In "Cold Souls," the metaphysically bizarre dark comedy by Sophie Barthes, Paul Giamatti is horrified to discover that his soul resembles a chickpea. Perhaps he was hoping it would look more macho, like a Porsche or a barbell. It's an amusing idea for a film -- removing one's soul to lessen the load -- but it's a far sharper concept than a well-rounded story.
Starring as himself, Giamatti is exhausted by his role in Chekhov's play "Uncle Vanya," feeling anxious, pensive and crotchety, all things we've come to expect from the actor. His agent points him to a New Yorker article about a soul storage facility, just a tram ride away on Roosevelt Island. Figuring it beats a handful of Wellbutrin, he ventures over and meets with Dr. Flintstein (David Strathairn), a Devil-esque salesman for soul selling, who likens a twisted soul to a tumor in need of removal. Why not, Giamatti figures.
As you can imagine, walking around without a soul can have dire consequences, as it does on his marriage to Claire (Emily Watson). "If I were a different me in the same body, would you still love me?" he asks during a heated argument over the soul shedding. He even tries to borrow the soul of a Russian poet when his goes missing from the shelter. This is where the film gets messy: There's a whole storyline about soul trafficking that saps any fun out of the whole thing. Now instead of focusing on watching the ever-gifted Giamatti be Giamatti, down to his raised eyebrow and throaty outbursts, we're transported to underground corruption in cold, dreary Russia. Not quite as exciting.
Russian mule Nina (Dina Korzun) takes it upon herself to steal Giamatti's soul and deliver it to a luminous, wannabe soap opera star (Katheryn Winnick), who mistakenly believes it belongs to Al Pacino. That provides a few laughs, but there are so many ideas crammed into the pot that it comes dangerously close to boiling over. Writer/director Barthes previously churned out the short film "Happiness," and the idea for "Cold Souls" came to her in a dream, which means she has a deranged mind – always a good thing. She could, however, benefit from a co-writer on her next film, to help whittle down what doesn't work.
"Cold Souls," which channels the quirky works of Charlie Kaufman, has more in common with "Synecdoche, New York" than "Being John Malkovich," in that it's too heady and not enough fun. This is a film about legume-resembling souls and transcendental storage, so it should be a laugh riot from start to finish. It's not. While it has some slick ideas, humorous lines and forceful acting, the final product feels a bit, well, soulless.
