On the morning of April 20 2010, the mood onboard the vast offshore oil rig Deepwater Horizon was jumpy. Or so at least it appears in the new account of the most infamous environmental disaster in modern day US history. Your gut suggests the filmmakers have it correct. Following all, by now the crew was 43 days behind schedule in preparing to drill a tundra of seabed miles below the Gulf of Mexico, the sort of delay that makes a specific sort of particular person believe of cutting corners.
But not electronics technician Mike Williams, played with an easy swing by Mark Wahlberg, a rapidly-speaking lunk with a loving wife and daughter waiting at residence. He is our chief point of get in touch with in a tight-knit group of blue-collar competence. Ranged against them in a film of good guys and negative are what they call the “company men”, the BP logo stitched helpfully on to their shirts: males like Donald Vidrine, a slow-roasted web site manager blown up, you assume, to 110 per cent of his actual size by John Malkovich, with a relaxed method to safety tests and a liking for sermons on the size of the corporation.
Vidrine is also given to underlining his authority with mentions of “the bosses back in London”. All told, Deepwater Horizon is unlikely to uncover the BP boardroom in St James’s Square sending out for popcorn. But even if they feel aggrieved at the broad strokes of the narrative, they would have to acknowledge that creating this the story of the ordinary workers is the wise dramatic play.
The script gleams with efficiency. For all the winsomeness of the Williams household, yanked heartstrings are rare, the plain truth of 126 men and women on a fireball-in-waiting permitted to exert its personal energy. When dealing with a story of dynamically positioned, semi-submersible ultra-deep oil exploration, there is also a particular genius to being aware of what we need to have to be told and what we don’t. The language of needles jolting into the red proves universal.
And then the hiss from beneath the rig turns to a scream and disaster strikes. The result is nightmarishly properly directed, a kind of precision chaos. If the film will have the status of a horror movie among some audiences, all of us will be left a small quiet by the sight of BP’s Leviathan in its death throes, engulfed in flames above and flames under.