Movie review: Transsiberian

by John P. Meyer

From Brad Anderson, director of the creepy-as-Hell The Machinist (El Maquinista), comes this diesel-powered tale of intrigue and über-angst starring Woody Harrelson - cast against type as a straight-arrow guy - and the delightfully imperfect Emily Mortimer (check out her mis-matched irises!), as American travelers on their way from Beijing to Moscow (and thence points west). Their method of conveyance: the Trans-Siberian Express.

Transsiberian lives up to its exotic title by transporting us to the most exotic of locales. In terms of cinematic magic, the area around Vilnius, Lithuania is used by the filmmakers to stand in for vast stretches of snow-covered, forested Siberia, in the general region of Irkutsk - familiar to all veteran players of Risk.

As a prelude to the main action, we're introduced to a Russian narcotics investigator named Grinko (Ben Kingsley), who's been called to an icy crime scene in the bowels of a freighter docked in Vladivostok. The victim is sitting at a table, gazing reflectively at a far corner of the cabin, looking live as can be - just totally frozen. (Which, of course, he actually is.) Oh, and there's a knife sticking out of the back of his skull. Locating a hidden panel in the general locus of the dead man's regard, Grinko writes it up to a drug deal gone sour.

Leaving his subordinates to write up the police report, Grinko makes a hasty exit: he's got a train to catch, and bigger fish to fry.

Meanwhile, training their way north from Beijing prior to connecting with the main line just above Mongolia, married couple Roy (Mr. Harrelson) and Jessie (Ms. Mortimer) are attempting to fan the sputtering marital flame in their semi-private sleeping quarters, but nagging reproductive issues queer their play, and any further forays into this area are squashed by the arrival of another young couple who will be sharing their room. Carlos (sultry Eduardo Noriega) and Abby (elfin Kate Mara) waste little time insinuating themselves into the traveling fabric of Roy and Jessie's existence, and Carlos wastes no time at all getting Roy wasted on the bottomless vodka refills available in the dining car.

There's not much in the way of privacy to be had on the Transsiberian: the designers have scrimped even to the point that the berths are curtainless, so that - for instance - when Carlos and Abby get frisky in the bunk above and across from Jessie, she is more or less forced to act as something of a voyeuristic once-removed participant. She sees a little, and hears a lot. Sly Carlos catches her eye in the midst of the proceedings - and holds it.

Meanwhile, Roy is snoring.

What ensues after this intriguing setup of extraordinary characters and events is a cat-and-mouse game of mindfuck and misdirection whose details I would never dream of revealing. Suffice it to say that the remainder of this interrupted rail journey is characterized by the kind of mounting unease and escalating terror that will put viewers in mind of Hitchcock - with an unexpected dash of late-arriving gorenography thrown in for seasoning.

The ability of the movie to transport us to the vast Siberian wilderness - which serves as an omnipresent, uncredited character in the tale - is effectively enhanced by actually viewing the piece in a frosty theater auditorium, for which the Angelika chain is well-known. Bring your arctic gear.