Shutter Island is the kind of movie whose principals (Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffalo), nervously contemplating the eponymous prison from the boat, get their dialogue squelched before the narrative’s started by a portentous, immersive score (music editor Robbie Robertson requires shock treatment), but not before the boat captain informs them/us that (a) the dock they’re approaching is the only way on or off the island (b) a storm’s comin’. A few minutes later, the sinister warden watches smugly as Ruffalo, ordered to surrender his firearm, fumbles with the holster (director Martin Scorsese helpfully includes close-ups of the fumble and the warden’s expression). Ruffalo, see, is the rookie, and suspense thrillers aren’t kind to rookies. But one hundred twenty-four minutes remain, at least a third of which consist of flashbacks with colored snowflakes, pools of perfectly art-directed blood coagulating by dead Nazis, and Michelle Williams acting as if she’s never seen a smile before.
Humanizing The Vacuum 