Review of Red Eye (2005) by Markb. — 23 Aug 2005

It's not surprising that a thriller released less than 4 years after 9/11 and dealing with airborne terrorism (or, more specifically, terrorism conducted FROM an airplane) would endeavor to ruffle as few political feathers as possible: the intended assassination target is a Deputy Director of Homeland Security whose incendiary message (something on the order of "we've got to get tough on these hostile nations") is general enough that red- and blue-staters can fundamentally agree on it, and the fact that his life is at stake because of this indicates that terrorists are notoriously thin-skinned folk.

But then, Wes Craven is neither Costa-Gavras or Oliver Stone, nor Lionel Chetwynd or John Milius; even as himself, he's a long way from enraging and offending audiences with his three-decades-ago gorefests Last House on the Left and The Hills Have Eyes, and the most controversial message he's been pushing as of late is the notion that werewolves can live normal lives just like you and me, in this year's earlier Cursed.

Nope, Craven's just out to thrill these days, and Red Eye demonstrates that he can still do that very, very well. Excellent, claustrophobia-inducing employment of very limited space for much of the movie, with special kudos for Craven's use of close-ups, plus lots of clever touches in Carl Ellsworth's script (you gotta like an airplane movie that refers to the Mile-High Club without ever mentioning it by name, and a suspense thriller that includes a Dr.

Phil book as one of the props!) make this a continually entertaining and effective sweat-inducer, drawing pleasant comparisons with last summer's terrific Cellular. In the airport, in the air, and back on the ground, Red Eye works so well for what it is that my only real complaint is actually a compliment: it's one of the few movies currently around that actually could've afforded to be ten minutes longer! Rachel McAdams as a hotel manager forced to help with the murder continues the roll she embarked on with Mean Girls, The Notebook and Wedding Crashers; here as in those, she's utterly incapable of making a wrong or false acting move.

Cillian Murphy (Scarecrow in Batman Begins) is masterful at blending softspokenness and charm with psychopathia and danger; his almost feminine facial features make him even creepier. But for my money, the movie absolutely belongs to newcomer Jayma Mays, a tiny little thing who steals scenes and hearts as an overwhelmed employee at McAdams' hotel.

With her Walter Keene-kitten eyes, tremulous voice, and wobbly walk, Mays is vulnerability personified, and she's irresistable. Anyone who watches her in this movie and doesn't at least consider treating concierges, waitresses and other service personnel with at least a little more kindness, patience and consideration deserves to go to the back of a never-ending line at whatever airport, hotel, restaurant, movie theater or other facility that represents his or her worst vision of Customer Service Hell.