Writer-director Steven Knight is always a little hit-and-miss with me. That is, his thrillers are usually appropriately erotic and emotionally complex with just enough crazy to make me enjoy them; they're also often in bizarre settings with even stranger twists that serve more to distract than compel me. Nowhere has he done this more effectively than in Serenity.
In a neo-noir thriller that reminded me more than once of erotic thrillers from 40 years ago like Fatal Attraction and Jagged Edge. Actually, it reminded me a bit of Acrimony too, but in a less urban-Gothic way. It all takes place on a remote island (only heaven knows where), picturesque and tropical, the perfect place for margaritas and murder. The economy of the island seems dependent on fish, but one fisherman isn't interested in just any flopping flounder. Matthew McConaughey plays the fisherman -- he has a name, but he's just a melancholy Matthew McConaughey -- hell-bent on harpoonin' that blasted Moby-Dick, by t'under!
He may not be an Ahab, but there are plenty of ideas being tossed around here. The fish he's after is a huge tuna named "Justice"and if you think for one instant someone isn't going to be dragged by Justice to the depths, you'd better crack open a book and educate yourself. His first mate Djimon Hounsou, ever the faithful and pious Starbuck character, counsels him to make a living and let Justice alone, to no avail. After all, Matt McC seems to catch swordfish and sharks with no problem on a daily basis. Why should he care about Justice? Er, that is, a tuna? But our fisherman is haunted by a seeming injustice done him some time before, perhaps when he was on the field of war, or perhaps something to do with these visions of a son he hasn't seen in years.
Into this troubled paradise steps (saunters, really) Anne Hathaway as a stunning femme fatale in white. Her outfits alone make the movie worth watching, but so does her penchant for inciting murder. Anne, you see, is Matthew's former wife and mother to his son. She feeds off his hunger for his son and plies him with stories of how abusive her new husband (Jason Clarke) has been. Matt agonizes over the prospect, knowing murder to be wrong in some weirdly moralistic way (other than Djimon there is no religion here, and he's totally fine prostituting himself to Diane Lane for extra cash) but finding Anne's simple, elegant plan nearly foolproof.
It's all a fascinating setup: glamorous, psychological, chilling, erotic. There's nothing not to like, especially with the promise of mysteries to unravel, not least of which is the strange connection between Matthew and his son that even Anne comments upon. But by the halfway point, the film begins to unravel. Jason Clarke is actually a monster, and we totally want him to die. Dressed like a Scorsese mobster and as vile as the sharks we hope will eat him, Jason oozes nastiness and violence in a caricatured performance that is as far from Matthew's tortured introversion as you could possibly get.
The strange metaphysical connections increase in length and intensity until the secret comes out. I really don't want to spoil it, but it's completely absurd. The movie owns it, which I admire, and even kind of works on its own terms, which I admire even more. But it's such a bonkers concept that I almost laughed out loud in the cinema, when I should have been awed or thrilled or...something. It took me so far out of the moment and has so little real meaning that it feels more like a poorly wired gadget shorting out, causing entertaining sparks that almost immediately fizzle and die.
It's lots of fun on its own, to be sure. But I can't help wishing the film had stayed true to its setup of classic erotic thrills and a seductive murder in paradise. I guess, for that, there's always Dead Calm.
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