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There is a single image in “Flight” of a miniature bottle of vodka that’s more nerve-racking than almost anything in the thrillers released this year. Shot in close-up with a room blurred in the background, the bottle looks so very big for something so small, like a totem of some mystical deity. It represents a million earlier drinks downed in a forlorn, existential frenzy, but it also resonates with a foreboding that the director Robert Zemeckis sustains for several unsettling seconds. What gives the image such tension, an almost unbearable throb of suspense, is that you know that right outside the frame is a man who is just dying for that drink. And you’re dying a little along with him.

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The man going down, down, down is Whip Whitaker. Played by a titanic Denzel Washington, he’s a veteran commercial pilot whose greatest vocation should be his flying but, for this and that reason, has become his drinking. Whip doesn’t drink to excess and quietly fade, he stumbles, shouts, flails, blacks out. Mr. Zemeckis, directing his best movie since “Cast Away” (2000), about a different kind of disaster, makes you see that Whip is a beautiful indulger, as does the erotically hyped-up Mr. Washington, with his switchblade strut and aviator shades. As crucially, they also show you the ugly, mean, angrily unrepentant drunk, the one whose sunglasses hide bloodshot eyes and who, when he passes out on the floor, needs someone to tilt his head so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.

The story, by the screenwriter John Gatins, turns on a crash that takes place soon after the movie opens. During a hop from Orlando, Fla., to Atlanta in a bad storm, a catastrophic event occurs. Whip manages to land the plane, but after saving others, begins losing himself. His unraveling brings on mood swings, rock oldies and a genre sampler, with the movie shifting from thriller to romance, family melodrama, legal drama and bitterly delivered inspirational tract. The calamity stirs up a mystery — what did Whip do, and was he sober when he did it? — feeding the inquiry and his relationships, including with a drug addict (the lyrically melancholic Kelly Reilly); his son (a fine Justin Martin); a friend (a blustery John Goodman); and a lawyer (Don Cheadle, doing a lot with little).

Even more than the plane crash in “Cast Away” (about a survivor, played by Tom Hanks, marooned on an unpopulated island), the accident in “Flight” is freakishly real; it’s one of those big-screen nightmares that will inspire fear-of-flying moviegoers to run home and Google car rental deals and Greyhound schedules. It’s a showstopper, with thrashing inverted bodies amid sickening screams and engine noises. The coordinated chaos makes a sharp contrast with the movie’s equally pivotal low-key opener, which introduces Whip as he groggily wakes in a hotel room, swigs some booze and leers at the naked woman, Katerina (Nadine Velazquez), bent over next to him. It’s initially amusing to see Mr. Washington, who excels at square-jaw decency, getting down and dirty.

Mr. Zemeckis sets this scene efficiently, using his restless cameras, the pinpoint editing and seemingly nonchalant performances to home in on details that will register more meaningfully later, like the hunger with which Whip looks at Katerina and the anger edging his voice as he talks to his ex-wife on the phone. Nothing in the scene registers as especially significant until, amid the chatter and subtly choreographed bodies and cameras, you learn that Whip is a pilot scheduled to fly that same morning. This bombshell doesn’t fully explode, though, until he leans over a line of coke and, with his head swooping straight at us — and the camera racing away from him just as fast — snorts it, punctuating the hit with an ecstatic shake of his head, the whites of his eyes shining.

He’s high as a kite, and you may be too, lifted by the contact high that great filmmaking gives you. Mr. Zemeckis is far from a reliable filmmaker. What he has are good pop-culture instincts and, at least until he became infatuated with motion-capture technology, a gift for harnessing technological innovations with stories that can turn into enlivening cinema, as he did in movies like “Who Framed Roger Rabbit” and segments of the “Back to the Future” trilogy. His infatuation with motion capture, by contrast, has produced a handful of dreary, animated experiments like“The Polar Express.” To watch Mr. Zemeckis working fluidly in consort with Mr. Washington’s ferocious performance is to regret this director’s last, technologically determined decade.

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Mr. Zemeckis is in very fine form in “Flight” and when he sends a camera whooshing down the aisle of the failing plane, the controlled movement both conveys the contained frenzy of the scene and visually echoes the chill racing along your spine. Here he achieves more than virtuosic display. By something more, I don’t mean the movie’s subject, which is, at its broadest, a tail-spinning alcoholic. Superficially, “Flight” is the sort of award-season entry that earns plaudits simply because its subjects are sanctified as important, serious. There’s seriousness in “Flight,” but not self-seriousness. And what distinguishes it is the balance of its parts and how its floating, racing cameras complement the nimble performances, rocking emotions and ups and downs of the story and music alike.