![]() His camera glides, feather-light, across this multi-storied shopping mall, keeping pace with the ebb and flow of passengers, Navorski the one static point of focus. It’s a welcome burst of surreal indulgence, both hilarious and poignant, a new type of ‘Spielberg moment’.Īway from the knots of dramedy, you can sit back and drink in the director’s effortless class. In one throwaway yet spellbinding sequence, Wes Anderson regular Kumar Pallana, as a perpetually agitated Indian cleaner, displays a sublime knack for plate-spinning and juggling hoops. The film also traverses a wonderful array of supporting players, immigrant workers caught on the fringes of life with whom Navorski finds communion. Navorski, to his mind, represents chaos - a slipping cog in vital clockwork. In a delicious performance, the vibrant actor underscores the required weaselling with an understanding that rules are necessary. So he sensibly keeps it sidelined from the ongoing duel with Tucci’s brusque commandant. Never Spielberg’s forte, the romance unfortunately feels false, too removed from the movie’s menacing undertow. Half the world, it seems, is to some extent trapped in an airport. Wearing his heart on the sleeve of a new Hugo Boss suit, he woos listless, man-troubled stewardess Zeta-Jones, who is drawn to his honesty, failing to register this curious person as anything more than a frequent flier. Less effective, though, is Navorski’s role as romancer. It’s a brilliant deception, forcing us to confront the rash judgement that all English-deficient travellers are basically idiots. Navorski must live by his wits or go under, and in the slow churn of Hanks’ expert performance lies the movie’s substance, a subtle process of unpeeling a goofball tourist, located somewhere between Charlie Chaplin and Andy Kaufman, to reveal a singular man of purpose direct, noble, irrepressible, and so very un-American. ![]() Yet this graceful satire feels more in touch with The Shawshank Redemption, where the looming prison boasts its own sushi bars and Borders superstore, but is every bit as repressive. It makes you think of Cast Away, while the posters, with their lone journeyman Hanks, recall the sap and charm of Forrest Gump. The plot itself is loose-limbed, a vague blend of quest (to get out of the damn airport), survival and romance. This is a post-millennial fable about how the world really kinda sucks. Yes, The Terminal is funny, romantic and sentimental, but inside Spielberg’s purpose-built airport lounge, an open-plan cathedral of endless flux, he’s channelling both Capra and Kafka. Well, Sleepless At Gate 67 it ain’t.įor Steven Spielberg, in later career, is having a whale of a time mixing up his native crowdpleasing with a caustic independent spirit. ![]() ![]() You might be thinking it’s another splashy romantic comedy with Tom Hanks back on home turf, goofing off in a funny accent and lifting those puppy-dogs in the direction of brittle, lovely Catherine Zeta-Jones. You may have got the wrong idea about The Terminal. ![]()
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