Synchronic (2020)

 Score: 3.5 / 5

First responders see the weirdest things. Philandering Steve and domesticated Dennis are two paramedics working the late shift, and they are called to the scene of what appears to be attempted murder. That is to say, it appears someone was impaled on a sword, but the sword in question is stuck in the wall and...rotting? The other person at the scene is incoherent, clearly under the influence of something strong. Over the course of the next few nights, more strange and violent scenes crop up, and other than horrific circumstances, the only link is the presence of a mysterious new drug called Synchronic.

Of course, as a new feature from filmmaking duo Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead, this movie aims to mess with your mind. I don't want to spoil too much of the plot or themes, but then this review would have to end now. Their previous movies (Resolution, The Endless, and Spring) work best, in my opinion, when you know nothing going in, letting their wild rollercoaster take you on a totally surprising ride. They tend to play fast and loose with genre, and Synchronic is no exception. And while I'd say this latest science fiction venture clearly has a bigger budget to work with, it still feels small and intimate. Much like last year's Antebellum, this one has a lot on its mind and works hard to stay grounded and tactile, despite its thrillingly complex concepts.

The movie takes quite a while to set itself up; we don't even hear the word "Synchronic" for a long time. Much like the elusive meaning of the title-- which doubles in referring to the mysterious drug (by using the slang) as well as time theory -- the movie shifts between genre tropes and references to other movies. Is it an arthouse character study, despite its limited scope in terms of probing the two main characters' minds, or is it a time-bending thriller a la Tenet? Does its tendency toward horror reflect its aesthetic or its political-historical interests? Even its basic concept, once explained in a rather beautiful way around a vinyl record player, becomes the tool by which our main characters can be less understood: as Steve uses the drug to try and find Dennis's missing daughter (who also used the drug), their motivations and fates and traumas begin to swirl together around a gaping empty space where we are asked to do the hard work of understanding the characters' internal lives.

This is where the editing and cinematography come into play. While watching the movie, I became increasingly annoyed at what I assumed to be unnecessary and distracting shots of starscapes, upside-down pans and bird's eye views, and even things moving backward like an ambulance early in the film. But, as the movie progressed, I sensed that these interjected shots were meant to destabilize our understanding of time; it is still linear, unlike recent big-budget sci-fi pictures would have us think, but our characters' experience of it has been broken. We see, to some extent, what they see, and becoming "unstuck in time" alters their sense of reality and of self. Thankfully, the film keeps a sense of mystery and wonder by utilizing a few quirks of the drug's capabilities, so this does not become a sort of camp Alice in Wonderland pill that says "EAT ME." It also approaches the mystery through real science, in scenes of Steve testing its effects and limiting variables; most of the film is purely visual, and the filmmakers are asking us to participate in observing and deducing, rather than lecturing to us.

It helps to have two strong leading men who are fairly stoic. Jamie Dornan plays the deceptively complex Dennis while Anthony Mackie shoulders the dramatic burden as Steve. Despite his frequent flings, he seems to be a bit of a burnout; when he visits the doctor, things only get worse. But it seemingly makes him an ideal candidate to go searching for Dennis's missing daughter via experimental and experiential drugs. It also strengthens the strongest theme of the film, which is the alienating effect of being in a place out of time. Though the film consistently stops short of making overtly political references -- in fact, it's frustratingly absent of clear themes in this vein -- it is telling that Mackie plays a Black man in the deep U.S. south who resents hegemonic domesticity. As he travels to various times (all in the past) it becomes evident to us that nothing in the past is welcoming. He is attacked time and again, and it is not always clear if it is because of his futurism or his skin color.

Actually, now that I've said that, I think it's fair to say it's always because of his skin color. Though a longer movie or series might explore both sides of this, it's fitting that it was released this year, as America decided not to go back in time yet again to reclaim a lost, fictional "greatness."

Ultimately, the film flirts with burning itself out, and its final takeaway seems to be little more than a vague sense of alienation. Initially a strong theme, the finale indicates that trauma has a way of changing our lives (in a bad way, if these two men's experiences are to be taken seriously), and that fate isn't escapable, no matter how we try to manipulate or change it. For such a promising premise, I can't help but feel this concept was a little wasted in this movie. Then again, it's a beautifully minimalist approach to a genuinely intriguing and novel idea, and that's, in this viewer's opinion, the very best the genre can offer.