Cold Souls

Somewhere Alfred Hitchcock is laughing at Charlie Kaufman. Not for reasons of abasement or creative derision but more so for the understanding of what it's like to have people directly rip off your work and give you entirely no credit or an appreciative nod.

Not that Sophie Barthes is as blatant or unapologetic as Brian DePalma in her artistic thievery, but to argue her debut feature is not directly lifted from the navel-gazing, quirky existentialism of Kaufman is downright disingenuous. I know the man didn't invent spiritual languor or brooding introspection, but he has put his stamp on most of the current uses of it. Now, Lars von Trier may disagree with my assessment on that and try to throw something heavy at me (like, say, his ego) but it does not make it any less true.

Fortunately Barthes is (or at least promises to be) a hell of a writer and filmmaker and there is plenty - vast, limitless acres - of intellectual space on the current cinematic playground with which to share one's toys of angst and ennui.

Kaufman should be flattered. She's emulated his style well and made it even more palatable, albeit a tad less clever or nuanced. If you have to dip into someone else's well, you can do a lot worse than aping the genius behind Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and the masterful Synecdoche, New York.

The seed of the idea for Barthes' Cold Souls originated from a dream wherein she was waiting in a doctor's office with Woody Allen when he starts freaking out over the fact that his soul (he has it in a container) is shaped just like a chickpea. The gag is used repeatedly in the film to great effect.

The premise however - the medical extraction and storage of souls - is the spirit of the matter, so to speak.

Substituting for Woody (Barthes' first choice for the lead) is the equally anxious, urban, neurotic, put-upon Paul Giamatti (in a clever bit of character inversion), playing his own doppelganger, an actor named Paul Giamatti. His tired eyes, stooped shoulders, balding pate and puffy middle speak of a man struggling with the weight of the world. In this case, the heavy burden of his own soul. He seemingly has it all; a stellar career as an actor, a plum role as Uncle Vanya in a New York production of Chekhov's play, a cool midtown apartment and a beautiful wife (an underutilized Emily Watson). But he is becoming too immersed in Vanya and struggling with a nasty case of existential fatigue.

His agent phones and points him in the direction of a New Yorker article that features a company (conveniently located on Roosevelt Island!) which can extract a person's soul in order to free up one's energy and focus. The company also will keep it in storage until the host is ready to be reunited with it. A sort of clinical "fuck you" to the new-agers and spiritualists direct from the medical community and science itself.

Skeptically, he agrees to go through with the procedure.

He meets with the mildly Mephistophelean Dr. Flintstein (David Strathairn at his understated best) who wheels him into a large MRI machine, presses a few buttons, pulls a few levers (the pretense of "futurism" works well with the anachronistic clunkiness of the machinery) and, voila, out pops Giamatti's chickpea soul.

The main thrust of the film's humor in the first 30-40 minutes is the absolute awkwardness, both psychologically and physically, with which Giamatti handles his resulting soullessness. The staid, matter-of-fact way the procedure is sold to and performed on him only increases his brewing anxiety. But in the days following the extraction he begins to feel better, vivacious even. With the load of his soul and his suffering gone, he becomes a revitalized man and actor. Unfortunately, he's doing Vanya, so the effervescence has turned him into an ebullient ham. His fellow cast members and director begin to shun or excoriate him. He returns to depression and worry. He wants a soul refund (that should be an R&B hit!). Problem is, his chickpea anima has been stolen by a Russian soul mule (Dina Korzun) who works on the black market. Her introduction comes early in the film but we are only slowly given glimpses into what is truly happening in the concurrent storyline. It is an effective and subtly dreamlike technique by Barthes which adds to the otherworldly feel of the unexplored territory where capitalism, technology and metaphysics have all collided.

Flintstein suggests he try someone else's soul until they locate his. After all, it's done all the time! Giamatti reluctantly agrees and has the soul of a Russian poet (actually a female plant worker) put into him. He performs magnificently on stage. A soul placebo, yes?  

But his marriage is falling apart and he is becoming more and more alienated from his true self. With the doctor's help he tracks down the mule and discovers his soul has been smuggled to Russia for implantation into a soap opera actress (she believes she's getting Al Pacino's soul). Giamatti and the mule join forces to find it. Here, amidst the bleak winter of a St. Petersburg cityscape, the story's tone begins to come to terms with the irresponsible psychic games it has been freely playing on its characters. It does not lose its sly, knowing grin completely and the approach is never abrupt, but the film certainly seems to want to atone, in a way, for its previously cavalier manner. It is well handled through the character of the mule who, having been through so many extractions and implants, has begun to lose her "self" from the accumulated residual particles of the souls she has trafficked. Giamatti's growing friendship and sympathy toward this other "lost soul" could have been a schmaltzy rom-com scenario but instead leads to a magically ambiguous ending.

Therein lies the strength of Cold Souls. In its ability to be derivative, yet fresh and original. In the way it tiptoes the fine line between cynical satire and psychological angst so deftly without ever getting too mired in either. It continually pulls back from those brinks just in time (unlike Kaufman often) and keeps a balance of playfulness and metaphysical depth throughout.

It's smart cinema for smart people. And it's a very rare commodity.