From the outset of the new film Rubber, director Quentin Dupieux, who is largely known as a techno producer under the name Mr. Oizo in his native France, assures us that the proceeding whatsit means nothing, via a stunningly pretentious diatribe delivered to the camera by a lieutenant (Stephen Spinella). The minor rant, which includes batshit references to Jaws, JFK, and Love Story, is, in fact, a sort of instructional introduction for an audience, who are then handed sets of binoculars and told to stare towards the action by the accountant (Jack Plotnick). The filmmaker, who is credited with editing, writing, shooting, and co-scoring the film as well, exerts that he doesn't care about "reason", which might have been assumed given the film's now-notorious secondary premise. Sadly, however, not caring doesn't seem to be in the cards for Mr. Dupieux and he continuously returns to this sluggish meta-narrative, which shows about as much respect for the audience's intellect as an adult might show a drunken toddler fidgeting with a blowtorch.
Indeed, the act of watching Rubber is reminiscent of attempting to eat an unpeeled orange in its entirety, forced to bite through the repugnant peel to get to the inner citrus. The fruit, in this case, would be the much-touted film-inside-a-film involving Robert, a tire which awakes in the California desert and begins going on a killing spree using its telekinetic abilities to make creatures and inanimate objects of all shapes and sizes explode suddenly. What begins with a rabbit and a discarded can ends with a mighty massacre at a local motel where Robert runs into the lieutenant, who has since poisoned all but one member of the audience (Wings Hauser) and quickly announces that the movie is over, to the surprise of every other character involved. The remaining audience member forces the film to go on but now Robert is onto the scam and seeks retribution.
It would be silly for me to sit here and type that there isn't some wild buffoonish glee to be found in watching a voiceless tire roll around and blow up anything it feels like and, honestly, Rubber is by some margin the best killer tire film I've ever seen. Robert's rampage is, in fact, a well-paced and enjoyable exercise in mindless entertainment and is totally serviceable as the Midnight Movie that Dupieux obviously intended his entire film to be. One can imagine Dupieux rummaging through a wide selection of exploitation flicks and B-movies, not to mention the complete works of Jodorowsky and Lynch, and grinning widely at the proposition of making his own "homage to the no reason," as the lieutenant puts it in his preamble.
So, why dress such a perfectly cuckoo prospect in film-school cynicism? Dupieux, it seems, wants to be seen as doling out condemnation and self-deprecation in equal measures but his aggressive opinion of the business of filmmaking is far more obvious and inept than any of the venom he spits at himself or the artistic crowd. One need look no further than an extended, agonizing scene in which the accountant dies a slow death from poisoning himself to see where Dupiex's soft spot lies. The director's unyielding pseudo-nihilism makes for both a lazy, mean-spirited satire and an homage that shows a barely sufficient modicum of love for the "no reasons" of the world.
It would be unfair to compare Rubber to an atrocity like Zack Snyder's Sucker Punch, but there is a self-seriousness at its core that is as ugly as the one seen in Snyder's joyless passion project. Fear not, dear readers: The theatrical release of Jesse Eisener's glorious Hobo with a Shotgun, an homage made with heart and plenty of sanguine delights, is mere weeks away and comes packing all the bells and whistles that Rubber purports to embrace and yet only does so ironically. Dupieux's desperately faux-cerebral outlook will no doubt find an audience that enjoys not-so-covertly judging those who commit the unforgivable sin of seeking low-brow entertainment but, already, reviews have come out praising it at once for being a "head movie" and not for the "uptight analytical" crowd. Despite the laughable claim that those who are analytical are essentially uptight, there are mindless pleasures to be found in Rubber, to be certain. Whether or not Dupieux approves of such pleasures is up for debate. But honestly, who could summon the will to care at this point?
Indeed, the act of watching Rubber is reminiscent of attempting to eat an unpeeled orange in its entirety, forced to bite through the repugnant peel to get to the inner citrus. The fruit, in this case, would be the much-touted film-inside-a-film involving Robert, a tire which awakes in the California desert and begins going on a killing spree using its telekinetic abilities to make creatures and inanimate objects of all shapes and sizes explode suddenly. What begins with a rabbit and a discarded can ends with a mighty massacre at a local motel where Robert runs into the lieutenant, who has since poisoned all but one member of the audience (Wings Hauser) and quickly announces that the movie is over, to the surprise of every other character involved. The remaining audience member forces the film to go on but now Robert is onto the scam and seeks retribution.
It would be silly for me to sit here and type that there isn't some wild buffoonish glee to be found in watching a voiceless tire roll around and blow up anything it feels like and, honestly, Rubber is by some margin the best killer tire film I've ever seen. Robert's rampage is, in fact, a well-paced and enjoyable exercise in mindless entertainment and is totally serviceable as the Midnight Movie that Dupieux obviously intended his entire film to be. One can imagine Dupieux rummaging through a wide selection of exploitation flicks and B-movies, not to mention the complete works of Jodorowsky and Lynch, and grinning widely at the proposition of making his own "homage to the no reason," as the lieutenant puts it in his preamble.
So, why dress such a perfectly cuckoo prospect in film-school cynicism? Dupieux, it seems, wants to be seen as doling out condemnation and self-deprecation in equal measures but his aggressive opinion of the business of filmmaking is far more obvious and inept than any of the venom he spits at himself or the artistic crowd. One need look no further than an extended, agonizing scene in which the accountant dies a slow death from poisoning himself to see where Dupiex's soft spot lies. The director's unyielding pseudo-nihilism makes for both a lazy, mean-spirited satire and an homage that shows a barely sufficient modicum of love for the "no reasons" of the world.
It would be unfair to compare Rubber to an atrocity like Zack Snyder's Sucker Punch, but there is a self-seriousness at its core that is as ugly as the one seen in Snyder's joyless passion project. Fear not, dear readers: The theatrical release of Jesse Eisener's glorious Hobo with a Shotgun, an homage made with heart and plenty of sanguine delights, is mere weeks away and comes packing all the bells and whistles that Rubber purports to embrace and yet only does so ironically. Dupieux's desperately faux-cerebral outlook will no doubt find an audience that enjoys not-so-covertly judging those who commit the unforgivable sin of seeking low-brow entertainment but, already, reviews have come out praising it at once for being a "head movie" and not for the "uptight analytical" crowd. Despite the laughable claim that those who are analytical are essentially uptight, there are mindless pleasures to be found in Rubber, to be certain. Whether or not Dupieux approves of such pleasures is up for debate. But honestly, who could summon the will to care at this point?
