The Automatik

I can’t think of one Steven Soderbergh film that I haven’t enjoyed and admired, and that includes Erin Brokovich and Out of Sight. His narrative methods have always been original, but this time around he has eschewed the flashback/flashforward style he sometimes uses in favor of multiple parallel storylines. Although other directors have tried this, not all have succeeded, often because the effect is confusing, pretentious, and annoying.

With Traffic, however, Soderbergh has outdone even his own best attempts. Although we are introduced to the various plot lines in media res, each one is so fully realized, so totally engrossing, that the viewer is not disconcerted, but enraptured.

Due in part to the stellar dialogue and in part to the completely realistic performances, the film never meanders, never falters, and never seems drawn-out, despite its 2-hour plus running time. Soderbergh continues to elicit astonishing performances from the actors in his films, even if you might not believe they were capable of such. Michael Douglas is a wonder, making you forget that he was ever in dreck like Basic Instinct and Black Rain. Topher Grace, who is adorable and charming on That 70s Show, is creepy and disturbing and not just because he reminds me of people I have actually known.

In fact, a big part of what makes Traffic so phenomenal is its utter believability. It has the little details that really draw you in. Unlike movies that transport the viewer to another world, however, it shows you a version of reality that is not dependent on a glib, postmodern, neatly arranged universe. The soundtrack is impeccable. It is nonexistent when it needs to be and subtle when it does appear, not overpowering or directing either the narrative flow or the viewer’s emotional response. It isn’t just the music that enhances the world of the movie, it’s the sound of children yelling and crying in the background of drug dealer’s hotel room and it’s the gravel crunching under tires in a Mexican desert.

From a purely visual perspective, too, the movie is a masterpiece. Many scenes were supposedly filmed with a handheld camera, but there are no dizzying NYPD Blue style cinema verit� shots. There is, instead, an intimacy that is not claustrophobic, but completely visceral. Mexico is drenched in so much yellow haze that you can almost feel the sweltering heat of the place. In other scenes, however, the lighting is natural and unobtrusive, as if you were looking through a window. There are no flash edits, no digitally enhanced special effects. It all looks absolutely real.

Soderbergh’s artistry is that in controlling every last aspect of the film he has freed the viewer to experience a reality that is less directed than the average documentary. He allows you to draw your own conclusions about the characters, their actions and the greater themes of the film�drug trafficking and drug addiction�without judgment and without a message lurking around the next corner.