Directed by: Sophie Barthes
Written By: Sophie Barthes
Cast: Paul Giamatti, Dina Korzun, & Emily Watson
Runtime: 101 min
Rating: PG-13
Trailer

Does your skin warm when your loved one holds you? Does the sight of someone crying bring tears to your eyes? If given a bunny rabbit to hold, would you smile? If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, congratulations – you have a soul! If, however, you’re like Paul Giamatti (Paul Giamatti) and paid a visit to possibly (probably) mad scientist Dr. Flintstein’s (David Strathairn) soul extraction clinic, you likely answered “no” to all three questions, because you no longer have a soul. As Sophie Barthes’ sometimes-great Cold Souls shows us, congratulations are not in order.

Paul Giamatti the character has a problem that Paul Giamatti the actor probably deals with in real life: He cannot separate himself from the character he’s tasked to play. Perhaps this is why the real Giamatti is such an under-appreciated actor: he so seamlessly integrates himself into his roles that he never seems to be acting, only being. That latter part becomes quite difficult for Paul the character, once he is soulless. His performance in Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya becomes unwatchable, his scaly skin becomes untouchable, and his life becomes unlivable. Somewhere in this first act-and-a-half, Barthes attempts to tease out existential, Socratic themes about the soul and its vital connection to living, to being alive. Yet this idea, like so many others Barthes presents, is never fully explored. Paul’s refusal to “look on the inside” of his soul, and what he does see when he finally agrees to look, are the beginnings of a beautiful exploration of the burdens we carry, sometimes unknowingly, and how they affect our beings. Sadly, these beginnings remain just that: beginnings.

Nina (Dina Korzun) splits her time between Russia and America as a soul mule. Somewhat like Joshua Marston’s Maria, Nina’s subterfuge involves inserting a human soul inside of her and carrying it across borders. Dr. Flintstein warns her that every extraction leaves behind residue from the prior soul. Too much residue, he implies, and Nina will forever lose herself. Her enjoyment of the memories that accompany every soul suggests that losing herself might be exactly what she wants. And it is in these sequences, some time between Paul’s trip to St. Petersburg to reclaim his soul from a wannabe Russian actress and his discovery that what’s on the inside isn’t so bad, after all, that the film loses itself in a mix of Charlie Kaufman-esque ruminations on the human condition and surreal dreams reminiscent of Maya Deren’s Meshes of the Afternoon. But while Deren bottled a sea of emotions in her vignettes, Barthes’ dreamscapes are too brief and too indiscernible to leave the viewer feeling anything but empty.

The script mirrors Paul’s emotional state throughout the film: It loses itself at times, relies on humor to ease the tension in spots, but always earnestly tries to answer a question that’s simply too big to answer: What does it mean to be alive? Some might compare this to Kaufman’s stellar Synecdoche, New York and its ambitious look at death, the Artist’s struggle, and so many other themes. Where the two films differ, however, is in their execution – Synecdoche teems with visual motifs, illustrative color palettes and audacious set design, while Souls employs a flat visual style more indicative of budgetary constraints than the true talent of cinematographer Andrij Parekh – and in their acceptance of the immensity of the questions facing them: Kaufman only explores and expands his questions; he leaves the futile answering up to us, while Barthes tacks on government plots and soul-hungry hedge funds as a means of hammering home the point of how low our dehumanizing capitalist urges have sunk.

Ironically, the film’s most poignant moment comes from another of Barthes’ efforts to answer the unanswerable questions. In a later scene, Paul and Nina walk together along a beach, in a restrained long shot that leaves room for audience interpretation and, perhaps fittingly, conveys a thematic conclusion similar to Caden’s in Synecdoche: Life is full of ups, downs, failures, successes, death, disease, emptiness, bad acting, and bad actresses. But life, for all its burdens, is nothing unless shared with someone else. The opening quote declares the soul’s location to be in the center of the brain. I like to think the soul only truly exists in the energy felt while holding hands, sharing a kiss, or watching a bunny rabbit fidget in our arms. Souls are meant to be shared, with ourselves, and with others.

Cold Souls is neither a failure nor a success. Its strong, contemplative, quirky funny start eventually gives way to the weight of the heavy philosophical questions it struggles to answer, to the detriment of both narrative and pacing. But Giamatti, as always, is endlessly watchable as he does what some might say he does all the time, playing himself. Given weightier material with a clearer grasp of tone, and a more concrete thematic direction, this could have been his finest performance yet, bolstered by always-fantastic Strathairn’s gravitas and an incredible premise. Yet, like the many containers in Dr. Flintstein’s soul refrigerator, the film left me feeling…cold.

Clarence Hammond
© Cinephile Magazine, 2009