After the Fall
Those seeking a spiritual counterpart to the yin of Lynne Ramsay’s masterfully moody Morvern Callar will find their yang in David Mackenzie’s exquisitely sorrowful Young Adam. Art-house aficionados may recall that in Ramsay’s recent film, a young male writer commits suicide, leaving his simple girlfriend to absorb his very being. Here we discover anew what happens when an impassioned writer lives on but cannot write.
To clarify matters a little, nobody here is named Adam. Our protagonist is called Joe (Ewan McGregor), and he is best defined as a post-war smoker. This is possibly the actor’s dream role; he not only tangles naked with the eminently pretentious Tilda Swinton but also gets to smoke on-camera pretty much nonstop, even in the pouring rain. (It’s 1950s Scotland — smoking is considered profoundly respectable.) In addition to practicing this skill, Joe toils on a freight barge owned by Ella (Swinton) and operated by her salty husband, Les (Peter Mullan). Soon, all-consuming lust rears its ugly … rear … and poetic sadness descends.
Fortunately for us, director Mackenzie (The Last Great Wilderness) adapts in high style the novel by late junkie Beat author Alexander Trocchi (once dubbed “cosmopolitan scum” by Scottish literary giant Hugh MacDiarmid). The leaden skies, cold industrial architecture and inflamed desires of the characters are all of a piece, rendered volatile with consummate grace. The catalyst comes in the form of a dead young woman found floating beside the barge by Joe and Les. As detectives study the woman’s mysterious demise, Ella welcomes Joe down into her hull, if you get our drift. Naturally, their enthusiastic coupling doesn’t much please Les.
All the actors keep the grace notes coming. Mullan’s turn as the cuckold, viewed in light of his earnest familial dedication and a gentle guitar serenade, greatly enhances the romantic tragedy. We also garner much about capricious femininity from Swinton’s enthusiastic cheating scenes — and her comeuppance. More intense flashbacks detailing Joe’s detached dalliances with an apparently ideal mate named Cathie (a superb Emily Mortimer) cut to the heart — or heartlessness — of these ravenous carnal pursuits.
The nudity and sexuality are part and parcel of the story, adding much intrigue and no exploitation. In fact, the NC-17 rating seems harsh, apart from one scene involving custard. I haven’t seen Mark Hamill in Corvette Summer in a long while, but if memory serves, McGregor is the first actor to offer Jedi schlong to the viewing public.
Some may deem the film claustrophobic, languid or pointlessly miserable. But the gorgeous cinematography from Giles Nuttgens (who also lensed Swinton in that sillier drowning-by-numbers tale The Deep End) and a wistful if somewhat incongruous noir-jazz score from David Byrne sustain the film’s haunting psychological affect.
As for the title, there’s a hint of deeper meaning here and there; for instance, Ella’s barge of sin is named the Atlantic Eve. But nothing is glaringly spelled out by Mackenzie. Rather, in an intelligent and enjoyable manner, he leaves us to form our own metaphorical conclusions.
