Writer Scott Z. Burns deserves all the credit in the world
for creating yet another intelligent, gripping, and unpredictable horror film.
His previous effort, Contagion, started
as a conventional viral outbreak film. But at some point during its progression
– no doubt guided by the masterful hand of Soderbergh – Contagion evolved into dissecting a society overwrought not with a
disease, but with fear, greed, and inhumanity. Its horror stemmed from the unrelenting
possibility that anything could happen and everything was vulnerable, shaping a
pervasive landscape in which nothing was beyond the infection of humanity’s
greatest flaws.
The combination of Burns and Soderbergh creates yet another
portrait of a society reaching its tipping point. Indeed, the horror in Side Effects does not necessarily stem
from the pills and the prescriptions and the medical repercussions; its horror
is intrinsically baked into the very world in which the characters live. The
possibilities for deception and detriment are pervasive because each character
is inherently flawed, inherently human. Each narrative branch off the central story
is replete with temptations, threats, and pitfalls. All characters venture down
their own paths alone, unaware of the machinations at work beyond, behind, or
even beside their own tale.
Much like the noirs of the 1940s and 1950s reflected the
social fears of its time, Side Effects
grafts its skeleton against the legal, medical, and financial pitfalls in
today’s society. This is a classic wrong-man
noir with an impeccably polished face-lift for the 21st century; and
its intricate setup belies its effectiveness. It’s a film that begins through
the eyes of Emily Taylor, a recent newlywed suffering from crippling
depression, and then cross fades to a tale of deception seen through the eyes
of Emily’s psychiatrist, Dr. Banks. It’s a crafty and subtle passing of the
baton between two seemingly unrelated archetypes – a portrait of a helpless,
fragile young woman that deftly switches to a chaotic and unpredictable
nightmare for a doctor.
Soderbergh seems to relish his final bow (if his pledge to
retire from theatrical films is to be believed). He’s a man of extraordinarily
eclectic tastes, an artist who in the last few years has crafted stories about
thieves (Ocean’s), prostitutes (The Girlfriend Experience), and male
strippers (Magic Mike). His sharp
expertise turns the mundane into the extraordinary, the trivial into the
catastrophic. He creates worlds in which characters no longer act, but become. And he’s a man with surprising eclectic interests, someone who’s just as excited
about importing Bolivian liquor as he is about painting. I can only hope that
whichever interest Soderbergh tackles next, he will bring a trace of his
impeccable eye for detail. And I know that when he does move on, the movie
world will be a worse place for it.
