Cold Souls Review

Paul Giamatti has a tragicomic face, and he knows it. Some actors, especially beautiful ones, are fascinated by attempting to escape the look nature (or a gifted surgeon) gave them: think of Brad Pitt in Kalifornia, Charlize Theron in Monster, Christian Bale in The Machinist. Giamatti on the other hand, has a tragicomic face that he knows how to work to his best advantage in all his key roles: Sideways, American Splendor, and now, Cold Souls.

In interviews, Giamatti comes across as a much more charming fellow, but that face of his belongs on a sad-sack character. It is an ideal face for a self-pitying, ineffectual clown, tolerated by those around him, loved by few, and yet still possessed of a few poor rags of dignity. In other words, it's the ideal face to play Chekhov's Uncle Vanya, one of the least playable heroes in drama. Vanya is almost wholly ridiculous without being especially sympathetic, and it would be a gift of a stage role for Giamatti.

In Cold Souls, Paul Giamatti, playing himself, is rehearsing 'Uncle Vanya' for an off-Broadway production, and the choice of play is a masterstroke of a backdrop to the film's central "soul storage" conceit. The weight of Vanya, a rotten plum of a role, drives Giamatti into the arms of David Strathairn's soul storage doctor, who works in an entirely believable Apple Mac-type clinic, all white surfaces and friendly curves.

The good doctor suggests the bearded gloomster put his soul on storage for a bit, to ease his pain. He'll get it back whenever he wants. He could even slip into a different soul for a bit, to help with the Vanya role - perhaps he'd like to try a Russian poet for size?