Minority Report

If, after the moribund mess of A.I. you thought—as I did—that Steven Spielberg needed to get his head screwed on straight, you will be pleased to know that he has, with the Philip K. Dick short story-inspired “Minority Report.” Working with world class cinematographer Janusz Kaminsky and world class editor Michael Kahn, Hollywood’s über-director has fashioned an eye-popping, jaw-dropping, even mind-bending mixture of police procedural, science fiction thriller, and philosophical puzzle. To say Spielberg has reinvented himself here is perhaps a stretch, but he shows a willingness to extend his range and expand his style that is gratifying. The end result is a picture that is never dull and keeps getting better as it moves along. The story is set in Washington in the year 2054. John Anderton (Tom Cruise) is the head of the Department of Precrime, which uses the talents of three clairvoyants (called “precogs”) to identify and arrest people before they commit the crimes they are planning. In the elaborate opening sequence (which alone probably cost more to make than most entire films) we see just how the system works. It appears perfect, but before you can say “on the lam,” the precogs peg Anderton himself as the future killer of a man he has never met, and the chase is on.

The basic premise is really old-hat, cop-on-the-run boilerplate, and while most movies would probably be satisfied simply to make a cop story with a sci-fi twist, this is where “Minority Report” starts to get interesting. The script (by Scott Frank and Jon Cohen) poses questions such as: What is the difference between reality and what we only imagine to be real? If we believe something is going to happen and it doesn’t because of something we do, does that retroactively make our belief wrong? If you act to change the future, have you really done so, or merely acted out a pre-ordained script? That Spielberg and company manage to address these matters while still maintaining their action movie’s bona fides speaks to the exquisite craftsmanship that has gone into it. That also extends to the look of the picture, chilly, mesmerizing, but completely coherent and brilliantly realized.

Watching it, one almost feels as if there is a new style of cinema being created, one that allows things to be clearly seen and yet intriguingly opaque, all at the same time. (Perhaps this is due to the proliferation of translucent computer monitors on screen, but it extends to the icy blue tones of the picture as a whole.) The sense of place is quite palpable, and appropriately ambiguous, neither “Star Trek” utopia, nor “Blade Runner” dystopia. The film has a few sequences that seem destined to become classics. Spielberg knows that big action brings in the audience, but he is not afraid to slow the movie down in order to highlight some smaller, intricately constructed moments. His skill at this sort of thing may be unmatched; witness the details of the jet-pack chase through the apartments, and the rampage of the retinal-scanning spider robots as they hunt for Anderton. The best example, though, is the sequence when Anderton, accompanied by the precog Agatha (a memorable performance by Samantha Morton), whom he has spirited away, eludes his pursuers. It has got to be the most lyrical chase scene ever devised, simultaneously gripping and whimsical. There are also a few inspired cameos.

Peter Stormare plays a surgeon whose sterile technique could use some improvement, and Lois Smith plays the spooky godmother of Precrime. Cruise himself plays it ramrod straight. It’s not what one might call Oscar-caliber acting, but his directness and lack of self consciousness keep the picture grounded and prevent certain things (such as his “conducting” of the computer visions) from seeming ridiculous. Throughout, Spielberg manages to wring unexpected but welcome humor out of some of the most unpromising situations. “Minority Report” is hardly a perfect movie. The ending is a little facile, and probably too happy, given the movie’s overall tone. The business of the cop grieving over a personal loss seems clichéd, as does the whole addiction theme. The cumbersome Rube Goldberg contraption which produces the little wooden balls naming victims is rather precious; all the talk about the grain of the wood being a “unique” encoding device comes across as the fantasy of a Luddite technophobe. (It’s also not internally consistent, since Anderton still uses more believable numeric codes to authenticate the victim.) We have to accept some of the weird postulates, such as the notion that the precogs can foresee only murders, although, again, this is contradicted by parts of the film. And just how big an area can they monitor, anyway? Is it like a TV broadcast, in that the pictures get fuzzy when you get out of range? And at what point does product placement stop being humor about enduring brands (Lexus, the Gap), and become simply an annoying distraction? (And I won’t even mention the inharmonious title.) Still, these are minor quibbles for a picture which pushes the boundaries of its several genres and never forgets to be entertaining while it does so. (7/1/2002)