“All great films without exceptions contain an element of ‘no reason,’” and for this notion I give writer / director Quentin Dupieux credit. There is truth to the theory that many films include plots that are impelled by “nothing.” Romantic films often follow this trope. What makes the two characters fall in love? Often, convenience and the need to tell a story within two hours. What compels one person to show up when the other is in a compromising position that often involves someone of the opposite sex? “Nothing,” but the need to manufacture conflict.
At the same time, Rubber loses itself by trying to incorporate too many clichés, tropes, and homages to other Hollywood films, running the gamut of love story, odyssey, action, horror, snuff, revenge film, and Holocaust allegory – how else does one explain the piles of tires being pitched into a burning pyre of radials?
Rubber tells the story or Robert, a discarded tire who comes to life and quickly finds that he has psychokinetic powers. Why? No idea. The origin of his powers has no bearing on the story, but it clearly falls under the exposited theory of “no reason,” adding “campy,” “tongue-in-cheek,” and “self-aware” to the genre rolodex mentioned above. There is something clever about using an anthropomorphic, black (“racial allegory” — I kid you not) tire with psychokinetic powers and a penchant for brunettes to mock the silliness of certain genre films by evoking the same emotions through similar narratives constructed by simple splices and soundtracks filled with expository songs like “I Just Don’t Want to be Lonely” to explain Robert’s motivation.
It’s also an impressive exercise in creativity, though, ironically, the premise takes itself a bit too seriously by assuming that all films rely on the “No fucking reason” element. Many films – and Rubber is no exception – require a suspension of disbelief. Take any of the Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings films. Take The Terminator series, or even something that is quasi-serious like Inglourious Basterds. However, unlike Rubber — and to its detriment – these films stay within the parameters that they establish. The truth within the story being told needs to stay consistent. In a film like ET, Eliot gains the ability to fly on a bicycle. Possible? Clearly not unless his alien sidekick is with him, but it’s okay because the audience is watching a film about an alien that loves Reeses, so magic is expected.
In contrast, if Eliot were able to fly his bicycle without an alien, the narrative would go out of the scope of reasonable possibility. He was unable to fly the bicycle before; thus, he is unable to fly the bicycle now that the alien as returned to his planet.
In the end, Rubber loses its way by transitioning from plot points that require “no reason” to silly moments that don’t fit into the narrative of the film like the police force learning that the tire is in love with Sheila (Roxanne Mesquida). No one knows this but us. Or the wheelchair bound spectator (Wings Hauser) being able to quickly move through the desert without a car. Or the fact that Lieutenant Chad’s accountant / assistant (Jack Plotnick) eats the knowlingly poisoned food that he carted into the desert to kill the aforementioned wheelchaired man. Or the Bugs Bunny-style plot to blow up the tire by using a brunette mannequin strapped with dynamite. I’m not so concerned about how they got dynamite, but I’m a bit more curious as to why the scene exists when Lieutenant Chad easily enters the house and fires two barrels of a shotgun into Robert.
Other “no reasons” in the film were clever: Why is the tire alive? Why does he have psychokinetic powers? Why is he in love with the girl? Why is Lieutenant Chad able to get shot four times and remain unharmed? These we can all chalk up to the parameters of a story that involves an anthropomorphic tire and some sort of strange, corny serial killer / demon.
Perhaps Dupieux’s ultimately asking why we – like the audience within the film (don’t ask) – continue to watch unexplainable films that are more schlocky than clever, but if this is what he’s after, he is, first off, condescending. But more importantly, he has failed to prove his thesis because his $500,000 film only grossed $114,000 — and I watched it for free on Netflix. I’d hate to be a total cynic, but in the final scene of the film, the former-tire-now-tricycle stands at the front of a pack of other animated radials that all stare at the Hollywood sign shining brightly on the hilltop, and this supports the notion that his intended audience is the one he is mocking.
In the end, what masks itself as absurdism devolves to masturbatory absurdity.