Transsiberian

Movies set on trains are usually, at the very least, fun. It even made Hostel 2 watchable, briefly. It was also the saving grace of Wes Anderson's latest wheeze. Ther's something to be enjoyed about the simple mechanical ingenuity, having to face up to otherwise escapable horrors. There are some absolute classics of the genre with which all train movies must duke it out: Night Train, The Narrow Margin, Murder on the Orient Express. Brad Anderson's modest entry into this perfectly poised sub-genre is a compelling, if unspectacular, romp through the frozen wastelands of marriage.

It would have been reasonable to have expected something a little sharper, more defined from Anderson, who seemed to reach a kind of psycho-dystopian perfection with his previous film (The Machinist), a mental-specifity showcasing the grim ribs of hunger artist Christian Bale. However, this is a far more traditional, general, old-fashioned type of film: skilled and pleasantly convoluted.

A Trans-Siberian train journey from China to Moscow becomes a thrilling chase of deception and murder when an American couple (the righteous Harrelson and the lapsed Mortimer) encounters a mysterious pair of fellow travelers (depressive Mara and sexy aggressor Noriega). Exchanged bags, drugs, creaky Russians and torture ensues.Harrelson and Mortimer are fine enough as the mismatched couple, with the latter particularly impressive - putting in a performance that for some reason made me fondly recall the lost but particular charms of both Margot Kidder and Genevieve Bujold. However, it is Ben kingsley who is the unexpected triumph of the film, leading the audience up the wrong path and back again with a broad vodka-soaked glee.  I'm no real fan of Sir Ben as - like Sir Anthony - he usually seems so precoccupied with celebrating his own performance. Here, however, he chews hearily through his generic turn with great spirit.

Enjoyable enough though the film is, it's a little too functional to reach any great heights. I could imagine any number of directors (David Mamet, for one) more suited to this kind of claustraphobic McGuffin of a narrative, taking a far greater pleasure in the stitching of the characters than Anderson ever seems to.

Transsiberian also lacks the visual texture and complexity of both The Machinist and the directors often overlooked debut, Session 9. the latter film is a classic of another intriguing sub-genre: the real-estate horror. The image is rather flat and this does nothing to flatter the formulaic and predictable plot. Still, the incredible natural location and frosty air does give a little anxiety and bite to the outrageous turn of events.

Anderson needs to press on woth more challenging material than is at his disposal here. He's one of the finest directors around at the moment and should he have in reserve a story worth his talents, something of more substance, then the fact that he made this ordinary seeming film as good as it is gives us hope that a future classic could be on the cards.