“No sparks,” says a taciturn Nikola Tesla (Ethan Hawke), showing the prototype of his revolutionary induction motor to potential investors. “No sparks?” they harrumph through their mutton-chop whiskers and in wood-paneled rooms. He pulls the brassy switch on his invention and – pardon the engineering jargon – the doodad spins amid tightly coiled copper gizmos, producing none of the mini-lightning bolts or fizzing static they expect.
“No sparks!”
But what was a source of wonder in the candlelit New York City parlors of late 19th century is a drawback in the cinema of the early 21st. Michael Almereyda‘s “Tesla” tries very hard to generate its own electricity, using jaunty technological anachronisms, slide projections, flights of (wholly invented) fancy, self-aware voiceover, and a fourth wall so thoroughly torn down David Hasselhoff should be rocking out on top of its ruins.
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