Mute (dir. Duncan Jones)

When you hear the phrase “spiritual sequel” in film terms, you either shrug or you want to known more. In the case of “Mute”, which according to it’s director Duncan Jones attests to be in the same cinematic universe to his 2009 sleeper-hit Moon, there’s a disappointing abundance of the former. Notorious for it’s delayed gestation, Jones’ Blade Runner infused noir-thriller is a miserable concoction of bad storytelling, uninspiring visuals and grotesque characters - and that’s not even the half of it.

The English director Jones must have thought that by now, after a process of sixteen years since it's genesis, that his passion project would never materialize, and his fellow sci-fi aficionados would fail in seeing his futuristic tale on the big screen. Ironical it is then, that it would be finally financed by streaming juggernaut Netflix and released worldwide on February 23rd: a small price to pay for artistic integrity.

It's Berlin in the year 2058: our disabled lead of the title is Leo (Alexander Skarsgård), a permanently mute bartender living in vast German metropolis, succumbed to silence since a young age due to a boating accident which severed his vocal chords. Although able to communicate through body language and the use of his trusty notepad, his demeanor is that of a wounded animal: constantly feeling sorry for his inability to vocalize his thoughts. When his fellow work colleague and occasional romantic dalliance Naadirah (Seyneb Saleh) suddenly disappears without a trace, he tasks himself with tracking her down in the sprawling neon-drenched urban landscapes and unearthing the truths behind her confusing rhetoric.

Withering here and there with little to know luck, he runs into many of the towns undesirables who all lament Leo with the clichéd response of "you didn't really know her": that might be the case, but our protagonist is a man desperately in love with his nightingale, and won't stop until she's found. His path is interceded with that of two American surgeons, living in Berlin for two very different reasons: Bill Cactus (Paul Rudd), is the foul-mouthed, mustache-wearing doctor-for-hire, unwittingly resigned to back-alley surgeries for the highest bidder, in a vain effort to procure the salient documentation needed to return to the US. Accompanying him in these dodgy side-shows is Duck (Justin Theroux), a sexually-deviant orthopedic surgeon turned prosthetist with a penchant for the most egregious of appetites.

There's a case to be made in Mute's defense it should be stated, it's always been the prevailing opinion of this critic that is admirable to see an director fail in his ambitious attempts than simply coast by and play it safe. Despite the innumerable missteps in this latest Netflix incarnation, it's still safe to say we should acknowledge Jones' aspirations. But the "Source Code" director's film becomes the victim of it's own intelligence: too bogged down with overcomplicating the plot and forcing the characters into parody misnomers from the usual trash in the sci-fi section DVD bargain bin. Also, whether or not it was the directors intentions to play the drama so brazenly dull is anyone's guess, but a cheeky laugh here and there wouldn't of gone a miss - with the tale's primary tone creaking eerily close to that of a documentary about paint drying.

A clear distinction is clearly visible with Ridley Scott's 1982 sci-fi masterpiece, Blade Runner - and it's evident that the English director's blu-ray copy of this eighties hit is worn out to the point of obsolescence. But there's a fine line between paying homage and misinterpreting a film's thematic style - as Jones opts for well worn sci-fi cliches and un-engaging establishing views as appropriate background for the drama. Clearly fascinated with the Berlin he has created, there's too much extraneous details such as kebab delivery straight to you or even the more cliched flying cars, these facets are merely window dressing in what is an unmemorable snapshot of a 2058 metropolis. When compared with Denis Villeneuve's extraordinary production design of Blade Runner 2049, Jones' location feels more like a sketch-drawing from a high school students art project, feigning dramatic weight in favor of some instantly forgettable CGI.

On a performance level, Skarsgård has never been asked to do so little and produced even less: his lumbering and wooden turn as the muted hero Leo is yet another example of the Swedish actors clear lack of charisma, if Legend of Tarzan didn't already prove this. Though the script, which is as sluggish and workmanlike as a blunt knife, asks our drinks-maker to ponder over the hand he's been dealt in life, his emotionless portrayal of such a complex character is far from evidence of this -as his parading around on screen is like watching the assembly of some IKEA furniture. Rudd and Theroux also, who appear to have walked directly of the set of a 70's porn shoot (Rudd's mustache is a meandering and provocative clump of hair, and Theroux's blonde wig evokes the clown-like getup of Dick Van Dyke during the clown-in-a-box segment from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) are staggeringly underwritten, down to the directors interest in quick one-liners instead of meaty characterization. Their sartorial elegance and appearances are more important evidently to the screenwriter and director Duncan Jones than their backgrounds.

Clint Mansell's humming score accompanies the drama but does little to create a moody or atmospheric mis en scene. But it's hard to concentrate on the music when the dialogue is so risibly obnoxious, that even if Willie Nelson had orchestrated it, you'd still leave remembering the awfulness of the prose. Cinematography comes in the form of Gary Show, and is also off-key - relegating the drama from it's original roots into the realms of the cinematic into it's more suited exhibition on television. Though the aforementioned nod to his previous work Moon is interesting enough to remind you just how terrific a job he did on that picture, it isn't enough to save the hokum on screen.

As the drama finds it's way into it's final act, all logic and reason seem to give way. Multiple plot strands regurgitate onto the screen with an equal measure of incoherence and over-the-top banality, as Jones gets his plot-twists and character realizations to the forefront of the most bizarre contrivances in recent memory.

There's no denying there's a good film to be made here, and in the sci-fi genre - in which you're judged more harshly by genre fans - there's always stories and worlds to be created. But Jones' MUTE is a silent false step in an otherwise notable back-catalogue; from the man behind 2016's Warcraft, it's a shame that with all the shackle-free authority he was given in his $55m budget from Netflix, he chose to focus more on sending us to sleep than allowing us to relish in his dreams.

Rating 1/5