Its hard to imagine being farther off the grid than the weathered yachtsman played by Robert Redford in the majestic, melancholy All Is Lost. There he is, solo on a 39-foot sailboat in the middle of the Indian Ocean, taking on water after a freak accident: During the night, while he slept, his boat struck a drifting shipping container, and a corner of the giant corrugated metal box pierced its hull.
Redfords nameless mariner wakes up to find the contents of his galley bobbing like rubber duckies in a bath. But he isnt panicking. He goes about patching the hole, pumping out the water although, with the electricity out, this is no easy feat.
And the radio and radar are offline, too. He has a manual for celestial navigation, and a sextant, which hell have to figure out how to use.
Written and directed by J.C. Chandor, whose previous film, Margin Call, was the polar opposite clipped, talky, set in the teeming canyons and corridors of Wall Street All Is Lost is as simple a tale of survival as it gets. A man, a boat, the sea, the sky.
And all the questions of our lives are there to consider: how we relate to our families, our loved ones, how we think of death, do we believe in a God, an afterlife? To consider wordlessly, because, with the exception of an opening voice-over and a guttural profanity aimed at the heavens, Redfords man (identified only as Our Man in the end credits) hardly speaks. There is no one to speak to.
Instead, we hear the creak and yaw of the boat, the waves lapping against its side, the uh-oh rumble of thunder and roar of a storm.
All Is Lost whose ending is open to interpretation without being ambiguous explores remarkably similar themes to those in Alfonso Cuarons Gravity.
While the crisis of Sandra Bullocks astronaut frames its isolated humans in the vast, zero-g expanse, All Is Lost uses that most primal element, water.
How he got here, and why, are questions only partially answered by the narration that opens the film. What we know: He is on his own, and he has left loved ones behind, with some heartache, and regret, and sense of failure.
Redford, his skin as burned and leathery as someone who has spent years sailing (or skiing and hiking and riding in his Sundance home), delivers a performance as powerful and soulful as it is quiet and indrawn. He is on screen just about every minute, and lets all his vanity go a hardy septuagenarian gingerly pulley-ing himself up the mast to try to fix his radar, or hunched over a book, a can of food. There is incredible tension in this ordeal, this effort to survive, to find rescue, and Redford makes that tension deeply palpable.
Those blue eyes have never looked less cocky, less certain, more overwhelmed by the magnitude of his predicament.
And in the grander, metaphoric view, its a predicament we all could find ourselves in, some time, some place: abandoned, navigating existence with only our minds, and spirits, to keep us on course or throw us desperately off.