I don’t remember where I first saw the Children of Men trailer, but I do recall being instantly captivated by the cheesy Sigur Rós soundtrack in its TV spots and all things Clive Owen. Along with “Hoppípolla,” the images of a gray, dystopian London lodged their way into my high school freshman psyche.
Fast-forward a few months, and a friend of a friend of a cousin legally acquired a not-at-all-suspicious advance copy of the movie. Trouble is, I was down with a serious bout of cold. A mountain of snotty Kleenexes and liters of DayQuil barely sustained me.
Still, it was Children of Men, I reasoned, as I stuck the Sharpie-labeled disc into my laptop. 1984 is rad and Clive Owen is rad, so surely the combination of the two must be awesome — maybe even awesome enough to cure my uncommon cold.
I have never watched a movie while high, but I imagine that experience would be quite similar. My brain probably wouldn’t have been ready for Alfonso Cuarón’s magnum opus if I hadn’t just chugged slightly more than the recommended amount of Robitussin. In that state, every tilt of camera, every plot twist, every ounce of blood came across as an almost religious epiphany.
Partway through the climactic apartment assault, I realized it had all happened in a single, unbroken take and let out an audible groan and, “Oh my God.” I think I might have creeped my parents out.
Speaking about movies objectively is a futile proposition at best. I want to say that, removed from the fever-fueled ecstasy, Children of Men still stands tall as an absolute masterpiece, a timeless story of both the folly of mankind and the indomitable resolve of the human spirit. That would be a lie.
The truth is, no matter how much we try to standardize and neutralize external variables, the perceived quality of a movie is so wholly dependent on our actual viewing experience that criticism cannot be objective.
For all the nice things I’ve said about Children of Men, I don’t presume everyone will have anything even remotely similar to the weird love I have for the film. In fact, I’m not even sure I’d recommend it to anyone else anymore. Too many times, I’ve spoken to friends who weren’t all that impressed. Too many times, I’ve heard fairly convincing arguments about the shallowness and the gimmicks at the center of the film.
I can’t say whether Children of Men is good these days. All I know is this: On that dreary November day back in 2006, on a small, grimy laptop screen, I witnessed something beautiful, something perfect. And I’ve been chasing that high ever since.
[ READ MORE: Celebrating the career of Alfonso Cuarón, director of Gravity ]
