Never Let Me Go (2010), a film based on the best-selling novel by Kazuo Ishiguro (Remains of the Day), is a tale of genetically engineered clones raised to be organ donors who embrace a fleeting chance to live and love.  Never Let Me Go is an unreality that will stay with you for days . . . clinging like heat in an attic . . . or an old wound.

The sea, a boundless prison ever flowing with beauty, is a gate.  A boat, rusted, lying on its side as if discarded on the seashore by a child’s lost interest, is the key—useless as it is.  A whipping wind then, as the clones watch from the sand, becomes no more than the stinging chill of hopelessness.

The acting—in particular, the portrayal of the clones—is superbly “underdone.”  Shy grins, unadulterated tantrums, childlike empty-headed stares (as if for brains there were clouds or cotton candy) are the essence of naivete and immaturity, and yet torturously amusing.  Then comes that terrible swelling inside the chest, drawing you to the precipice of tears.  But that grip is just the musical score building and adding emotional depth to the plot.

Though set in the late sixties and eighties, the garish palette and designs of those times never affect the classic or period feel of the film.  And although it is a work of science fiction that explores the sheltered “lives” of medical clones, the film lacks the feel and phoniness of other movies of the genre.  No dark rooms with toy spaceships on strings, just a few sutures made without thought for aesthetics—a noticeable scar along the ribcage like a narrow ravine at the base of a hill.

Because we cannot all be as loveable as Kathy (Carey Mulligan), it is easy to forego feelings of anger for feelings of sympathy for Ruth’s (Keira Knightley) plight.  Ruth’s fiendish and unfriendly betrayal pales next to the deceptions of Hailsham, the “idyllic” English boarding house where they grew up or, rather, were “grown.”

This haunting story calls to mind the lonesome times ever spent desperately hungering for something.  Given what you’ve been told and what you believe, you realize that the nature of your circumstances is far more complicated than your childlike understanding.  So there you are, an adult, sitting before a table where not only the forks and spoons are plastic but, in the midst of an insatiable appetite, so are the french fries and hamburgers.  The table has been set by the unknowing hands of children.  And lest you faint, lest you “complete,” the sound of Tommy’s (Andrew Garfield) rage—the cry of his soul (whether art captures it or not) offers the only—useless as it is—release.

What do you think?  Ruth’s supposed “original” was (disappointingly) not an exact replica.  Does Ruth’s speculation about the psychology of “the originals” enlighten or just confuse?  Does it explain any predispositions, i.e. Ruth’s narcissism, Kathy’s heightened sexuality, or Tommy’s volatility?

“Moving and provocative.” –Kenneth Turan, Los AngelesTimes.

“Four stars.”  –Roger Ebert, ChicagoSun-Times.

“Wuthering Heights on a drip!” –Holliday Vann, Blackbiter.com