FilmBlather.com

"So we're in the right spot?"
"Yeah, I'm 90% sure."
"90%? Why only 90%?"
"Because the boat's not here."

Spoilers ahoy.

There are characters in Open Water, and even a semblance of a story. That's terrific, but only to the extent that it gives credence and heft to the experience, which is the film's first and sole concern; regardless of whether one embraces it on an intellectual level, it's difficult to deny that it provides a horror movie ride like no other. And whether or not anyone enjoys it, few will fail to describe it as a "nailbiter." That it certainly is.

Beyond that, your appraisal of the experience is likely to depend on your feelings about its central gimmick. The gimmick is this: take two protagonists -- in this case, a young, feisty married couple -- put them through hell, and do a thorough job of putting the audience through as comparable a hell as possible. It's undeniably unpleasant; whether or not it's "cool" and worthwhile obviously depends on the individual person. Open Water does such a spectacular job of delivering on the horrifying promise of this gimmick that I can at the very least praise its craft.

Filmed on rough-looking digital video, the film coldly and logically goes about dismantling the blithe confidence of our two scuba-diving vacationers who are abandoned in shark-infested waters after a head-count snafu on their tour boat. Armed with nothing but a wet suit and oxygen tank, their certainty of rescue turns to hope, which becomes panic, and eventually despair. And then there are those sharks, which seem to be inching closer and closer. Aside from brief and rare cutaways to carefree tourists on dry land and the discovery of the heroes' belongings on the empty boat, we never abandon Daniel and Susan as they float toward seemingly certain doom.

It is by now a cliché to say that the gritty brand of digital video employed here lends "immediacy," but I must admit that I could not imagine Open Water evoking the same level of primal terror had it had the dubious benefit of glossy celluloid. Its genius is that as the situation gets more and more dire, it stops playing like a movie and enters nightmare territory. It's one thing to say that we "identify" with the characters, but there is something more profound going on here, something that transcends even the basic gimmick I described earlier: their terror becomes our terror. The film doesn't just radiate unpleasantness, it inspires the same feelings of hopelessness and bewilderment that plague the characters.

I find that both exciting and impressive; I imagine others are less enthusiastic about the prospect. Some have gone as far as to call the movie "sadistic," relishing in the protagonists' deadly and horrific predicament, exploiting their hopelessness for visceral effect. And indeed, Susan and Daniel's helplessness makes this a somewhat thorny issue; aren't we essentially watching the mercilessly depicted destruction of two human beings, and presumably treating it like a horror movie experience?

It's a valid point, and I can't defend the film on the grounds that one is not supposed to "enjoy" it, for thousands of moviegoers will trek to the theater with every intention of doing just that. But cinema can evoke a nearly limitless array of emotions, and helplessness, hopelessness and despair, all of which I felt during Open Water, are every bit as legitimate as fear and sympathy, which also rear their heads here. The movie is enjoyable in the same sense that any relentlessly dark, "depressing" cinema is enjoyable -- and that is different for different people. Again: does this sound appealing to you?

And after it's over, Open Water does what any good upsetting movie is supposed to do: make you glad that you're sitting comfortably in your climate-controlled sedan as opposed to floating in the open sea. Though the film makes you feel almost every bit of their pain, these characters' problems aren't, in the end, yours. At least until the next time you go on vacation.