"Equilibrium" (2002), is a surprisingly terrific, über-stylish, "1984"/"Brave New World"-style movie about futuristic totalitarianism that got stupidly marketed as a poor man's "Matrix" with Bale as a poor man's Keanu Reeves. It features Bale as an unfeeling "cleric," a supercop whose mandate is to destroy all evidence of the pre-apocalyptic sensory world, e.g., emotion-inspiring articles like Leonardo da Vinci paintings, books of Yeats -- in order to preserve a regime that forbids feeling and worships emotion-assassinating psycho-pharmaceutical drug ampuls. Naturally, the cleric's great stillness is shaken by the wild blue eyes of sense criminal Emily Watson, and he stops taking his neck shots -- and the good fascist's identity crisis ensues.

OK, it's a straightforward, any-Keanu-could-cut-it role, but Bale is a genius, so what does he do?

Act 1: Bale is, essentially, a robot. He looks clammy and flawless, and he seems to enjoy his job, killing the outlaws who emote. He's great at it. He makes you admire the insect. When he sets his jaw and says, "Burn it," at a pile of masterpiece paintings, it gives one a twinge of sadistic pleasure; oh, the simple, beautiful cruelty of the obedient fascist machine.

Act 1 Turning Point: Bale, sifting through Watson's apartment, cranks up her Victrola and is exposed, for the first time, to a symphony. He hasn't been taking his shots. The look on his face, hearing the opening strains, is one of innocent shock, sudden heartbreak, flash humanizing -- you watch the music gently, suddenly, impale him and activate his forgotten soul; the finger of God to the clay body of Adam. He falls into a chair and weeps. An indelible moment.

And he gets even more stunning.

Act 2: Bale sets his jaw in the exact same, robotic way he set it in Act 1, but now he is a poet pretending to be a robot, with a hugely bleeding, emotive heart that is screaming to claw its way out of his black trench coat.

Try that, Keanu, I double-dare ya.

Try that, any actor under 50 living.

I told you: He's scarily evolved.

If you love Christian Bale, don't see "The Machinist" (2004). This kind of vanity ultra-masochism in the film industry shouldn't be encouraged or rewarded -- it sends a horrible message. The film isn't good enough to justify Bale's horrendous physical sacrifice. I wanted to point a screwdriver at the director's eye and hiss: Find a fucking ectomorph actor for your poorly conceived protagonist, you wannabe David Lynch, Daddy paid for film school, ooh ain't I edgy, no structure havin', tired-ass disturbing film clichés of the post-noir '80s abusing motherfucker. Don't shrink down and sicken one of the most beautiful physiques of our time to fit your B-rate material.

I can't figure out what Bale was thinking, taking this role, other than, I will show the world how far I'll go. Which is, I think, too far. When he stands up, shirtless, the audience gasps. It's fucking horrible to see that body at 120 pounds; it represents the kind of fascist, wholly objectivized, uncompassionate terrorism imposed on a body by the hateful will of people like Nazis and Mary-Kate Olsen. To the Freudian psyche, hunger is the opposite of love, or something like that. From this perspective, "The Machinist" is totally anti-life, and not in a fun way, and it looks, in a queasy way, like Bale is hunger-striking for his own cause-celeb.

Today, Christian Bale is teetering on the brinkety-brink and enjoying his final seconds as a "cult figure."

He's had a few high-pop-visibility accolades in the past -- the 10th Anniversary issue of Entertainment Weekly called him one of the "Top 8 Most Powerful Cult Figures of the Past Decade," largely because of his zillion fan-sites on the Internet, and he was once referred to, by Premiere, as one of the "Hottest Leading Men Under 30" -- but in America, he's still no household name, at least for the next, uh,..tick...tick...tick...

He's Batman now, and it's all over. Christian Bale is about to explode into a Hollywood super-duper-nova. Who knows what kind of inspirational humanity he can sustain? He did survive Disney, and Spielberg ... this is encouraging. Chances are, he's got the golden inner reserves to survive "Batman" and the publicity-slave mob that will follow it and surely change his life forever. Who knows? Some of us will be watching his eyes very carefully to see how he does in the face of this mega-mega-media onslaught. What Happens Next to Christian Bale, post-Batman, will answer the question: Can a modern St. George slay today's dragon of worldly corruption, or are we as a celebrity media brainwashed society too far gone? Is the dark disease of fame too powerful? My urgent Princess Leia cum S.E. Hinton SOS message to Christian Bale, over the next four years, is, Stay gold, Obi-Wan Pony Boy. You're our only hope. Beep.

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