Audiences buckle up for one kind of movie but end up strapped in for another in Flight, director Robert Zemeckis’ welcome return to live-action after a dozen years away. Serious-minded drama steers a horrifying nightmare at 20,000 feet into one man’s turbulent personal struggle with his drinking problem—and not in the jokey Airplane! sense, either. Denzel Washington is aces as a commercial airline pilot who pulls off a miraculous midair stunt while flying with a 0.24 blood alcohol concentration, only to face his demons on the ground.
For most alcoholics, crash-landing a jetliner would qualify as rock bottom—reason enough to quit drinking and seek help. In the case of Capt. Whip Whitaker (Washington), however, it’s just the beginning of a battle in which his greatest adversary is himself. Though technically an ensemble piece, Flight is as much a one-man showcase as Zemeckis’ Cast Away was for Tom Hanks.
Back in the land of the living, after a run of performance-capture pictures including The Polar Express and Beowulf, the helmer has embraced a project that depends entirely on the power of the human face—an assignment for which Washington is the perfect copilot. Internalizing the angry flame he typically displays onscreen, the star undercuts his own trademark swagger with the suggestion that, for some, such cocky behavior could mask far deeper problems.
Whitaker is flying high, sleeping with a comely stewardess (Nadine Velazquez) and chasing away his morning hangovers with a line of cocaine before stepping into the cockpit, until a mechanical malfunction sends his plane into a nosedive. Judging by the cool and collected way Whitaker handles the situation, he could be the poster boy for high-functioning alcoholism. Attempting to re-create the same scenario on a simulator after the fact, no other pilot could pull off the same maneuver. And yet, had Whitaker not literally been asleep at the wheel when the plane pitched forward, maybe the entire situation could have been avoided, sparing the six lives lost in his stunning recovery move.
Few events are more visceral to experience onscreen than an airplane crash, and Flight ranks alongside Fearless and Alive in the sheer intensity of its opening act. But John Gatins’ perceptively original script takes the rest of the story in a far different direction. For the first week or so, Whitaker vows to get sober, raiding every hiding place in his grandfather’s Georgia cabin for stashed liquor bottles and pouring them down the drain. It’s a symbolic gesture, but one that ultimately represents little more than wasted money for a man so hooked on hooch that within a few scenes, he’s sucking down Stoli vodka straight from its half-gallon jug (while driving, no less).
Enter a number of concerned supporting characters—figures essential to Whitaker’s journey and yet dwarfed by the dominant attention Zemeckis pays his deeply conflicted protagonist, through whose eyes we experience all but an early digressive scene setting up Nicole (Kelly Reilly), a lovely yet self-destructive masseuse. Nicole stands the best chance of getting through to Whitaker, though trying to save a fellow addict could backfire. It doesn’t help that Whitaker’s dealer (John Goodman, channeling The Big Lebowski’s laid-back Dude) repeatedly swoops in with fresh supplies.
Whitaker’s near-constant, never-glamorous state of intoxication has long since alienated him from his ex-wife (Garcelle Beauvais) and estranged son (Justin Martin, who leaves a strong impression in two scenes). The only other friend in his corner is old service buddy Charlie Anderson (Bruce Greenwood), now a rep for the pilots’ union, who’s put in the tricky position of wanting to remain loyal to Whitaker even as blood tests reveal criminal levels of intoxication.
While Whitaker works through his personal issues, an imposing investigation into the crash looms. As corrupt backroom negotiations build to a hearing, overseen by a no-nonsense Melissa Leo, in which Whitaker can all too easily lie his way off the hook—assuming he can stay sober long enough to get through it.
By this point in the story, even those who’ve fully identified with Washington’s prickly yet impressively accessible performance can’t help but view him as some kind of monster, albeit a tragic one. Everything, from the tormented look in Washington’s eyes to the empathetic strains of Alan Silvestri’s score, begs for Whitaker to redeem himself in that moment, and yet, Gatins has written such a captivatingly compromised antihero, this final moment of truth plays as gripping as the airplane disaster that started things off.
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