V for Vendetta

'V' is thrilling as it overwhelms you with its passion
By Daniel Fienberg

Natalie Portman and 'V'Sure to be troubling for those incapable of distinguishing political allegory from social realism, "V for Vendetta" will be the year's most misunderstood and confoundingly discussed film.

Based on Alan Moore's comic, it's a call for liberation that's at once epic, but also personal. As scripted by the Wachowski brothers and directed by James McTeigue, it's a melodramatic tale of romance and identity. At well over two hours, "V" is glutted with lectures about semiotics and hegemonic theory that will alienate youngsters craving non-stop action and probably strike smarter audiences as a wee bit pretentious. Both self-important and perhaps genuinely important in equal measures, "V" is finally quite thrilling, a movie that overwhelms you with its passion, even if you don't know where that passion is directed.

Set in the not-too-distant future, "America's War" has spread over to the rest of the world, leaving civilized society in ruins. In England, a repressive regime fronted by Chancellor Sutler (John Hurt), has rooted out all manner of sexual and religious variation, controlling the government, police and media. On Nov. 5, the man known as "V" (the voice and body, but never face, of Hugo Weaving), a knife-wielding anarchist in a Guy Fawkes mask, destroys the old halls of justice and promises that one year hence, he will fulfill Guy Fawkes' dream by destroying Parliament and he modestly hopes the oppressed people will rise up and stand with him. His somewhat unwilling ally in all this is Evey (Natalie Portman), a working class woman whose parents were activists.

In the source material, Evey is a wide-eyed waif, who worships V immediately and for good reason: he saved her life, he's got some wacky ideas and he has an elaborate collection of modern art. She's like one of those dolts who wears a Che t-shirt, but couldn't tell you a thing about the guy except how cool he looks in silkscreen. In an important embellishment, one that undermines all of the "They're glorifying a terrorist" nabobs, here Evey is an independent woman, a smart gal who recognizes that V isn't quite right in the head, a man whose desire for revenge has destroyed his ability to be a functional human.

While "The Count of Monte Cristo" is repeatedly referenced, a more current link might be made to Steven Spielberg's "Munich," another film about men becoming so consumed by vengeance that they lose touch with their true faith. Make no mistake, "V for Vendetta" does indeed have a terrorist at its center, he's so sufficiently askew that intelligent viewers will be capable of recognizing which parts of his goals are admirable and which are deranged.

The Wachowskis have done a decent job of paring down the extraneous subplots in Moore's comic, though every scene without V or Evey is a chore. As V plans, two investigators (Stephen Rea and Rupert Graves) try to track him down for the sole dramatic purpose of dredging up the truth of V's origins. When those stock characters are on screen, "V" slows and McTeigue, so confident with the up-tempo material, seems to accept that they're just a necessary expositional evil.

The late Adrian Biddle's cinematography captures a strange mix of iconography that ranges from London's postcard locales to a vision of decaying working classic England that's both futuristically dystopic, but also taken from the nation's Thatcher era. Copying many images directly from David Lloyd's original illustrations, "V" is often visually striking, rising to its greatest level of inspiration in its final act. The film's shift into propaganda is gradual, but keyed by a Dario Martinelli score that leaves no emotional swell to chance. On all technical levels, "V" is a big movie, occasionally bludgeoning the audience.

Yet, at its center, "V" has a splendid performance from Portman. Sharing most of her scenes with a freak in a vaudeville disguise and an assortment of totalitarian caricatures, Portman's every choice comes off as natural. Tortured and broken down for much of the film, she pitches her torment at a level just below the film's Gothic excesses. Like Naomi Watts in "King Kong," Portman has no human reference points to play off of, but stays grounded.

Weaving provides at least some assist with a florid vocal performance. If V is more than just a costume, it's because he somehow inhabits the garb and Portman somehow believes the illusion.

Ultimately, viewers who take the titular V as a literal ideal will be frustrated by his superficial positioning as a terrorist. These will be the same people who thought that "Crash" was supposed to be a literal representation of contemporary Los Angeles. It's hard to be figurative in the land of the blind.