I have little to no knowledge of Ayn Rand or her philosophy, but if this odious cheap-looking stool sample is an accurate depiction of her feverishly acclaimed novel, then there are a lot of delusional psychotic people in the world.
The plot and action has all the momentum of winter sludge. Self-impressed icy blonde Dagny Taggart struts and preens all over the place in some daft effort to convince us that she is "uncompromising" and "bold" as she attempts to pursue high speed rail with an amazing new super-steel against the wicked machinations of the almighty government regulation and evil unions. The film is so laughably black and white in its depictions of everything that it fails to attain even the depth of a Dick and Jane preschool book. In short, Dagny and her married semi-lover/compatriot Hank Rearden are pinnacles of brilliance, while the rest of the world is comprised of either villains trying to stop them or an offensively simplistic depiction of the average working American as slovenly unimaginative ingrates whose fates are of no concern so long as Dagny gets her way. Given that Dagny and Hank are supposed to be such larger-than-life legends, it comes as a real shame that neither has a distinct personality.
Incomprehensibly, the film is set in the future, yet the action centers on the importance of rail transport. It would be hilarious if the film obviously did not regard itself with such outlandish relevance and undeserved reverence. Minimal effort is made to update the story, with little to no acknowledgments of such issues as air travel, the internet and the technical advancements made since Rand wrote her tome. The material would have fared far better if it was set in the past, but then again that would only have exacerbated the idiocy that nothing predicted in the novel has come to pass and, in fact, many of the policies the book/film seems to advocate so strongly for have led to very real disasters out in the real world. Of course, that doesn't stop this myopic piece of fiction from steadfastly advocating them anyway.
The country presented in Atlas Shrugged is supposed to be a notch above a wasteland, yet nearly every character that promenades across the screen seems to be a billboard for wealth and privilege. Admittedly, the film has little interest in the unwashed masses that it hold beneath contempt because it reasons they have no valuable contributions to make in the grand scheme of things. The events that do not unfold on the rails do so in ritzy clubs and swanky boardrooms, with the characters freely imbibing and trading such banter that sounds like it came from a particularly dry article of Money Magazine. A lot of what they spout is suitably incomprehensible gobbledy-gook, but then we average folk are not supposed to comprehend this level of brilliance. Given that this is only Part 1 of a planned trilogy, one can only hope that the action speeds up to a crawl by Part 2.
The look and feel of the film definitely smacks of cheapness, and Paul Johansson's stagnant direction is a further detraction. The only cast members I vaguely recognized were Michael O'Keefe and Michael Lerner, both of whom have fallen a long way from their forgotten glory days as Oscar-nominated actors. Taylor Schilling and Grant Bowler are the ostensible leads of the piece - both are undemonstrative and forgettable. It is admittedly difficult to portray larger-than-life ideologues, but neither Schilling nor Bowler have the charisma to bridge the mammoth personality black holes that pass for characters. If you think they lack as singular characters, as a couple they have all the charm of inanimate titanium rods. Their "love" scene is not only one of the most chastely filmed in the history of cinema, but has all of the heat and passion one associates with clenching a block of ice between one's butt cheeks. The film does not so much build to a conclusion or a "cliffhanger", so much as it resembles a comatose patient that expires on the operating table in front of us with no warning or fanfare.
For all of the film's bloated self-importance, it comes off a lot like that old relative that everyone dreads showing up at family events, who talks too loud and has a ragingly unpopular opinion on everything, and whose grip on reality is tenuous at the best of times. Yes, much like that relative, Atlas Shrugged is in dire need of being put in mothballs or consigned to the old age home of broken philosophies where it can mercifully fade away into the oblivion it so deserves. In the meantime, for those who similarly endured the torment of this film, you have my sympathy. And for fans of the film, you have my pity and I sincerely hope your therapist is a good one.
The plot and action has all the momentum of winter sludge. Self-impressed icy blonde Dagny Taggart struts and preens all over the place in some daft effort to convince us that she is "uncompromising" and "bold" as she attempts to pursue high speed rail with an amazing new super-steel against the wicked machinations of the almighty government regulation and evil unions. The film is so laughably black and white in its depictions of everything that it fails to attain even the depth of a Dick and Jane preschool book. In short, Dagny and her married semi-lover/compatriot Hank Rearden are pinnacles of brilliance, while the rest of the world is comprised of either villains trying to stop them or an offensively simplistic depiction of the average working American as slovenly unimaginative ingrates whose fates are of no concern so long as Dagny gets her way. Given that Dagny and Hank are supposed to be such larger-than-life legends, it comes as a real shame that neither has a distinct personality.
Incomprehensibly, the film is set in the future, yet the action centers on the importance of rail transport. It would be hilarious if the film obviously did not regard itself with such outlandish relevance and undeserved reverence. Minimal effort is made to update the story, with little to no acknowledgments of such issues as air travel, the internet and the technical advancements made since Rand wrote her tome. The material would have fared far better if it was set in the past, but then again that would only have exacerbated the idiocy that nothing predicted in the novel has come to pass and, in fact, many of the policies the book/film seems to advocate so strongly for have led to very real disasters out in the real world. Of course, that doesn't stop this myopic piece of fiction from steadfastly advocating them anyway.
The country presented in Atlas Shrugged is supposed to be a notch above a wasteland, yet nearly every character that promenades across the screen seems to be a billboard for wealth and privilege. Admittedly, the film has little interest in the unwashed masses that it hold beneath contempt because it reasons they have no valuable contributions to make in the grand scheme of things. The events that do not unfold on the rails do so in ritzy clubs and swanky boardrooms, with the characters freely imbibing and trading such banter that sounds like it came from a particularly dry article of Money Magazine. A lot of what they spout is suitably incomprehensible gobbledy-gook, but then we average folk are not supposed to comprehend this level of brilliance. Given that this is only Part 1 of a planned trilogy, one can only hope that the action speeds up to a crawl by Part 2.
The look and feel of the film definitely smacks of cheapness, and Paul Johansson's stagnant direction is a further detraction. The only cast members I vaguely recognized were Michael O'Keefe and Michael Lerner, both of whom have fallen a long way from their forgotten glory days as Oscar-nominated actors. Taylor Schilling and Grant Bowler are the ostensible leads of the piece - both are undemonstrative and forgettable. It is admittedly difficult to portray larger-than-life ideologues, but neither Schilling nor Bowler have the charisma to bridge the mammoth personality black holes that pass for characters. If you think they lack as singular characters, as a couple they have all the charm of inanimate titanium rods. Their "love" scene is not only one of the most chastely filmed in the history of cinema, but has all of the heat and passion one associates with clenching a block of ice between one's butt cheeks. The film does not so much build to a conclusion or a "cliffhanger", so much as it resembles a comatose patient that expires on the operating table in front of us with no warning or fanfare.
For all of the film's bloated self-importance, it comes off a lot like that old relative that everyone dreads showing up at family events, who talks too loud and has a ragingly unpopular opinion on everything, and whose grip on reality is tenuous at the best of times. Yes, much like that relative, Atlas Shrugged is in dire need of being put in mothballs or consigned to the old age home of broken philosophies where it can mercifully fade away into the oblivion it so deserves. In the meantime, for those who similarly endured the torment of this film, you have my sympathy. And for fans of the film, you have my pity and I sincerely hope your therapist is a good one.