fella disconnected from
the world around him, a fella who’s only meaningful relationship
is with a hooker. Reznik pays Jennifer Jason-Leigh’s Stevie to
sleep with him, sure, but he also pays her just to sit with him
for a while. At one point she says, “So Trevor, are you gonna
rescue me from this miserable life or what?”
The main difference though, is that unlike Travis Bickle, Reznik’s
“quest” affects no-one but himself. No-one’s gonna get shot, no-
one’s gonna get liberated, not a damn thing’s gonna change, except
Reznik is gonna maybe find out why folk’s keep fucking with him
for no apparent reason, why folks seem to just disappear all a
sudden.
The depiction of insomnia in this is as spot-on as I’ve ever seen.
The Machinist perfectly captures the horror of falling asleep just
for a second, only to be rudely awakened by a paperback falling to
the floor, and then that’s it, man, the moments over. That fucking
paperback just ensured my eyelids don’t meet for another six
hours, tops. And when they do, you can be sure someone’s gonna
knock the door, or the damn wind’s gonna blow a block away or some
shit, and you’re gonna be wide awake again.
The Machinist is a remarkable piece of work, a guilt-horror in the
tradition of Poe, a film about distorted memory that brings to
mind Chris Marker’s La Jetee, not just thematically, but visually,
too, except Marker’s flick was made up of still images, barring
one particularly discomforting shot of someone blinking.
Also, Christian Bale is brilliant, and not just because of the
astounding physical commitment to the role, his body being
fetishised like as if he were some muscular Man-God from a Tony
Scott flick or some shit. He invests Reznik with a humanity, a
fragility that makes for some truly harrowing moments. We know
he's fucked up well before any particularly fucked-up shit ever
happens. He’s like a brain waiting for a tumor. At one point,
someone asks him if he’s worried about being fired. No, he says.
“What are you worried about?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Needless to say, he finds out pretty soon.
Director Brad Anderson was also responsible for 2001’s similarly
nightmarish Session 9, alongside some TV work in shows like The
Shield and The Wire, and what The Duke would suggest is that it’s
high time we took notice, is what. The Machinist is a haunting,
scarring motion-flick, and really, Bale should have had Oscar
Nominations flung at him like nobody’s business.
I mean come the fuck on, did you see how quick he beefed up again
for Batman? Shit, man.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
