Ethan Switch - Friday, December 1, 2006 - Print Version
Outside a church stands a man with a microphone. Over on his left are three school boys, waiting for the bus and to hear anything that makes up the traffic that flows down the main road. Passersby pick up a pace when the squawk and squeak of the portable speaker system kicks in. Rambling and reeling off scripture, the gent diverts his attention toward the supposed mystic to his religion, "And what do they call that fiction writer who dreamt up Evolution? David? Robert? Chris?"
Nobody answers back from the comfort of their wait. Save for the man making the third session of the day for The Prestige. Starring a host of magic wielding plentiful with hands holding Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Michael Caine and Scarlett Johansson.
Sneak in a few scenes with David Bowie and Andy Serkis and the illusion of the world is complete. A world created by Christopher Priest and translated by Christopher and Jonathan Nolan.
"Charles Darwin, you uneducated infidel! And it is far less tales of fiction than that which you call a Holy Book!" comes the reply.
And the game is on.
The two engage in spitting vehemence back and forth. Neither one really looking to relinquish for the fear that the spectacle will end. And on and on the arguments encircle as the sharks taste more of the chunks of flesh that wallow heavily across the water's edge.
One is empowered by the box that amplifies only his voice and not his reason. The other throws it back like a jack in the box, springing from side-to-side after the burst forth from the leap. Turn out the sound and the show is a game to the passing pace which happens to find more speed in an already sped up environment.
Determination and discipline takes things to a whole new level. Jackman and Bale battle each other as the pursuit to beat the other turns obsessive and creates a hole that can never truly find peace. Obsession is the mark of the blind and they who cannot see the followers take their breaths along for the ride will feel only if they can pull back. Yet, it will be hard to not suffer such a disheartening sense of disturbance.
Proof is in the existence and the non-existence fails to disprove the absence of proof. Such is the thread that twists itself around the slip knot on the string.
It is what it is and The Prestige carries itself on many illusions and sleights of hands. Redemption is a tricky endeavour, the dead rabbit in the hat says something along the lines of knowing when to walk away.
And yet, to walk away before the end is over will always beg that question of what if...?
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