There are a lot of experiments in Michael Winterbottom’s latest film, The Trip. The two main actors, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, play themselves. The movie is an edit of a six episode serial that originally played on BBC2 in the UK, and was partially improvised. And large parts of it are made up of imitations, “silly voices”, and jabs that will leave you guessing whether they’re good-natured, or passive-aggressively malicious. Put all of this in the context of a road trip and you can be certain it will be interesting if nothing less.

It is compelling to consider that both Coogan and Bryd0n worked with Winterbottom on his 2002 film, 24 Hour Party People. Since then, Coogan has made an admirable run at making it big in Hollywood. Currently, and unfortunately, he’s fading from mainstream memory and his hopes of making a permanent presence are mostly dashed. Whereas Bryd0n has been creating a strong forward momentum for himself in the UK and continues as an actor, comedian, and radio and television presence.

Such are the characters we see on screen in The Trip. Coogan has accepted an assignment from The Observer to review six restaurants in northern England.  Originally, Coogan’s girlfriend was meant to accompany him.  Through a series of transatlantic phone calls, romantic trouble is hinted at, but not explained, and she is in New York instead.  Coogan ends up bringing Brydon, an acquaintance, not so much a friend it seems.  Coogan is endlessly speaking with agents on both sides of the pond. He makes no qualms of explaining to his travel companion how he wishes to be an auteur (one has to wonder where Hamlet 2 falls into this), working with great directors. He even has a fantasy dream where Ben Stiller sings his praises and lists all the A-list directors wanting to work with him. He looks down on Brydon, always behind a thin mask of humor and sarcasm, for his “low-brow” career, and explains his willingness to sacrifice family for career, protesting just a bit too much considering Brydon is happily married with a child.  It’s unclear where the line is between these two characters on screen, and who they are in real life.  And that’s part of the fun.

Of course, as road trips usually do, the setting facilitates an atmosphere that encourages Coogan and Brydon to philosophize and look inward, or rather encourages the audience to do so.  Backdropped by endless courses of food that seem to be too imaginative for their own good–in one restaurant, they’re served lollipops made of duck fat and peanuts.  Neither of the two ever seem to have much to say about the food other than quips like, “the consistency is a bit like snot,” or, referring to tomato soup, “it’s very tomato-y.”  They prefer to do competing, and often hilarious, imitiations of the likes of Sean Connery, Hugh Grant, and Michael Caine.

The ridiculousness of the food, and the situation, set in bold face the ridiculousness of Coogan and his seemingly unobtainable ambitions.  If Coogan, with his endless jokes and somewhat amenable companionship, is slowly exposed as something other than what he originally presents, the same can be considered of Brydon.  Considering whether he’s as footloose and fancy free, and as unaffected by insult or injury as he pretends to be proves to be just as interesting.

That line between actor and person gets smaller and smaller until it finally disappears as the film approaches its finale.  It’s here that Winterbottom makes what seems to be his only glaring mistake.  The careful consideration the audience has been investing in these two characters (of which, wondering about its accuracy is most of the fun) needs no longer be left up to the imagination.  A heavily melancholic score (music you’ll recognize from Andrew Niccol’s Gattaca) sees the two men separate at the end of the trip and return to their homes.  One to his empty, sterile, high-rise apartment, the other home to a somewhat pedestrian, home-cooked meal, and to the open arms of a wife and child.  The sadness and the funniness of the situation did not need to be spelled out, and it leaves a slightly bad taste at the end of a very delicious meal.

3.5 out of 4 stars

The story comes from a pulp fiction novel from the 50s, by author Jim Thompson, and Winterbottom adapted it for the screen.  It centers around Lou Ford (Casey Affleck), a young sheriff in west Texas.  He’s called to run a prostitute named Joyce (Alba) out of town, but he falls in love with her.  Love is probably too strong a word here, since it becomes slowly clear that Lou is a psychopath.  He’s also sleeping with his high school sweetheart Amy (Kate Hudson).  Sex with the two women is rough and sadistic, and frequently enjoys ritual spanking.  There’s a grand, complicated story that explains what his motives are, but he ends up killing Joyce and another man, and framing them for it.  He gets deeper and deeper, and he has to keep working harder to keep himself in the clear.

The film is almost entirely character driven, so it’s fortunate that they are written so well (there’s all sorts of fantastic peripheral characters acted by Elias Koteas, Ned Betty, Simon Baker, Bill Pullman, and more).  All the acting is great, especially Affleck, and even, surprisingly, Ms. Hudson.  Anyone who watches this, and think that this is an endorsement to act violently, is ridiculous, because all of the characters are damaged, unhinged souls with no basic barometer of right and wrong.  Winterbottom (and perhaps the source material, I’m not sure), was smart enough not to ask the audience to put their sympathies with Lou.  He’s insane, dangerous, and unworthy of any sort of mercy.  The full horror of his acts are on display, and it’s hard to stomach.  The most disturbing scene of all comes after he’s beaten Amy to a point she’s unable to control her bodily functions (it seems Kate Hudson is frantically trying to get us all to forget Fool’s Gold).  The plot is complex, and quickly paced, and if you can handle the violence, it’s entertaining from beginning to end.  And, while saying this sometimes makes people dubious, the ending is sufficiently shocking to leave you a little speechless as you leave.

The Killer Inside Me