As with Filth, Danny Boyle’s film Trance runs James Mc Avoy through a gauntlet of miserable looking mental and physical abuse. But whereas Filth felt like a colourful reverse bildungsroman for one perverted cop, Trance has far less focus, having to devote its time to unwrapping its parade of false protagonists - all of them complete jerks.
This lack of focus isn't the main problem though. Its chief failing stems from the story's dependence on the movieland version of hypnosis, wherein a person can be made to think or do absolutely anything as long as a hypnotist is talented enough. This basically gives Danny Boyle carte blanche to write a story with as many twists, turns and fake outs as it likes as long as he regularly flashes up a sign saying “woooo, is this a dream?!” before ending the scene. It also gives licence for plenty of gratuitous nudity (as an exploration of pop-psychology sexual frustration, of course, of course). There is something satisfying about a solid mystery that obeys a clear internal logic which can be completely observed from a second viewing. It is deeply unsatisfying when a mystery plot becomes a pile up of red herrings, wherein a character wakes up from a dream, only to find he is in another dream ten minutes later, and then enters another two a few minutes after that ( etc. etc. ad nauseam). It feels like a chore to follow, and you soon throw up your hands and say “fuck it, I can’t be bothered”. That’s especially the case when we’ve already seen the likes of Perfect Blue and Paprika explore the same damn concepts with the same damn byzantine story telling.
The story resolves itself with an extraordinary case of Xanatos Roulette - one which I could spend all day picking through for the plot holes and fridge logic. Filth built itself on one character's single big self-delusion. Trance is Danny Boyle’s big self-delusion about how to write a competent psychological thriller.
It is muddled. It is a mess. It is both on purpose and not really worth it in the end.
Film Pah, I'm Not Patient Enough for This Again
As with Filth, Danny Boyle’s film Trance runs James Mc Avoy through a gauntlet of miserable looking mental and physical abuse. But whereas Filth felt like a colourful reverse bildungsroman for one perverted cop, Trance has far less focus, having to devote its time to unwrapping its parade of false protagonists - all of them complete jerks.
This lack of focus isn't the main problem though. Its chief failing stems from the story's dependence on the movieland version of hypnosis, wherein a person can be made to think or do absolutely anything as long as a hypnotist is talented enough. This basically gives Danny Boyle carte blanche to write a story with as many twists, turns and fake outs as it likes as long as he regularly flashes up a sign saying “woooo, is this a dream?!” before ending the scene. It also gives licence for plenty of gratuitous nudity (as an exploration of pop-psychology sexual frustration, of course, of course). There is something satisfying about a solid mystery that obeys a clear internal logic which can be completely observed from a second viewing. It is deeply unsatisfying when a mystery plot becomes a pile up of red herrings, wherein a character wakes up from a dream, only to find he is in another dream ten minutes later, and then enters another two a few minutes after that ( etc. etc. ad nauseam). It feels like a chore to follow, and you soon throw up your hands and say “fuck it, I can’t be bothered”. That’s especially the case when we’ve already seen the likes of Perfect Blue and Paprika explore the same damn concepts with the same damn byzantine story telling.
The story resolves itself with an extraordinary case of Xanatos Roulette - one which I could spend all day picking through for the plot holes and fridge logic. Filth built itself on one character's single big self-delusion. Trance is Danny Boyle’s big self-delusion about how to write a competent psychological thriller.
It is muddled. It is a mess. It is both on purpose and not really worth it in the end.