I'm not quite sure what to say about Jason Reitman's recent film Up in the air. It's not a bad film. It is an elegant excursion into contemporary blockbuster-indie, the rules and conventions of which this movie obediently applies; "cool" indie music, quirky characters, stripped-down colorful cinematography. To this genre also belongs an appropriate dosage of political critique. Not too much, though. Let it end with happy pix of the Family waltzing through big-wedding night.
George Clooney's character, Ryan Bingham, grooves on his job. He travels, by air of course, from city to city, letting people know that they have been fired. Their employers have chosen to outsource that particular greasy task. No probs: Clooney is the man for it. So is his young colleague, Natalie, who has developed a brilliant new system: let go of the face-to-face situation, it's more conventient to fire people with the mediation of a screen. Up in the air is a blatant critique of shallowness. In being so blatant, it stumbles in its own trap - it risks becoming just as shallow as its subject matter. There are, however, a few good scenes in there. One of them is the anti-climax of Bingman's dream-come-true; he receives membership of a very exclusive club that has travelled so-and-so many miles up in the air. He gets to talk to the captain of the plane (brilliantly played by Sam Elliott) and his face spells d-i-s-a-p-p-o-i-n-t-m-e-n-t.
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