One of Polanski's most Americanized efforts, Frantic, begins very well. Through a leisurely exposition between a happily married doctor and wife on a business trip in Paris, Polanski's camera at some stage begins to tell us things through ominous zoom-ins and steadicams. We see him thinking, wondering when he should start worrying. We are comfortably in the same perspective as Harrison Ford's protagonist. But this pace becomes an obstruction later on. This ironically low-key thriller's action is periodically interrupted by unnecessary scenes with no subtext, for example a dance sequence between the internally agitated Ford and Emmanuelle Seigner.
It is a true paradox that pace is an issue for a film called Frantic. So much so that I wonder upon reflection if it was Polanski's intention to compress the briskness of the action to familiarize us with the protagonist's internalization of fear, worry and bewilderment. Whatever the answer is, it was not a conducive creative device.
The first half is promising in large part because of Polanski's experience with the loss of his own wife to random circumstance with murderers. It made me feel as if I was going to see an intense, personal film that dealt with that eternally wounding part of his life, sadly one of the many. Alas, I didn't get that. Frantic is a formula suspense film easily pigeonholed with the rest of the 1980s Hollywood thrillers.
The hero's essential obstacle being that he's a fish out of water, an American businessman in Paris who speaks no French and thus can hardly navigate his way through the city, much less a trail to his wife in which time is of the essence. The film would truly live up to a degree of tension if his interactions with Parisians were realistic. They all seem willing to help, none of them annoyed by an American archetype anxiously babbling English at them in their native country. I've heard many stories from friends and writers who've been to Paris. They do not bless Paris with a reputation for being nice and accommodating to English-speaking Americans. One friend told me that he was not allowed to have his passport back unless he asked for it in French. Another told me that when he tried to order a meal at a restaurant in English, the clerk slammed her hand on the table and ordered that he speak French. My own experience in Paris might be vastly different, and it is no doubt a beautiful and culturally rich city, but there would inevitably be at least a blemish of resistance against Ford's conventionally American character.
There is, however, a great sense of the hero's naivété with danger or intrigue. The tone is never too tongue-in-cheek to diminish the tension of the narrative and never too pitiful to deprive him of his credibility as a serious dramatic character. There is a terrific scene in which he must enter a woman's apartment from the outside ledge through a diagonal window. He must carry a satchel with important contents. He is also a well-fed middle-aged American doctor who never thought by any stretch of the imagination that a simple business trip would require him to do this. There is a not-so-good scene that suggests the same thing, but leaves us with a major story gap, during a scene at an airport where he's scared that the contraband-sniffing dogs will discover the dope in the suitcase. The dogs don't, and yet not only does Ford appear to have forgotten about at least a gram of coke in his pocket, the police dogs don't notice either.
Generally, Frantic is a genre film with genre conventions: the dubious female companion, the inept American intelligence agents, American paranoia concerning terrorism and a predictable ending that was only unpredictable to me because I felt sure that Polanski would take bolder steps. It is nevertheless an entertaining movie, but not a riveting one and not particularly memorable.
