Paul Verhoeven’s science-fiction thriller is clever, horribly funny and unusually well suited to Arnold Schwarzenegger. The relentless violence can be tiring, but Quaid’s inability to trust his own memories gives the action a reason to matter.
Total Recall is a good, viciously funny science-fiction thriller whose appetite for violence occasionally gets the better of it. Paul Verhoeven takes the uncertainty of a man who cannot trust his memories seriously, even while making a considerable mess around him. The question of who Quaid is matters because Arnold Schwarzenegger makes not knowing look frightening. His physical confidence cannot settle it. That gives the film something worth pursuing beyond the next opportunity to hurt somebody.
Schwarzenegger’s size is central to the joke, and to the unease. Quaid looks equipped to overpower almost any immediate problem, which makes his uncertainty about himself more interesting than another display of strength. The performance allows confusion to register without making him merely foolish. We found his bewilderment unexpectedly touching, because the threat is something his body cannot deal with. Sharon Stone, as Lori, brings a sharpness that is welcome beside all that mass.
The screenplay by Ronald Shusett, Dan O’Bannon and Gary Goldman keeps memory and identity involved in the action. It gives us reason to question what we are watching without requiring us to stop caring about Quaid. That is a useful discipline in science fiction, where an elaborate explanation can easily take the place of a person. Here the uncertainty gives his vulnerability some force. There are stretches when the action threatens to drown that out, but the underlying predicament remains worth following.
Jost Vacano’s cinematography gives the action a useful solidity: we can register Schwarzenegger’s weight amid the visual clutter. William Sandell’s production design helps by giving him spaces substantial enough to accommodate that presence. The vast sets make the spectacle satisfying to look around, even when the people occupying them are behaving appallingly. Some effects look rubbery, and an occasional image invites more inspection than it can withstand. Yet that physical awkwardness suits Verhoeven’s taste for making the human body ridiculous.
The black humour is often nastier than the fighting, and that is part of its appeal. We laughed, then felt slightly ashamed of ourselves when the bodily damage became the joke. Verhoeven encourages that discomfort by pushing the violence beyond what the action needs. The excess can be funny, but it also makes an objection to the film’s brutality entirely reasonable.
Frank J. Urioste’s editing gives the film a forceful forward movement, though it can leave too little breathing space between assaults. There is a point at which another burst of action adds volume without adding much urgency. Jerry Goldsmith’s score makes Quaid’s predicament sound appropriately enormous, although extra urgency is not always what an already noisy sequence needs. It is the cumulative pressure that becomes tiring. At 113 minutes, this is hardly an endless undertaking, yet a few quieter stretches would have made the violence count for more.
This is one to watch with someone who enjoys arguing about what a film has shown them. There is enough here to sustain that conversation, and enough unruly comedy to prevent it becoming solemn. Allow a little indulgence for the effects, and be prepared for the film to keep battering away after it has made its point. Take the 18 certificate seriously.
