Poetic Film Review: The Machinist (2004)

In a time of cinematic slumber,
Hollywood's output was bland.
A rare gem emerged, a story to tell,
The Machinist, a tale so grand.

In the heart of the 21st century,
A world of machines, a world of steel.
Trevor Reznik, a man possessed,
His sleep denied, his body frail.

In a dance with insomnia,
He toils, he works, he never sleeps.
Yet in his mind, the demons rise,
As he into madness, he creeps.

Stevie and Marie, his fleeting light,
In a world of shadows, they stand.
But Ivan lurks, a shadow's shade,
Trevor's mind, he'll understand.

A European touch, Barcelona's embrace,
Kafka and Dostoyevsky's influence felt.
The plot unfolds, a twisted maze,
A mystery, a truth, concealed.

The cinematography, a dark canvas,
Jiménez's touch, a surreal dance.
Baños' score, Herrmann's echo,
Enhancing the film's haunting trance.

Bale's performance, a masterpiece,
A man's descent, his madness portrayed.
Leigh and Sharian, they too shine,
A cast united, a story retold.

But in the end, a twist unsatisfying,
A resolution, too simple, too neat.
The plot's twist, a letdown, a disappointment,
A flaw in a film, so pure and complete.

Yet The Machinist, it stands tall,
A testament to Hollywood's might.
A film that dared to be different,
A gem in a world, so dull and bright.

(Note: The review in its original form can be read here.)

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