When someone is reading a book in a movie, it's usually a cheap way for the movie makers to invoke some of the dignity and seriousness of purpose of great literature (think Serendipity, with its gratuitous use of Love in the Time of Cholera). But when Christian Bale tosses down a copy of Dostoevsky's The Idiot at the beginning of The Machinist, it's much more legitimate. Yes, it serves as movie shorthand for madness, but it's also a clue as to how you should think of the film. Having read a boat-load of Dostoevsky, I tried to prepare myself for a long, tortuous journey in which the main character's shifting internal landscape would be all we had to go on in terms of interpreting reality. You see, Dostoevsky was always writing about insanity, particularly insanity resulting from guilt, and his characters tended to go to horrifying, unthinkable lengths to shield themselves from the consequences of whatever it is they did.

Speaking of unthinkable lengths, Christian Bale deserves a truckload of Oscars for dedication to his craft (he's one of the few who actually deserves to use that word), because no matter what anyone has told you about how much weight he lost for this role, you will absolutely not believe it until you see. The first scene finds him working his machine at the factory, his skin stretched taut over bone, and you think to yourself, "My god, he's so gaunt. He looks nothing like he did in American Psycho." But just wait, because ten minutes into the film he will remove his shirt and there will be an audible gasp from you and the rest of the audience, as you regard his diminished frame with unmitigated horror. This is because he has turned himself into a Holocaust survivor in order to play this role. I hesitate to use that term because of its implications, but there is no other way to convey the extent of his self-starvation. He is shriveled, so shriveled that you can see the exact contours of the bones in his arms and legs. The lack of padding over his spine makes him look deformed and hunched (you're not supposed to see the precise curvature of someone's spine, you know). His eyes are so far recessed into his face that they look like they might just disappear completely, withdrawing into the shadows of their sockets. In short, he looks like a monster. He is terrifying, and you will not get over the way he looks, not even a little bit, until the movie is mostly over. You're shocked anew every time you see him, which is how the director wanted it, I'm sure. Because the point is that Christian Bale's character, Trevor, is torturing himself over something. He is so burdened by guilt that he is trying to make himself disappear.

There's not much I can reveal about this movie that will not be a spoiler. There's a waitress, a kid, a prostitute, an industrial accident, and a lot of blood inexplicably pouring out of a refrigerator. There's a disquieting bald man with freaky-long teeth (not pointed, just long) who follows and taunts Trevor. There's deliberate self-mutilation. Saying this film is disturbing is like saying that Hemingway took a drink now and then. It's profoundly troubling, and its bleak tone might best be described as a combination of Jacob's Ladder and those old Twilight Zones that messed with your head. It leaves you totally unanchored until the very end (there is an explanation, thank the gods), and until then, every mundane object takes on sinister significance as it is turned and examined within Trevor's twisted vision. He is a thing out of nightmares himself—how could it be any other way?

I firmly believe that this is a film Dostoevsky would have made, had he been born later and in southern California. I can picture him now, in a green director's chair with "Fyodor" marked on it, unshaven and unkempt, looking like one of his own characters and shouting incomprehensible instructions to a bewildered crew. He is screaming for a coffee with no sugar or cream. He is telling Christian he needs to lose a bit more weight to be convincing. And they all do what he demands because no one before or since has had such unflinching insights into the human psyche and the many ways it can become unravelled. The Machinist is the perfect Dostoevsky-esque tribute. Does it work as a film? Who knows? It is probably chock-full of flaws, but I can't separate myself enough from the material to be an objective critic. And that is something, after all.

P.S. Do NOT bring your kids unless you want to punish them for something horrible they did. "You see, little Timmy? This is the inevitable result of your actions. If you don't start obeying your first-grade teacher, you'll suffer a cognitive disassociation the likes of which no one has ever seen, culminating in a painfully slow death spiral into madness and self-destruction. Okay? Now let's go get some ice cream."

Tags: movies