Shutter Island

Shutter Island

It’s hard not to go into Shutter Island without trepidation. This may be Scorsese, but this is Dicaprio-era Scorsese; again we see Leo’s constipated baby face, here in a period setting not far removed from the bloated The Aviator. The set itself is arguably a character, a brooding, menacing chunk of rock, the island mental institution is evocative of that certain period of American history, which in broad genre terms runs western-gangster-suburban. Shutter Island works in the post-war tension evident in the heavily-armed guards patrolling in army jeeps (we’re told that the island houses only the most dangerous patients) along with the fascination with psychoanalysis and the rise in power of the federal government leading to paranoia and conspiracy theories.
As with most Scorsese pictures the film features top notch support in the form of Ben Kingsley as the chief psychiatrist, Mark Ruffalo playing Leo’s partner and Max Von Sydow as a red herring.
The problem with films about mental institutions is that a realist view is banal, whilst the more juicy, comic visions become cartoonish and therefore are no longer about real people. As Shutter Island descends into the usual dank cell/horror mask cliches you would expect from Victorian mad houses the film loses its way. The twist (which will occur to the viewer within minutes if they’ve seen anything else about mental illness and identity), when it comes, is at odds with this. Trying to present the grotesque as realistic when relying on the skewed perception of the ill can paper a lot of cracks, the film’s twist is hardly less obvious for not choosing this route.
Leo is fine in the role of US Marshal Teddy Daniels investigating the disappearance of one of the patients, once again taking some flack for being Marty’s new muse but hardly responsible for the flaws in the film. In the hands of a journeyman director Shutter Island would be a solid, well-crafted if unremarkable thriller, but for Scorsese this simply isn’t enough. A study in the difficulty of overcoming grief and loss, the films ends up using this as an excuse for a gothic horror romp, a standard chiller with ‘ideas’ tacked on to it every now and then.
Not a return to form but a better offering than many of Scorsese’s recent pictures.

The Departed

The Departed

My second viewing of The Departed, on terrestrial TV one night, one of those situations where you don’t intend to watch a film but get sucked in, allowed me to gain some perspective away from the intimidating comparisons with the Infernal Affairs or indeed any notion of what a Scorsese picture would ideally be. Able to appreciate the film anew I dimly remember dismissing many of the central performances the first time round, aside from what is arguably Mark Whalberg’s finest hour.
This time I was able to see past the grown-baby constipation face of Scorsese’s new millennium muse, DiCaprio, and witness a performance as a man utterly terrified of the violence surrounding him and his vulnerability to this atmosphere as the rat that Jack Nicholson’s Boston-Irish gang is trying to ferret out.
Leo as Billy Costigan never gets a break, constantly fearful and twisted inside at the effort of maintaining his cover. Matt Damon’s Colin Sullivan in contrast is having a ball, strutting and joking and thoroughly enjoying his privileged position as the double agent on the other side of the fence, yet he nevertheless manages convey the character as a clueless idiot, out of his depth despite his bravado and usually expelling inappropriate remarks, only dimly aware of the status of the relationships in which he finds himself.
Nicholson’s performance as mob boss Frank Costello also benefits from a new take. What initially seemed like Jack coasting through his role by simply taking the OTT elements he’s been famous for since Witches of Eastwick and cranking them up to 11, it now feels like a study of a man so out of touch with reality that he has gone off the deep end and can no longer see the surface. Rarely sober at any given moment and wolfishly enjoying his status as alpha male - later in the film he tellingly states that he hasn’t been motivated by cash since he stole his first lunch money in grade school - he is all about the mayhem.
Unsurprisingly for Scorsese the cast is rounded out with starry support. Besides Whalberg we have Adam Baldwin in fine form (both exhibiting a fine line in workplace ribbing that echoes Mamet), Martin Sheen as Billy’s undercover handler and father figure/mentor, Vera Farmiga as the counsellor and love interest to both undercover rats and Ray Winstone as Frank’s right hand Mr. French, his gruff menace outweighing the dodgy accent, Boston by way of Bow.
There are many recurring tics, flourishes and motifs to be found from the rest of Scorsese’s work, not least in the East coast gangland setting but with pop music montages and the intense paranoia, but this is lesser Scorsese, more akin to Bringing Out the Dead than Casino or Goodfellas. Like that film, however, there’s still much to enjoy here.