The Prestige

It seems fitting that Christopher Nolan, director of meta-noirs Following and Memento has suddenly appeared with a whoosh and a movie about tricks. Adapted by Nolan and his brother Jonathan from Christopher Priest’s novel about two competing magicians in turn-of-the-20th-century London, The Prestige charts the fortunes of suave Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) and working-class runt Alfred Borden (Christian Bale). Like many great rivals, they start out, under the tutelage of the same illusion designer (Michael Caine, wonderful) as allies. It’s only when a performance goes wrong, resulting in the death of Angier’s wife Julia, that the pair are locked into a bitter lifelong contest.
Being a film with the words Christopher Nolan on it, The Prestige twists hither and thither, a sleight of hand taking us around the lushly recreated grime of period West End theatres and off to the wilds of Colorado to confer with mad-genius inventor Nikola Tesla (essayed by the suitably enigmatic David Bowie). Frequently, the film assumes the form of Russian Matryoshka dolls with Jackman narrating from Bale’s diaries that may or may not be legitimate. If anything, the plot snakes about a little too often as we approach the denouement.
Happily, the central obsession, a mania that often recalls the doomed finale of Frankenstein, is enough to keep us thrilled. Bale, having long since convinced us that he’s The Finest Actor Of His Generation, is wildly compelling. Jackman, raising his game for the occasion, has never been more impressive.
The results may lack the twisted substance of Mr. Nolan’s earlier efforts, but as a piece of showmanship, it’s hard to argue with.