Rubber

You're just as likely to prevent a natural disaster as you are to understand the driving force behind Quentin Dupieux's Rubber. Known through and throughout as a film dictating a sentient, psycho-kinetic tire on a killing spree, Rubber is that damn iconic just from the teaser trailer alone. When I had seen the trailer around a year ago I had questioned some of the segments in the trailer. "Why are there chairs methodically placed on a desert road? Why is there a small group of people wielding binoculars?" Starting out Rubber on a high note, Quentin (Mr. Oizo to those familiar with his Lambs Anger) simply tosses a "no reason" into our lap and throws a police officer into a trunk of an automobile and drives off into the distance. It is as simple as that, folks. Rubber takes pride in its off-kilter insanity yet it represents a force so strong that it is indeed impossible to shrug the film off, whether you enjoyed it or not. Rubber is quite potent in its form of contemporary avant-garde. Let's not forget the soundtrack created by Mr. Oizo himself with the help of Justice's Gaspard Augé. It's worthy of any Ed Banger aficionado with that rare disembodied appeal that works as not just thematic sauce for the images, but as an incredible project altogether.

I would consider myself a sizable fan of Mr. Oizo's work. Most fittingly, my favorite track that he has produced is the tentatively titled Bruce Willis is Dead. It is a track that I've committed to playing if that fateful day were ever to come. When I had heard of the film Rubber, I made no connection between a psychic tire and the French electro house producer. When it finally dawned on me, Quentin being Oizo's slave name, I was shocked and thrilled at the same time. It is always a pleasant treat watching someone excel in a particular medium only to toggle forms, no matter if it turns out to be a classic case of "Don't quit your day job." Rubber is quite the opposite and it surpasses even that when traces of the electronic eccentricity of Oizo come gasping for breath through the screen. The lead character, Robert, is a special kind of tire; brandless, the puppet master presumes. Who I refer to as the puppet master is the sheriff figure who leads the charade, the film within a film, within a film. Ties get severed and origins unnecessary as Dupieux wheels us around on an utterly insensible film. Rubber is a batty creation, incomprehensibly blind, perhaps even to its own origin. This is why Rubber rubs off with such exclusive wit and esotericism. It's the definition of a pet project and I'm amazed that something like this could even have to gall to request funding. I'd imagine that Dupieux put forth most of the money on this production. Unless of course Rubber's producer is a nerd, in which case, more power to him.

Rubber takes a strange turn once the post-post-meta elaboration begins. A group of individuals are called to a dune overlooking a Californian desert. Given binoculars, a member of the group, a small boy, quickly quips "I hope it's not a silent film!" So right off the bat normal conventions are dismissively tossed out the proverbial window and a sheen keen to absurdist methods is layered evenly. What occurs from here spreads to plots of poisoning and trope-bashing demonstrations of Dupieux's authority on set. Some of us might want Rubber to progress, maybe flesh out a tad differently from its willed path but Dupieux reminds us who exactly is in charge--for the masochist in us all. Had Rubber been a short 20 minute film like several critics suggest then the sparkling aftertaste, well, wouldn't exist. It would have been an experience to sleep off while you arise, continuing about your ritualistic day of instant ramen and cheap beer. I intend to not flesh out some of the more disconcerting aspects of Rubber for the integrity of this picture means as much to it as blood does to us. No iconoclastic remarks could harm Rubber's cemented reputation as "that killer tire film" for Quentin anticipated such and placed his film firmly on high ground. Rubber is a film I recommend to every soul because whether or not they enjoy isn't the case for recommendation. It is the fact that opinion will be so bewildering and eschewed that the only relative comparison to the result would be that of a riot.

-mAQ