What the Genies Want: A Review of "Three Thousand Years of Longing"
George Miller's ("Mad Max") sentimental epic about the necessary connection between love and loneliness.
Narratology scholar Alithea Binney (Tilda Swinton) arrives in Istanbul for a conference. In one of the shops she buys a jar from which she accidentally releases a genie (Idris Elba). It offers to grant any of Alitea's three wishes, but the woman is in no hurry to make them. In return, she offers to tell the genie the story of his imprisonment and existence in general.
In his first feature film in seven years, Oscar winner George Miller swaps the dust of dystopian roads and the roar of monster cars from "Fury Road" for the comparative silence of a five-star hotel and snow-white robes. In it, the conversations of two similar creatures, man and genie, are united by confusion and unfreedom, a longing for touch, a premonition of wonder. What is it like to fall in love with a wish-fulfiller, often a comic character, sometimes a trickster? Is it possible to get a ticket back from traditional bondage (of technology, of circumstance) and share it for two? Is it possible to flip the millennial narrative to find a mythical elusive happiness? Miller supplies audiences with the answers to these riddles in portions, combining mundane (and therefore relatable) elements with a fantastical entourage, a trip like Tarsem Singh's "Outlander" and the recent "All at Once."
Based on a story by British writer Antonia Byatt, Three Thousand Years of Wishes does not accidentally focus on the central character's initial indifference--Alithea is not at all impressed by magic, and even the genie itself does not scare her at all. Perhaps the reason lies in her experience, for Professor Binney knows all and more about fairy tales and legends. Perhaps it's the ex-spouse who betrayed her and the resulting detachment from trivial feelings and self-sufficiency. "I'll count to three and you'll disappear," Alithea says confidently. The world works by her rules, the characters of the lore have no right to seep into reality, but for some reason the genie stays in the room--until the wishes he wants are uttered. He hurries to his personal Valhalla, to the other genies; Alitea, for her part, is in no hurry (the plane to London can wait). Thus begins a series of colorful interviews in which the genie tells of his love for the Egyptian queen Sheba, looks into the glorious age of the Turkish sultan Suleiman, gives one of his lovers all the knowledge of the world, but never gets the expected freedom.
Miller conceived the picture back in the 1990s. Over a short running time, he repeatedly proves his storytelling skills, consistently divides the plot, twists time, and binds seemingly completely incompatible people together. In the third act, after time travel filled with creepy CGI, a minimalistic symphony of lonely human souls emerges, gradually finding meaning in a world where it has long been absent. After bickering, Alithea nevertheless gives in and utters quite obvious but still taboo to most: the heroine asks the genie to love her, to remind her of this distant matter, to readjust her misaligned course. The genie sorrowfully agrees, condemning himself to gradual destruction.
Once out of the hotel, the heroes move to bustling London. Genie learns about the successes of humanity, studies medical technology and colliders, and scares the appearance of the xenophobic neighbors of Alithea. More than once he notes the contradictory nature of humans and the "metastases of hatred" that he is unlikely to reach for himself. Alitea continues her scientific activities, rushing home to her lover, until she discovers the incompatibility of their relationship with the magical organism. Parting is inevitable, but Miller draws out and confirms a simple truth: stories are immortal, and so we are partially guaranteed a place in the infinite space of narratives. Taking a therapeutic break between the filming of two of the most ambitious blockbusters in history (Furios will arrive in 2024), Miller reminds us of the salvation of dialogue, of interconnection, of the pricelessness of experience. The book closes - only eternity is next.
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