Review: The Congress
Directed by Ari Folman • 2013 • 122 mins
In 2008, Ari Folman explored his own memories and the trauma of war in Waltz with Bashir. Using stunning rotoscope animation, he created a subjective experience of the 1982 Lebanon War through a blend of harsh realism and fantasy. In The Congress, he again looks inward, this time at the film industry itself, oscillating between a sharp denunciation of Hollywood and a celebration of cinema and all of its potential.
At the centre of The Congress is Robin Wright playing a fictional version of herself. With her career dwindling and her son slowly losing his vision and hearing, Robin is offered her final contract: the chance to sell her star persona to the fictional Miramount Pictures. Through advanced motion capture technology, actors become characters to be used however the studio chooses. The discomfort that we feel is palpable as Robin is infantalised, objectified, and manipulated by her desperate agent (Harvey Keitel) and studio boss Jeff (played with perfect sleaziness by Danny Huston). But Wright pushes these scenes beyond caricature. Delivering a graceful, self-assured performance that cuts through these dismissals, she reminds us that the choice is Robin’s alone. What she gives up, she gives up freely, and there is no doubt that this is an enormous sacrifice. As Robin’s identity is digitally scanned, we are left with troubling questions. What choices are open to Wright and other women in Hollywood, particularly as they get older? When the word “whore” is uttered, it isn’t clear whether it refers to Robin’s all-consuming contract or to the demands placed on women in the industry at all times: to smile on command, to expose their bodies onscreen, to take drastic measures to combat the signs of aging…the list goes on. This industry places very little value on the subjectivity and agency of stars like Wright.
When the film jumps forward twenty years to the end of Robin’s contract, the world has changed drastically. Invited to “The Futurist Congress” to renew her contract, Robin plunges into a drug-induced fantasy theme park, Abrahama. Here, Folman expertly uses a variety of animation techniques without ever risking the cold dehumanization that haunts Robin’s CGI doppelgänger. This segment of the film reveals the scope of The Congress‘s political and artistic aim. Ownership and industrial control are Folman’s central targets, along with the industry’s lack of imagination. The very notion of turning an actor into a character is ludicrous, not because it can’t or shouldn’t be done, but because that’s precisely what cinema already does. Jeff describes the creative opportunities of science fiction and reveals just how narrow minded his and the entire industry’s vision is. As if creating a new world through film requires such a futuristic conceit.
Operating outside of the Hollywood system, The Congress serves up all of the immersive escapism that cinema has to offer. If it occasionally feels convoluted, that’s the point. The rules of causality, logic, time, and space collapse. In Abrahama, Robin can grow wings and fly, physical appearances can change in the blink of an eye, and Jesus can mingle with Hindu gods or A-list celebrities. Walt Disney could only dream of such a theme park. As with Waltz, Folman reminds us that the borders of genre are permeable. The Congress is at once an exploration of real life stardom, the film industry, gender politics, technology, addiction, and desire. It is docudrama, science-fiction, utopia, dystopia, live action, and animation. It is a celebration of a medium in flux. It is a thoughtful provocation, a stunning achievement, and a joy to watch.