Review by Kevin Murphy
In The Passenger, Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1975 meditative film, John Locke (Jack Nicholson) has problems. He is a journalist gathering information for a documentary that chronicles the struggle between control-hungry insurgents and the North African government. His work is almost done, but frustrating detours lead him goose-chasing into the sprawling, dustbowl desert. He climbs cliffs and drives for miles, but soon the sand sabotages his Land Rover and he is left to walk, his willpower waning. When he finds his way back to his hotel, weary and sun-parched, he merely wants to shower, forget the day’s setbacks and rest. But when he goes next door to his friend’s room to borrow soap, his friend is face down on the bed, dead from a heart attack. This rare circumstance gets the fans whirling, and Locke is suddenly presented with the opportunity of a lifetime.
Only Locke must act immediately, without deliberation or foresight. Locke stares into his friend’s eyes, seemingly boring a tunnel to his soul, and imagines what it would be like to become him. The chance for a new life gains focus. He imagines leaving his work, leaving his wife and home and identity, and the temptation proves too great to resist. Locke drags the corpse to his room, dresses him in his own clothes, switches passport photographs, showers and finally rings the front desk for departing flight information. When he emerges from his room he is no longer John Locke. He is David Robertson, the globetrotting arms smuggler, loaded with promise and freedom.
But that freedom is thwarted when Locke’s wife and coworkers get word of his death. They are shocked, confused and suspicious. They begin an investigation, forcing Locke to haul off to Spain. He meets a young woman in Barcelona, whom he recognizes from London, and together they cut across the country, enjoying exotic hotels and lazy lunches in the shade. For a while Locke’s transformation into Robertson is easy, seamless and rewarding. Locke takes on the role of arms smuggler and is paid handsomely for his efforts. Meanwhile, Locke’s wife is determined to speak with Robertson, the last person to have seen Locke alive. She contacts the embassy and discovers Robertson is an arms smuggler, goes to Spain and continues her search. Along the way she realizes her husband has switched photos with Robertson, that Locke may still be alive. This realization burns within, inspiring her quest with the dedication and resourcefulness usually equated with her journalist husband. Locke has rejected her, but she will not be denied the truth. All this commotion coincides with the police narrowing their pursuit of Robertson. He is a notorious smuggler, always on the move, but lately it seems he’s been a little messy, not himself. Suddenly, the abandoned past and criminal present bear down on the freedom-seeking, anonymity-driven Locke.
The Passenger is filmed as a visceral miasma, rising and then descending upon Locke’s vicariousness. Antonioni rests his camera on landscapes as if he’s letting it breathe. In these quiet, slow moments we are seduced, drawn into Locke’s beautiful, ruined world. In North Africa, sand dunes roll beneath the desert sun, disorienting and absorbing Locke’s sense of purpose. In Barcelona, Locke’s fugitive bearings are rattled with jolting scenes of urban angst, sending him off towards the countryside, where the landscape shifts from brown and rocky to lush and green.
One of the most memorable scenes follows Locke on a gondola. Below, the city and the past lay in scattered assembly. Locke leans out the window, spreads his arms wing-like and soars. Filming from above, the camera captures Locke in his free-flying escape. The image reveals Locke’s courage and desire while locking him in isolation, high above the world, for what is sure to be a temporary ride.
And Antonioni is the driver of this ride. His slow-crafted pace allows Nicholson the space and time to slip fully into Locke’s predicament. Nicholson’s performance is loud and understated, bold and sly. He brings to the role a tense, nervous energy. He is quiet and determined, an intelligent rogue. He is reminiscent of the moody hero in everyday life, the individual whose emotions dictate the days of his admirers. From the surface, Locke’s life is blessed with an interesting career and a beautiful wife; he is admired by his colleagues and seems destined for great things. Over the course of the movie, though, Nicholson unearths Locke’s depths, his inherent longings, his malevolence, dissatisfaction and bitterness. He exhibits wolfish cunning, but in the end betrays himself as a bewildered, desperate man.
The Passenger is sometimes criticized as a slow film without climax. In this sense we are similar to Locke. We long for something else (speed, drama, climax, resolution); something we assume would be better. Instead, we wind up at a final hotel, the movie’s last stop. Locke is in his room, on his bed, smoking a cigarette. Through the open window we watch simple, everyday activities: A boy bouncing his ball; an old couple walking away; dust in the air; cars entering a parking lot. Locke is drained. He rolls over and experiences his last moments. Soon his wife arrives. The police break down the door. Locke is found spread out and dead, succumbing to the same lonely fate as his spoiled savior, Robertson. In the end, the police look around the room. Locke’s wife is still. No gunshots or grief. No redemption or forgiveness; just silence and stupor, a quiet goodbye to a dramatic life.
Feel different about this movie? Tell it like it is, you can share comments.
