Buried – 4*
There’s been a lot of discussion about Buried, or ‘nit-picking’ to be exact about a whole manner of alleged plot slip-ups. This actually implies that when critics can’t think of anything really wrong with a film, you’re onto a winner. Indeed no-one will dispute that 94-minutes worth of utterly gripping and terrifying drama, all shot in one location in a wooden box is nothing short of sheer brilliance. Rodrigo Cortés’ thriller is a master class in storytelling using minimal cinematic tools and relying purely on a strong script (by Chris Sparling) and even stronger acting and shooting talent. The result is a virtual real-time claustrophobic puzzle that places you in the box with its prisoner, with no means of explanation or escape, unless the protagonist finds it out for the both of you in time.
Ryan Reynolds plays the sole character, truck driver and family man Paul Conroy who we discover has been working in Iraq for a private company, before finding himself in his current predicament. The heavy breathing in the dark at the start, before any dialogue is spoken, gets the hairs standing on end, as the situation dawns on all. When Conroy begins panicking and using a lighter’s flame to illuminate and make sense of his surroundings, whilst eating up valuable oxygen, you want to scream at him to snub it out and pull himself together – but how would any of us fare in all that inky blackness?
The story is so effective that you can almost feel the tension rise in your own throat. It’s mental anguish watching as you desperately hope for some sort of aboveground reference as to where you are hidden. You don’t get it, which is the film’s noteworthy accomplishment. And then the phone goes off. This is plot boob number 1: Not only is the phone model not available when this film is allegedly set (early Noughties), but Conroy somehow manages to get a half decent signal under all that compact earth – do let me know his service provider, please.
Back to Reynolds, though, who demonstrates a remarkable new string to his acting bow that you very easily forget it’s the wisecracking Canadian actor famed for his dry wit entombed inside this wooden container. That said as Conroy, the Reynolds sarcasm is never far from the surface (pardon the pun), as he desperately points out the farce of telephone answering machines and corporate bureaucracy. This provides the film’s lighter relief moments – of which there are few, so grab them whilst you can – that simultaneously demonstrate the extraordinary human will to survive, triggering not only the hope that Conroy will live (and we will get out of the box, too), but we will get all the answers.
The fact is we are not altogether clear, whether we really like Conroy as a person from what transpires from the phone calls, but we do sympathise with his plight. And he has a ‘friend’ visit, which is boob number 2, it appears, because a) the box miraculously grows to accommodate said visitor and Conroy’s fire-throwing skills, and b) this particular tricky customer is not indigenous to the desert location. Some might argue, who cares? This moment in the plot scares the hell out of you, anyway. The ending is equally nail-biting, too…
Try this box for size for a unique suspense and terror trap that hasn’t been witnessed since the likes of Hitchcock and his single-shot filming style. Comparing Cortés to this cinematic legend may seem a little premature, but the former marks an exciting entry to mainstream cinema, as well as providing a suffocating assault on the senses with Buried.
4/5 stars
By L G-K
