Slim pickings ... Christian Bale in The Machinist
As an actor with a total mastery of accents and one of the first with a borderless internet following, Christian Bale was better equipped than most British actors to travel well - even to conquer America. Though he's the current growly-voiced incumbent of the Batman berth - demonic spirit of the US's dark underbelly - it seems like one macho film icon won't do. In the last couple of weeks have come reports that he's signed to play John Connor in the fourth Terminator film, mankind's Mr Fix-It in the never-ending war with the machines.
The thought of co-opting Bale's clenched jaw and hyper-focused air for Terminator Salvation: The Future Begins is probably enough to make the producers put a down-payment on that sixth Bel Air condo right now, but I think it's a bad idea. Not least because the Terminator franchise is degraded property: besides James Cameron's lean, laser-guided original and the beefy sequel, the pedestrian third outing suffered from the in-vogue sin of over-elaboration. The fourth almost certainly comes with another clump of tedious backstory. Not to mention that duff, generic-but-pompous videogame title. And, bizarrely, Charlie's Angels hack McG signed as director.
Maybe I'm being unfair on McG, but he doesn't seem the right fit. Bale, on the other hand, is too tight a fit. John Connor would be another in the crew of obsessives and driven men that are becoming his calling card. But his performances are in danger of becoming too one-note, and now is the time to diversify.
He has deservedly made a name for himself with his outstanding commitment and masochistic preparation - you don't doubt this when his 120lb cadaver in The Machinist exposes a rack of ribs, or when his scarily convincing, battle-fried Gulf vet in Harsh Times finally flips. Each tour de force is notable in a way that neatly garners publicity (Bale drops 60lbs; Bale is Batman; Bale takes the Werner Herzog assault course in Rescue Dawn), but I think it diverts attention from the fact that the performances seem increasingly hollowed-out and detached.
His work has become an ongoing psychological contortionist's act; the flow of everyday reality that would make it resonate more deeply feels like it's drying up. Perhaps that's the cumulative effect of so much deep immersion in strange psyches, but it's making him less powerful - even when he's wrapped in Kevlar. Batman Begins, a strong film, should have been a straight triumph for Bale, but I thought he was a strange mixture of intimidating and underwhelming. Playing a distanced character is fine, but Bale feels so remote he's gone beyond the reach of the audience - a dangerous game in a blockbuster film. Perhaps being instantly iconic is too much to ask - everyone who's played Batman has struggled in the role, after all - and he needs more time.
All of these characters are chasing their own identity - and Bale made his firmest statement about these matters first, in his one truly iconic role as American Psycho's Patrick Bateman. It wasn't just the hard slog down the gym and the beautician - it is a superbly danced dirge of psychosis and satire, and Bale slides into it with the slippery facility evident in his varied early filmography. Subsequent performances mostly seem like variations on a theme, and it would be great if Bale opened himself up more on screen. The schizoid superheroes, compartmentalised psyches, one-track minds and unknowable saviours are designed to impress, but it's heartening to see him easing into normality and domestic settings as well - something he's well capable of. He was dignified as homesteader John Rolfe in Terence Malick's The New World, his escalating desperation to protect his family was infectious in 3:10 To Yuma, and his working-class magician anchored The Prestige's smoke and mirrors plotting.
Playing John Connor has an unhealthy whiff of careerism to it, the kind of agent-led star brand-building he has previously slagged off. It would be sad to see such a malleable actor cast for good in the most cliched mould of all.
