Gone Girl (2014)
|Photo Credit: Gone Girl / 20th Century Fox|
Flashbacks expose the beginning of their romantic union, carnal desires, and dreams of the future. As the daughter of successful authors who created a children's series about her life, Amy is amazing; the Cool Girl who seems absolutely perfect. Nick is her white knight armed with insatiable charm, pandering to anyone who makes him feel like the man he wants to be. As the years tick by, and the Dunnes crash into reality, both Amy and Nick stop pretending. Like doting singletons who polish their online dating profiles and use flattering photos of themselves instead of accurate ones, their facades wear away. Flickers of domestic abuse, financial strains, and adultery emerge. The movie is not about how Amy goes missing but domestic entrapment, dominance, and submission to who we truly are versus how we sell ourselves and when the jig is finally up.
Author Gillian Flynn has established an impressive reputation since 2012 when her novel Gone Girl flew off the shelves and captivated readers. One of her next moves was to adapt her bestselling story to film. What better voice of authority to bring such a complex narrative of two dueling perspectives to the screen than the writer herself. It's a tricky ambition that for the most part succeeds.
Who took Amy? Only Nick is the major source of suspicion. Essentially, like the book, the movie is broken up into three parts. Adhering to the book's narrative being split into Amy and Nick's perspectives, the masquerade of the loving husband trope is built into the first half of the film and then brutally dissected. Amy's mask is peeled away for the latter two-thirds of the film. If it wasn't Amy's diary entries touring us through the beautiful inception of their ill-fated relationship, my biggest struggle was Nick's hour, which was a perfectly-wrapped concept of Nick I couldn't buy.
There are probably those that disagree with me but the novel is certainly Amy's story. Where the film treads are putting a stronger story focus on Nick; milking him as the doey-eye sympathetic husband than he really is. Many of his violent and ignorant misdeeds are only hinted at. Nick and his sister Margo sneak by with a lot of trash talk towards Amy who is painted (from his perspective) as the never-satisfied precocious money-hugging perfectionist nag who deserved to go missing (maybe even be physically harmed, psychologically tormented, or killed). Some skeletons come out of his closet as the investigation seizes their property, his privacy, and good boy image. But they aren't structured in a way that we feel he is responsible for his actions; instead, the story tries to sell us that his decisions are Amy's fault.
Obviously, Flynn's novel is best interpreted by her instead of a studio shadow-writer who probably would've mutilated her story. And she definitely shines unforgettable attention on Amy's multi-faceted personality. Due to the script's subtlety, a collection of movie watchers is left labeling the movie misogynist, anti-feminist, etc. When Amy becomes the sole focus during the second and third acts, this is where the movie has a heart-racing climatic pulse. It's not as hollow. I don't feel like I'm being sold on the idea of a protagonist I should root for when he's unrootable. Amy, and therefore Rosamund Pink, instills such voracious energy, it finally kicks in that this story is at full throttle.
Similar to the world-renown fantasy adventure Life of Pi, Flynn's novel was considered an impossible book to transform to film. The script's balance relies on creating alliances that we switch to from one section to the next. Successfully it piles on details that we don't necessarily have to question but do a double-take on ruthlessly stripping away all the pieces you've hidden of yourself. Unsuccessfully, I felt like details from the book were severely left on the cutting room and misapprehends the ambition of glorious Amy.
From visions of the past to the depraved present, Pike is a cunning presence. This is genuinely the role of a lifetime: a thoughtful dedicated mysterious actress that didn't make Amy a generic caricature of a psycho bitch; who crafted every scene as slick as a spider: graceful, hypnotic, venomous. Pike triumphs. She frighteningly weaves a chilling, dramatic, and even humorous, performance that may have to claw its way to the top of the Oscar pack instead of just being given a nod on a gold platter.
Alongside Pike is Ben Affleck starring as Nick. Often criticized for his limited acting range, the past few years has garnered more praise, and his glass ceiling seems ions away from shattering. Perhaps not reigning in a performance of his career as Pike has done, he still certainly leaves his mark. Playing the husband whose mother always taught him not to do onto others as they will do onto you, he is the self-effacing man in a million who seems like everyone's charming savior. This works against him as his character's own skeletons start coming out of the closet for all the world to see and criticize and pin him for his wife's disappearance. Affleck delivers a range of frustrated and resentful emotions that creates a persuasive protagonist caught in life's web.
The laundry list of supporting actors can't also be easily forgotten: Tyler Perry (as the hotshot criminal lawyer), Neil Patrick Harris (as a friend from Amy's past), and Carrie Coon (as Nick's twin sister). Impressively Amy's mother played by Lisa Banes has very limited screen time but makes the most of it. Unfortunately, the movie doesn't utilize her as much as I would've liked (disappearing from the movie almost halfway through) but her stern, disapproving, and haughty performance is truly memorable. She harnesses the type of mother-in-law you wouldn't want to come within ten feet of and bless you if you can survive her seething gaze. (Which goes back to my wish that I hoped to see more of either Nick's mistreatment of Amy (as horrendously as that sounds) or the foundation of her parent's questionable child-rearing choices.)
Flynn found a great partner in director David Fincher known for such mind-bending flicks as Fight Club, Se7en, and Zodiac. As trained monkeys who might be used to watching Fincher's films, which are obsessively laced in detail-orientation, we aim to question the intricate placing of every frame. Another director couldn't nearly accomplish the firm and experienced hand Fincher brings to this juggernaut thriller satire.
Despite the dramatic depth Fincher's work, his filmography is filled with Who Dun Its and Who Can Do That?!s. Restrained in Missouri to two unreliable characters, we have nothing and no one to really trust. We doubt our ability of discerning who is telling the truth. Enhancing the confined setting of the Missing Amy probe is the hypnotizing soundtrack by Trent Razor and Atticus Ross. The humdrum nature of the small town is noted (with what sounds like) water dripping from a sink. When the investigation gains media attention and riles up a nation, the soundtrack amplifies with rapid heartbeats and drums. Every twist and turn of the story are etched with a calmative, isolating and leery arrangement; similarly how every scene is composed.
Walking out of Gone Girl I was compounded with a lot of thoughts: elated for conquering the long-awaited hype, satisfied with the adaptation but also nagged by something empty and feeling slightly unfulfilled. The dissolution of the Dunnes forces us to feel like we're a child in the middle of a terrible divorce; we overhear daddy and mommy's side of the arguments, don't have any say in the resolution and are firmly handed a final verdict. The transfixing experience is the anticipation of what we believe should happen; for justice to be served, a rainbow to cascade over the ****storm, and life to end unhappily ever after.
Similar to my reading experience, I am enamored by the book but not entirely in love with it. Gone Girl goes far to adapt this deeply layered concept about swapped gender roles. societal norms, and media culture. In the specific case of Amy Dunne, it's good as it could've been but also could've gone further.