Ho Lin 
Shutter Island (2010, Martin Scorcese):
Martin Scorcese is cinema’s answer to U2 — both like to do things grand and often teeter on the thin line between operatic and overweening, yet we wouldn’t want them any other way. So it’s unusual to see Scorcese tackle a straightforward (for him) potboiler like this one, based on the novel by Dennis Lehane. The opening frames, featuring a storm-tossed boat, two FBI agents with dialogue nearly as sharp as their ties and coats, and a prison island that doubles as a looney bin, promise something pulpy and fun like an old Republic picture — it’s an impression reinforced by Krzysztof Penderecki’s astringent horn and string blasts, like the theme of Dragnet on hallucinogens. So here’s Scorcese’s tribute to grand old noir thrillers, you think, for Scorcese is a tribute artist if nothing else.
Naturally, there’s more to it than that. U.S. marshals Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) are ostensibly on the island to investigate the disappearance of an inmate, who seems to have vanished into thin air. The weather is gray and the reception even grayer: apart from the affably guarded Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley), the rest of the place, staff and patient alike, regard the interlopers with suspicion, scorn, or both. Soon we’re in the midst of Technicolor-drenched dreams as Teddy is haunted by the specter of his dead wife (Michelle Williams), as well as explosive flashbacks to Teddy’s World War II soldier days, face-to-face with heaps of dead Jews in Dachau. Could this all have a connection to the courtly Dr. Naehring (Max von Sydow), who might be performing Nazi-like experiments on the inmates? And what of Daniels’ conviction that the man responsible for the death of his wife is squirreled away in the dank dungeons of Ward C? Or maybe nothing is as it seems — what’s the story behind the bandage glued to Teddy’s head, for instance? Before long, Teddy is plagued with headaches and his hallucinations, he is systematically divested of his gun, his suit and very possibly his sanity, and the film’s central question emerges: who is playing musical chairs with his head, and where will he end up when the music stops?
“This is a mental institution, Marshal, for the criminally insane. Usual isn’t a big part of our day.”
You’d think there’d be enough material there for Scorcese to go apeshit and sail into Freudian waters with phallic flags flying, much as he did in his overheated remake of Cape Fear two decades ago, but the older, more laid-back Scorcese prefers to take it easy this time around, like a pitcher content to throw curves and off-speed stuff. Pulp this is not; there’s few subjective, sickening lurches of the camera, no rat-tat editing, and the show-stopping setpiece is simply three men in a room having a talk. Filmed in muted colors and mournful blacks by Robert Richardson, this is a handsome-looking movie above all else, and Scorcese lets the plot unspool as it must, without much ushering. It all culminates in one of those twist conclusions that makes eminent sense upon watching the film, and yet leaves you with an empty feeling afterwards. Maybe if Scorcese was as artful with plot momentum as he is with pure cinematic verve the climax would pack more punch, but for all of his gifts, he’s never showed much interest with plot. Even Taxi Driver (which celebrates its 35th anniversary this year) doesn’t accelerate to a conclusion as much as it blunders its way into a paroxysm of violence but at least that finish was a perfect match for its addled hero, Travis Bickle. Shutter Island‘s story relies on sleight-of-hand, and Scorcese isn’t invested in the twists and turns enough to convince us that we should invest ourselves, either.
But even as the film evaporates before our eyes, there are fleeting pleasures to be had, mainly in the acting. It’s ironic that DiCaprio gets to play a similarly deluded, grieving widower in Inception, which came out a few months after this production, and as in that movie, he’s convincing as a crusader who’s way too assured to afford himself the self-examination he desperately needs. Most of the parts are walk-ons: Elias Koteas and Jackie Earle Haley play psychos yet again (they can do these roles in their sleep at this point), Ted Levine (who knows a thing or two about psychos from Silence of the Lambs) steals the single scene he’s in as the warden, and a jittery Patricia Clarkson makes an impression as a runaway doctor who may be a sage, a lunatic, or both. In the end, it’s DiCaprio’s movie, and by the time he’s reliving the death of his wife you might feel some faint stirrings of emotion. I was more impressed with the final scene: understated and almost blase in its execution, Daniels makes a fateful decision that can be read in either of two ways, and it’s a nice little grace note that lingers long after any strangeness involving slobbering inmates, psychosis, and murder. For a Scorcese movie, ending on a quizzical note qualifies as subversive and unexpected, almost as unexpected as a Scorcese genre film with little bite.
