Every generation gets its own martyr. For the "Madchester" scene of the late '70s, Ian Curtis's ghostly baritone and erratic stage presence led to Joy Division's riotous run with Factory Records and famed twenty-four-hour party dude, Tony Wilson — a short-lived high that ended with the sobering news of Curtis's suicide.
Though Curtis has always stood out to me, I was wary of Control's recipe of suicide and rock. But it only took a few moments of Anton Corbijn's stark cinematography to disarm me. Sam Riley, in his first leading role, appears as a prep-school aged, day-dreamy Curtis a few years from discovering his musical streak, one prone to nicking pills from old ladies's medicine cabinets and canoodling with his girlfriend. The rise of Joy Division only features in the film in relation to Curtis; it's less a standard rock biopic than a portrait of the artist told through the gentle evocation of the past. Corbijn plays on his photography background, and at moments the characters seem to emerge from a scrap book — especially Curtis himself. His life is shaped by a few moments: his first epileptic seizure, his first agitated dance, the moment his daughter is born.
Curtis' off-handed impulsiveness may frustrate. All of his misfortunes and triumphs come from phrases as simple as "Let's have a baby," or, "You guys still looking for a singer for your band?" But maybe that's the beauty of the film — the way a simple question can be your making or demise. Before long, Control has tunneled its way into that post-adolescent confusion zone, successfully creating a world of tangible, inescapable pressure — Curtis's world, and a dark, dark place. — Lauren Belski