Starring Al Pacino, Catherine Keener, Evan Rachel Wood, Pruitt Taylor Vince, Jason Schwartzman, Jay Mohr, Winona Ryder, Rachel Roberts.

2002

Andrew Niccol’s S1m0ne is an ode to the absurd in the obscure vernacular of Charlie Kaufman, but rather than irresponsibly flounder in the Kaufman psychosis Niccol lends the film his own trademark brand of inimitable parabolic surrealism. Oddly enough, but maybe not so much considering, the seriocomic satire opens with a crooning of the melancholic “Adagio for Strings” adjacent to a heavily atmospheric backdrop of isolated despondency. Upon this incredible run of stark images Niccol poses idols of pretense and stylistic emotion in a movie-within-a-movie note, similar to that of Soderbergh’s flop, Full Frontal. However, discounting the packaged pretense that destabilized Full Frontal’s sense of Hollywood exposé, S1m0ne isn’t a cop-out and completes the notions that that previous film attempted to expose, only in an entirely different manner.

Most palatable is Niccol’s Pygmalionic homage combined with a method near Sci-Fi (by the way, a genre Niccol is no stranger to, see his phenomenal Gattaca), all warped and wrought by its foundation as a Hollywood satire, which it lightly but surely holds true to. Though not firmly established as a scathing send-up or as especially biting, the film nicely posts gibes at celebrity stubbornness, mass naïvety and deception with peculiar hilarity. Perhaps its opening sequence’s use of “Adagio” is not a mere coincidence or dramatic gimmick, for the tune’s uncanny flair for vivid sorrow has inspired much usage among many films, see The Elephant Man and Platoon. And as sort of an in-joke Niccol deems the movement overused, but then again, perhaps the intention was unintentional and was chosen, merely, for the very same reason it has been used in the other films, it is depressingly poignant.

Colorfully eccentric, S1m0ne works with the eclectic approach of a born filmmaker fabulously in a Fincher-esque visual imagination with the breath of inscrutable master writing, reminiscent of, the mentioned Kaufman, but also the various works of perhaps Philip K. Dick, mixed with Fellini-esque nostalgic characterizations. Brilliantly the film speaks to the age old posing of man against machine in a subtle and anomalous mode, supported by a heaving subtext, but devoid it is of the visceral “thrills” that James Cameron’s “similarly themed” The Terminator was found on, finalized and exteriorized to the tune of Barry Levinson’s Wag the Dog. Though its [unfortunate] predictable reliability, despite its atypical comic mentality, is labored and relatively evident Niccol manages to squeeze out a finely orchestrated tragicomedy about the burden of dreams and the eventual collapse of an unusual happenstance.

When his spoiled and glamorous big-name star, Nicola Anders (Winona Ryder), walks off his latest project for “creative differences”, or rather that her ridiculous requirements (e.g. an enormous trailer, anti-red Mike ‘N Ike candy bowls) prompted her to leave, small-time never-was director, Viktor Taransky (an exceptional Al Pacino), decides himself washed up, in full. Soon his ex-wife and head studio executive producer, Elaine (a surprisingly refreshing Catherine Keener) with whom we sense there is still some romantic tension, regrettably but necessarily shuts his service down on the studio lots. Shortly after this self-realization he is paid a visit by an eccentric computer programmer Hal (the fascinating Elias Koteas) who has been at work on a revolutionary mega-program, isolated on his computer for nearly eight years, which has consequently caused a deadly tumor behind his eye.

The computer program, or rather entire drive, contains the possibility of generating a complete human actor, entirely human-like and believable but only composed of absolute CGI force (something George Lucas is, no doubt, currently investigating for real). But Taransky wants nothing to do with it until it’s forced upon him by the executive of the deceased Hal’s estate, and in an effort to earn some needed-cash, and rationalizing that he also has nothing to lose, he opens the program. Some eight months later his thought-to-have-been-lost passion project is resurrected and in the test screenings, except with a new and unknown star beauty, only known as Simone (played in human form by Rachel Roberts). The film becomes an instant hit and makes the enigmatic Simone an enormous celebrity, despite her intangible presence, however, Taransky begins to lose control of his lone efforts to deceive the public and the digital puppet begins to control its puppeteer.

S1m0ne not only expertly imagines a successfully farce from the Hollywood back lot but does so with an effervescent flair for drollness and wry satire, meanwhile holding true to its nature as an allegorical anecdote for the techno age, slowly building to a climax of ironic proportions. Hardly yielding to its deficiencies, technically speaking that is (for the technological aspect of the film is fairly improbable); the multi-faceted saga expels the hollowness of Hollywood for its few virtues, which includes its readiness for self-lampooning. Though convoluted is the industry’s mind-set, in that it willingly spoofs itself through shameless promotion, however, that’s beside the point. Niccol is a not product of Hollywood but of New Zealand and consequently invents his own glorious takes on oddities via pertinent microcosms, brilliantly metaphoric. And ironically, but perhaps not so, Niccol satires the comatose Hollywood circuit while breathing a few molecules of life into its bloated cadaver.

Rated PG-13

* * * 1/2

(September 2, 2002)