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Just a little infinity
The Fault in Our Stars might feign a self-aware, semi-ironic tone, but for the most part, it proves to be yet another contrived attack on the tear ducts rather than a truly affecting storyPreena Shrestha
It’s a model that The Fault in Our Stars, a new film based on a 2012 young adult book by John Green, is keen to distance itself from, starting by featuring a heroine who is probably more cynical than all of Sparks’ characters put together, and played by the very capable Shailene Woodley, comparatively more relatable in that. There is also a distinct literary flourish in the dialogues that lifts the film above most of its current YA contemporaries. But although it’s seemingly aiming for a self-aware, semi-ironic tone, and there are moments where it succeeds, for the most part, Fault, directed by Josh Boone, proves just as manipulative as the rest of them, a contrived attack on the tear ducts rather than a truly affecting and emotionally resonant story.
Hazel Grace (Woodley), a bright, bookish 16-year-old, is afflicted with thyroid cancer, which has spread to her lungs. Although a ‘miracle’ medication has mitigated the disease’s progression, she still has to walk around with tubes up her nostrils and an oxygen tank trailing behind her at all times. Hazel, however, doesn’t mind the tank and tubes as much as one would expect; she’s infinitely more concerned about her parents (Laura Dern and Sam Trammell) and how it would devastate them should the cancer return. “I’m a grenade,” she says. “One day I’m going to explode, and I feel it’s my responsibility to minimise the casualties.”
It’s an idea that leads her to withdraw mostly into herself and initially reject the advances of a young man she meets at a support-group session. But the persistent, self-assured, and very good-looking Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort)—who is also in remission after having lost a leg to osteosarcoma—eventually breaks down Hazel’s defenses. Love blossoms between the two, mostly over their shared experience with cancer and a book they come to be obsessed with, whose author (Willem Dafoe) resides in Amsterdam. When the chance to meet him comes up, they seize it with delight, and the eye-opening trip to the Netherlands only cements their bond. But Hazel and Gus know deep down that no matter how happy they are, living as they do with an inherently unpredictable disease, there’s no telling what tomorrow will bring.
Green, in his text, lays bare the urgency with which Hazel and Augustus come together; these two can seem impossibly eloquent and wise for their age, but it’s somewhat understandable given that they’ve had to deal with such questions to do with the nature of existence and mortality so early on in life. With the spectre of death always hovering over them, they must make the best of the time they have and experience everything as intensely as they can, because they might not get another chance—a basic sentiment the book communicates well. And while Boone’s film stays faithful to the source material in most respects, the story loses impact in the shift in medium. There are scenes that run okay on paper but look ridiculous on screen (re: at the Anne Frank museum where people break into applause when our leads kiss), and lines that sound super clunky when coming out of a character’s mouth. I also miss Hazel’s first-person voice from the book; there are narration segments here and there in the film, but nothing as effective as seeing the world through her eyes alone.
Thank god for Woodley is all I can say. Already something of a YA darling—having made a memorable first splash in The Descendants in 2011, followed by a stint in last year’s pretty spectacular The Spectacular Now, and currently headlining the big-budget Divergent franchise, alongside appearances elsewhere in film and TV—the actress puts up a beautifully handled performance here, one that gets progressively more confident as the story heads into more demanding territory.
It’s that very territory, however, that stumps her co-star (who incidentally played her brother in Divergent). Now, Augustus’ character is already a hard sell to begin with—we’d like to think such gorgeous, brainy and utterly selfless young charmers exist, but even on the page, he seems more of a fantasy than anything else. Of course, we’re made to understand that his posturing and theatrics are constructions meant to conceal his “fear of oblivion,” of disappearing without having made his mark in the world, but in the flesh, and propped up weakly by the inadequate range of Elgort’s acting faculties, Augustus just comes across as a fake, pretentious douche with an arsenal of rehearsed witticisms and grand gestures to flaunt. Particularly grating is his habit of leaving an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips—a metaphor for “putting the killing thing between your teeth but not giving it the power to do the killing”—an element that annoyed me in the book but is even more cringeworthy to see.
To be fair, The Fault in Our Stars is smarter than and not as terrible as a lot of films targeted at young adults that are floating into theatres at present. Fault is surprisingly more comprehensive on the medical front than one would expect, although the details are shown in determinedly grit-free depictions. It also gives us a protagonist who is more grounded and discerning than your typical self-obsessed, frequently masochistic, romantic-triangle-partaking teen heroine. But much like the character of Augustus, underneath the film’s veneer of sincerity and charm, runs a deep well of cold, calculated artifice that makes you feel like you’re being taken for a ride, even as the tears pour down your face.