Long before I’d gone to a theater and lashed myself to a seat, I formed two expectations about The Perfect Storm. First, because Wolfgang Petersen was the director, I figured that someone–me, probably–would soon call this movie Das Fishing Boot. Second, and for the same reason, I assumed the production would be unfailingly professional.
I prefer fallible professionalism. But with Petersen, we’re dealing with someone like Roland Emmerich (The Patriot), Dominic Sena (Gone in Sixty Seconds) or Ridley Scott (Gladiator): a director who can be trusted with a couple of stars, a multitudinous special-effects team and a budget higher than the gross domestic product of Dominica. There’s nothing authorial about Petersen. Given a script that’s strong and a star who is a dominating force, he’ll keep his personality out of the way and deliver In the Line of Fire. But if the script happens to be crap and the star an amiable check-collector, he’ll still keep out of the way, so that Air Force One may come unimpeded into the world.
Like his fellow boys of summer, Petersen is reliable rather than responsible, packaging the goods for whichever ad hoc conglomerate he serves. For The Perfect Storm, the bosses were Warner Bros. Pictures, presenting a Baltimore/Spring Creek Pictures production in association with Radiant Productions. Petersen’s membership in the latter enterprise seems to have made no difference in his performance; he behaves as an obedient employee even toward himself. In the era of the studio system, a John Ford or a Howard Hawks turned producer so he could answer on his own for his picture’s merits. But in today’s anarcho-capitalist Hollywood, when a Petersen (Emmerich, Sena, Scott) takes credit as a producer, it’s as if he’d joined a board of directors as a nonvoting member.
With Petersen at the helm, The Perfect Storm successfully meets all corporate expectations, including that of its title. You want bad weather? You’ve got it. For the first hour, a fishing boat out of Gloucester, Massachusetts, captained by George Clooney, sails farther and farther out to sea in search of a catch, while a TV meteorologist in Boston (Christopher McDonald) gets more and more excited about what he sees on the radar. For the second hour, everybody on ship gets waterlogged, as Clooney tries to sail back to harbor. That’s it; that’s the whole movie. The only surprise–the only aspect of the production I did not anticipate–was the degree to which Petersen’s own professionalism would become the theme.
To be more precise, the theme is manly competence, as presented in two different modes: working stiff and military. Clooney and his crew represent the first variety–fishermen who are routinely insulted by their shipowner and kept in line with threats of unemployment (whether they work as a captain, like Clooney, or a novice seaman, like Mark Wahlberg) but who nevertheless take pride in calling themselves Gloucestermen.
That the name comes with its own code of conduct is evident from the film’s opening shots: scenes of workaday life in Gloucester and of the town’s memorial to fishermen who died at sea. We are shown a community and a way of life–assuming that such things can be conveyed in brief, golden-toned images, which dissolve one into another to the accompaniment of textbook music. (I’d guess the composer, James Horner, was taught from Copland for Dummies.) The town is made to seem so small–the people, so caught up in one another’s business–that you’re astonished when a fisherman finds someone new to chat up in the dockside bar. Is she really a stranger? Or did the grog make them both forget she was his first wife?