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Film: My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done
Release date: 27th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 93 mins
Director: Werner Herzog
Starring: Michael Shannon, Willem Dafoe, Chloe Sevigny, Brad Dourif, Udo Kier
Genre: Drama/Mystery/Thriller
Studio: Scanbox
Format: DVD
Country: USA/Germany
This is an English-Language release.
Germany’s Werner Herzog (Aguirre, Wrath of God, Fitzcarraldo) teams up with David Lynch to reunite many of his cast and crew from 2009’s Bad Lieutenant to produce My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done. Grossing just £6815 in the UK, and opening on only two screens, is the film an experimental psychological profile of a real crime or a Lynch wannabe that misses the mark?
After returning from a tragic white-water rafting trip in Peru, Brad McCallum’s over-reliant relationship with his mother ends in violence as he murders her with a sword in a neighbour’s home. Homicide detective Hank Havenhurst (Willem Defoe) arrives on the scene with his partner Detective Vargas (Michael Peṅa). They carefully scrutinize the crime scene before realizing Brad has holed himself up across the road with two hostages and a shotgun.
Shortly after, Brad’s fiancée Ingrid (Chloe Sevigny) arrives, along with Lee (Udo Kier), the director of a play the couple have been starring in. The police interview the pair and delve into Brad’s past in an attempt to ascertain his motivation, while trying to maintain control of a dangerous situation that can only get worse…
After the unpredictable brilliance of Bad Lieutenant, Herzog’s second character study of 2009 has a lot to live up to. It is, of course, an entirely separate entity, despite sharing members of the cast and crew, as well as thematic similarities. Unlike Bad Lieutenant, however, My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done struggles with poor characterisation, lacklustre performances, a lack of originality, and the unavoidable expectations that accompany the Lynch attachment.
Herzog’s focus on character development relies heavily on the actors’ performances, which in this case are, unfortunately, severely lacking in depth. Shannon’s dull performance in particular belies the tension and shell-shock his character is supposed to be experiencing. The monotony of his performance permeates the film with a feeling of flatness, accentuated by the stark, digital video used to frame the production. The flashbacks of Brad in Peru show a man with a severe lack of emotion, which continues throughout his supposed breakdown, and culminates in his mother asking the titular question. This emotionless tedium could be construed as characteristic indifference, but it is at odds with how the rest of the cast react to him.
Ingrid, Brad’s mother and Lee all seem to accept his bizarre behaviour as acceptable, only picking up on key points when probed by Defoe’s detective. Defoe offers a slightly better performance, although his grizzled cop has little development other than acting as the audience’s anchor throughout proceedings, asking the questions that the audience needs to know in order to advance the plot. Brad Douriff’s Uncle Ted brings a much needed comedic character to lighten the tone, as the eccentric ostrich farmer struggles to understand Brad’s interpretation of Sophocles and the flamboyant Lee’s motivation behind his amateur play, a Greek tragedy where the lead kills his mother with a sword.
It is impossible to ignore the inspiration Herzog has taken from the directorial output of executive producer David Lynch, which, in this instance, occasionally borders on parody. The main narrative focus of the police investigation into the murder is based firmly in reality, framed by stark digital camera work and minimal flair, while the flashbacks offer a richer palette of colour and thematic development. The absurdity and uncanny nature of Lynch’s work is mirrored in the dinner scene when Mrs McCullum forces a serving of jelly on Brad (much to Ingrid’s distaste) and the accompanying silences, and too when she continually barges in on Brad and Ingrid in the bedroom. The positioning of the actors in a faux freeze frame feels so forced and awkward that it is impossible not to feel like Herzog is merely trying to mirror Lynch’s style instead of conveying an artistic message.
The heavy symbolism throughout Mrs McCullum and Brad’s home is impossible to ignore. Pink flamingos are prevalent (forming the basis of the film’s twist, glaringly obvious from the beginning) standing tall in the garden and ornamentally throughout the house. These ornaments are to American lawns what the garden gnome is to the UK, but the extreme to which they are used in the house only exacerbates the sense of surreal Herzog adds to the grittiness of the main story, while placing the characters perfectly at odds with the ‘white picket fence’ ideal of suburban America.
Ernst Reijseger’s eerie, foreboding score is the perfect foil for the fractured character of Brad, and is a highlight throughout. The dark music successfully offsets the film’s eccentricities, such as the laughable amateur dramatics of the play, and Brad’s insistence that he has found God - and that he is the man on the porridge oats can. These juxtapositions add to the sense of division between Brad’s mental state and the real consequences of his actions.
Herzog combines a psychological profile of a broken and desperate individual with absurd, Lynchian surrealism to create a film which, unfortunately, fails to deliver. The performances are too weak and the characters too one-dimensional to really allow the audience to sympathise with them, and it is this sense of apathy that dominates the film. The pairing of two legendary filmmakers of this calibre should have been something truly special and unique, but this falls rather flat. RB
Film: Death Note 1 & 2
Release date: 20th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 262 mins
Director: Shusuke Kaneko
Starring: Tatsuya Fujiwara, Ken'ichi Matsuyama, Asaka Seto, Shigeki Hosokawa, Erika Toda
Genre: Crime/Drama/Mystery/Thriller
Studio: 4Digital
Format: Blu-ray
Country: Japan/USA
An epic cinematic adaptation of Tsugumi Ohba’s smash hit manga. A commercial and critical success on release, Death Note and its sequel Death Note: The Last Name were to prove that translating the energy and invention of manga to live action isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
A promising law student and son to the chief of police, Light Yagami feels that justice doesn’t’t reach the wicked as swiftly as he would like. When Light discovers the mysterious Death Note, a book that kills the owner of any name written in its pages, he seizes an opportunity to set the world right.
Befriending the Death Note’s previous owner, a death god named Ryuk, Light proceeds to take the lives of criminals that have slipped through the cracks of the justice system.
Given the name ‘Kira’ and revered by the public, Light soon lets the power of the Death Note corrupt him.
In an effort to catch the mysterious Kira, the police call on the help of L, a master detective who employs unorthodox but brilliant methods to flush Kira out.
Light and L lock wits and leave a trail of bodies in their wake, including Light’s girlfriend Shiori, who he sacrifices to escape suspicion and get closer to L.
Meanwhile, a famous popstar/TV personality named Misa receives her own Death Note and the companionship of death god Rem. Misa sacrifices half the years of her life for the death god’s eyesight, which allows her to see the name and remaining lifespan of any person. A devoted follower of Kira, Misa begins a killing spree to bring them together, hoping that they can cleanse the world of evil together.
Light, now on the Kira investigation team, seeks to find out L’s real name once and for all and defeat his nemesis, leading to a climactic showdown as Light and L confront each other in a battle of wits…
For many fans and critics, it would seem folly to try and translate the energy and visual splendour of a great manga into live action - there will inevitably be something lost in transition - which is why it so surprising that the Death Note films are such a success, capturing the spirit of the source material perfectly, and largely avoiding any dilution of that signature energy.
Although adapting Ohba’s work shouldn’t have been that daunting, given the technological capability of cinema these days, it’s still impressive that director Kaneko has not only managed to recreate faithfully the events of the manga, but also give his films their own distinct identities.
This unique feel is largely down to a great cast, particularly the central pairing of Fujiwara and Matsuyama, excellent in both films as the Machiavellian Light and his brilliant nemesis L. Fujiwara, so effective as a good guy in film’s like Battle Royale, manages to make Light’s quick decent into malevolent evil convincing and sympathetic.
Fujiwara is the perfect foil for Kira’s schemes, a modern day Sherlock who eats nothing but junk food and has a penchant for cruel and unorthodox investigation methods. L is the best thing about both films, frequently stealing entire scenes just by eating marshmallows on a stick.
Erika Toda also impresses as Misa Amane, the self-titled ‘Kira II’ and second Death Note recipient. Her role as Light’s biggest fan and eventual partner in crime is somewhat threadbare, but her tragic backstory, and the treatment she receives from both Light and L highlights Misa as one of the story’s’ only sympathetic characters.
Perhaps one of the biggest strengths of both films is translating successfully some of the more fantastical elements of the Death Note manga, specifically the death gods Ryuk and Rem. Ryuk, who is given a meaty role in both films, is a computer generated character of such accomplishment, he can be mentioned in the same breath as a certain ring hungry ex-hobbit. His appearance is faithfully recreated, and Shido Nakamura’s voicework gives him a manic energy - even more so than his exaggerated, anime-like mannerisms.
Less focus is placed on Rem, Misa’s death god, but equal attention to detail can be seen in translating his image directly from page to screen. Also, in one of the stories many depictions of light versus dark, Rem acts as a kinder counterpart to Ryuk, disinterested in the pain and suffering of others and bound to his honourable duty to Misa. Both shinigami are great value and fit comfortably in with the human characters. The films are so successful because they capably marry the story’s fantasy element with a hip, real world charm.
There are some gripes, and chief among them is the uneven pace of both films, steamrolling through some plot strands while ambling through others. Why, for instance, is Light’s descent into evil explained away with a brief flashback, while the investigation into ‘Kira’ is stretched across the entirety of the first film? Surely more focus should have been placed on the genesis of the story’s villain. Later on, Misa’s subplot appears sporadically throughout the second film, giving little chance to engage with her character - she goes from obsessive and deadly Kira fan to vulnerable torture victim in only a handful of scenes.
These minor pacing quibbles aside, both films steadily gather momentum leading to satisfying (if a little murky) conclusion. The Last Name’s final stretch suffers from some unnecessary plot convolution, throwing one too many Kira’s into the mix, which highlights the inability of the writers to cram every manga plot strand in competently. Overall, the story of Light Vs. L is one worth experiencing.
Essentially a trite observation of the true nature of justice, the story of Death Note has enough parallels with modern cultural climate to maintain a certain relevance. Shusuke Kaneko presents a faithful adaptation of Ohba Sugumi’s manga, and the accomplished ensemble cast inhabit their roles perfectly. KT
Film: Hierro
Release date: 26th July 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 86 mins
Director: Gabe Ibáñez
Starring: Elena Anaya, Nea Segura, Mar Sodupe, Andrés Herrera, Miriam Correa
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Horror
Studio: Optimum
Format: DVD & Blu-ray
Country: Spain
Like the starkness of a “missing” poster, Gabe Ibáñez’s Hierro immediately seeks to hook an audience and serve a purpose, the underwater submergence in its eerie opening a nod to the natural mystic. The commonalities of recent thrillers involving absent youths suggest a struggle between practicality and supernature; can children really just vanish? While the reality, of course, is that many of the missing are never traced, Hierro imitates forays into this burgeoning sub-genre (The Forgotten, The Dark, The Orphanage, to name but a few) by entertaining the notion of the mother-son bond as transcendent of physical relativity.
Hierro is immediately complicated by the repetition of similar instances of mothers entering into consciousness - from a car accident and deep sleep, respectively - to find their sons nowhere to be seen. The latter of the two forms the basis of the film, as María (Elena Anaya) wakes from her slumber on a ferry bound for the island of El Hierro and panics that her son Diego may have been kidnapped, or worse, drowned.
Divers come up empty and three years pass before the discovery of a body brings María back there, where she is asked to identify the corpse. Revealing that it is not Diego, the circumstances of her return to the island encourage María to ponder whether her son may still be alive somewhere, and when she thinks that she sees him on a deserted beach, her mindset alters to accommodate an investigative instinct…
What of this mother-son bond then? Julianne Moore, Naomi Watts, Maria Bello and Belen Rueda have all recently played distraught maternal figures attempting to track down their offspring by whatever means – usually to the extent of at least recognising what has happened to them. There’s a sense of atonement in their actions, that by contravening authority they become grown-up children themselves - that they are somehow behaviourally complicit, closer to relating to the people they have raised. We don’t really get the opportunity to gauge whether the guilt in María has set in at first, since the film skips forward in time rather abruptly after Diego becomes officially lost. It begs the question: what has María been doing in the three years that have passed? Why is she now suddenly demanding a resolution?
Fascinating as they are, neither the film nor an occasionally dynamite Anaya can fully address these queries, which are consigned to the backburner for the showier tendencies of director Ibáñez. The early premonitory announcement by Diego to his mother that he doesn’t like hide and seek, “because you might not find me,” is an early sign that Ibáñez is eager to plug Hierro’s sinister undertones. It proves alarmingly destructive in quelling the sensitivity of Hierro’s themes, as he overworks the production with incessant aural shock-tactics, and saturates the mise-en-scene with revelrous flash-camera frippery. His attempts to allude to the mythical elements of the island, and mystery surrounding the whereabouts of Diego, extend to the kind of rash eventualities that see a maintenance man fish a doll’s head out of a blocked toilet. Even a shower sequence designed to demonstrate María’s cleansing of guilt, the final phase of her post-ferry grief, is so strobe-distorted that it’s borderline unwatchable. Pushing this overt brand of macabre creepiness detracts from the interesting socio-realist angle offered - María’s bitter desperation recalling shades of last year’s Katalin Varga, a film that chronicled a brewing sense of vengeance in its heroine.
It enables us to register with the dread of having our sense of scope rendered foolish, that we aren’t omnipotent, and that questions can’t always be answered, but cajoles us by confirming some of María’s suspicions about El Hierro and its inhabitants. During María’s quest for answers, she boards a trailer and proceeds to have a violent face-off with the woman - a scene which indebts itself to Tarantino’s Kill Bill and marks a shift in direction for the film. For periods, the film is as dark and captivating as this scene, and Anaya’s presence carries it through even its most absurd revelations, but while often suggested that mortality is a less ambiguous state than rationale, the focus is placed more on plot than character. María’s grief is undermined by the gratuity of this stand-off and the fetishisation of her as a powerhouse would-be-killer reinforces the sense that Hierro has become somewhat of a joyless spectacle.
Considering the emotional weight of the first act, there is little organic about the way that the film is put together. Ibáñez, while essentially ‘generous’, appears bound by influence, and heavy-handed with the more uncertain aspects of the story. Hierro benefits from the debilitating sparseness of the landscape, but is too compact as a narrative, and suffers from the many brazen efforts to generate suspense. A sombre lullaby over the closing credits may act as sonar relief at the end of a tiresome ordeal, but it’s only the cherry atop a stylistic mound of confection. Sometimes less is more. CR
Film: Hotel
Release date: 9th August 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 83 mins
Director: Jessica Hausner
Starring: Franziska Weisz, Birgit Minichmayr, Marlene Streeruwitz, Rosa Waissnix, Christopher Scharf
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Drama
Studio: Artificial Eye
Format: DVD
Country: Austria/Germany
Director Jessica Hausner’s fourth film follows the experiences of a young woman who comes to work at a quiet hotel in an isolated forest location. Her predecessor disappeared in mysterious circumstances. Will she fall victim of the same unknown fate?
A sense of unease pervades the hotel as Irene’s duties there commence with a tour of the building, beginning in the deserted basement, lit by flickering fluorescent lights in classic horror film style. Irene is young and inexperienced, away from home for the first time, and further isolated by having to live in a room in the hotel formerly inhabited by Eva, her ill-fated predecessor, while local employees live in the nearby town.
The staff at the hotel are oddly cold and unfriendly. The police make brief appearances, questioning staff regarding the disappearance of Eva, or dredging the pond in the grounds for evidence - although their actions are never elucidated, and the outcome of their investigations never explained.
Irene is further disturbed by a primitive doll displayed in a glass case at the hotel. This is apparently in reference to a local legend - the Lady of the Woods, a woman who lived in a cave nearby during the 16th century, healing the sick with her knowledge of herbs, until accused of sorcery and burnt at the stake. Irene dreams repeatedly of walking down a corridor in the hotel towards an unknown darkness. As hostility towards her among the staff increases, there is a growing sense of fear and menace, with the film’s inevitably dark conclusion almost coming as a relief from the accumulation of seemingly trivial yet disturbing incidents at the hotel…
The film’s location in a dark hotel in the woods is a classic setting for a conventional horror film, but Hotel produces something far more unexpected. A sense of unease builds through the film’s understated performances, sparse dialogue, austere aesthetics and evocation of alienation and isolation. It is shot with a stark colour palette – grey, white, brown, black, forest green and terracotta. The banal ugliness of the hotel’s interior creates a feeling of unhomeliness, the failure of its polyester attempts at cosiness only highlighting the unsettling inhumanity of such a place. Even more disturbingly, the woods surrounding the hotel don’t evoke the peace and beauty of nature. Their unnaturally perpendicular and regular tree trunks are reminiscent of a stage set, claustrophobically artificial and darkly lit.
The careful use of sound in the film also contributes to a strong sense of loneliness. The silence of the building is broken only by harsh, everyday noises – the creaking of the manager’s shoes, a key turning in a lock, the tinny kitsch of elevator muzak. Irene’s dreams are pervaded by a noise like radio interference, which cuts to the muted whine of the hotel alarm. In the woods, there is a humming sound but its source – a plane? running water? – is not identified, increasing the sense of unease. The failure of dialogue to produce any understanding or warmth only emphasises the insurmountable silence. Conversations are perfunctory or hostile. Irene has a date with a man from the local town, but, during their brief conversation, he misunderstands a question she asks him, his self-satisfied smile emphasising the lack of empathy between them. He spends the night with her, but this just seems to be a further failed attempt by Irene to make an emotional connection with anyone in the film.
Much of the success of the film hangs on Franziska Weisz’s performance as Irene. She conveys an apprehension which is itself fearful of discovery and articulation, of being ridiculed or judged. Her subtly conveyed aura of profound unhappiness suggests the inevitability of a catastrophic fate – whether due to the cruelty of her colleagues, or to the possibility of supernatural dangers lying within or outside the hotel. The truculent sexuality of Birgit Minichmayr’s performance as the jealous colleague Petra provides a strong foil to Irene’s reticent nervousness.
There are obvious parallels with two other horror films. The dark corridors of the hotel, leading to who knows what fearful places, are reminiscent of The Shining, while the legend of the witch in the woods, associated with the disappearance of a hiking party decades earlier, has echoes of The Blair Witch Project. Enjoyable as Jack Nicholson playing psychotic may be, Hotel is a far more understated matter than either of those films. There is no darkly melodramatic dialogue hinting at Eva’s fate, or horrors revealed hidden behind basement doors. The only “scream” moment is a silent one, all the more effective for its suggestion of the paralysis of a scream in a nightmare. Director Jessica Hausner has said that the type of horror films which feature monsters provide a form of relief for the audience, as they give fear a face; her aim in Hotel, instead, was to explore the essence of fear itself.
What Hotel successfully creates is that sense of what Freud called the “unheimlich” or “unhomely” – the uncanny nature of that which is familiar to us, yet subtly, disturbingly out of kilter. The setting of the hotel is banal and everyday, yet disconsonant elements accumulate. The absent Eva acts as a double to Irene – even her discarded glasses fit when Irene tries them on – and her disappearance calls into question the reality of Irene’s existence as an individual, and the possibility that that existence can be allowed to continue. The film raises questions which are never answered. Is the disappearance of Irene’s necklace and the smashing of her glasses an act of human malice, or is there a supernatural influence emanating from the woods? Do Irene’s dreams of the hotel corridor prefigure some horrific revelation yet to come? If so, why is there a sense of calmness and relief when she walks into the darkness waiting at the end of the corridor? The final image of Irene in her red uniform dwarfed by the black woods is a powerful one, echoing the primitive fear of fairytales, a modern day Little Red Riding Hood entering the Germanic forest.
The film’s atmosphere is cleverly and coherently constructed through its stark and minimal aesthetics, understated performances and sparse dialogue. Although it may be billed as a horror, it’s the antithesis of cheesy or gory examples of that genre, while some viewers may find its open ended conclusion frustrating. A strangely gripping and artful story, subtly horrific in its depiction of human isolation. KR
Film: The Vanishing
Release date: 9th April 2003
Certificate: 15
Running time: 106 mins
Director: George Sluizer
Starring: Bernard-Pierre Donnadieu, Gene Bervoets, Johanna ter Steege, Gwen Eckhaus, Bernadette Le Saché
Genre: Thriller/Mystery/Crime/Drama
Studio: Umbrella
Format: DVD
Country: Netherlands/France
Originally based on the novel The Golden Egg, The Vanishing (Spoorloos) wants the audience to question the choices they’ve made in life, and whether they are really ever in control.
The film follows Rex Hofman as he searches for his girlfriend Saskia after a fateful stop at a petrol station in France. After half and hour, Saskia fails to return with the drinks, and the mystery that will consume Rex begins.
Rex becomes completely obsessed with the search for Saskia, and even after three years, he is still putting up posters in the streets and appealing for information on television. But this obsession is helped along by the abductor Raymond Lemorne, who goads Rex with postcards telling him he would like to meet with him…
The film does not follow a linear pattern which helps build up the mystery and intrigue of it. When Saskia disappears at the beginning of the film, we are unsure as to the reasons behind it, although we are given three clues. The first is the suspicious man in a sling standing at the entrance of the shop Saskia enters, with the camera centring on him in a brief but clearly purposeful way. The second is the discarded drinks lying in the road, one crushed by the wheel of a car. And the third clue, which is the only one Rex seems to acknowledge, is a Polaroid he took of Saskia leaving the shop after purchasing the drinks, walking back to the car but, obviously, not arriving.
What really distinguishes the film is Sluzier’s skill at portraying Raymond as an extremely intelligent and calculating man. After the abduction, the camera takes the audience back to the planning stages of the abduction, and shows Raymond’s meticulous attention to detail. He records the exact time it takes for the chlorophyll he applies to himself to wear off, how far he can travel in this time, and even mimes to himself the way he will drug his eventual victim. What makes the film disturbing is the calm and business manner Raymond goes about this, making it appear more mundane than murderous. Coupled with the fact that Raymond has a family, and leads a seemingly normal professional life, it paints a chilling picture of the humans that have slipped through the net in society.
When Rex eventually meets up with the self-proclaimed sociopath Raymond, he is very much still plagued by the deep sense of curiosity he first felt at the beginning of the film. It is to become his downfall, but there is an acute sense of desperation, and a sadness to him that reveals he is almost willing to forfeit his life for knowledge of Saskia. Raymond acknowledges this and plays Rex like a pawn in his elaborate and sinister game of chess. Raymond knows his safety and control over the meeting is ensured, and subtly persuades the tortured Rex to drink coffee laced with sleeping pills. Rex is aware of the drugged drink, but is told that in order to find out what happened to Saskia, he must share her fate exactly. What follows is one of the most shocking conclusions yet committed to film, if extremely satisfying.
The Vanishing is deliberately slow paced, at times frustrating, but building up the curiosity of both the audience and Rex as the film progresses. The more we know, the more we want to know, thus it requires an unusual amount of patience on the part of the audience as the mystery unravels. But this patience is eventually rewarded, and is well worth suffering the dated music and slightly wooden acting of Gene Bervoets, who plays Rex.
Raymond is a character who reminds us that the world is made up of unhinged people whose mindset, and whose motivation makes them impossible for many to comprehend. He does not commit evil acts for money or love, but to prove to himself that he is in control of his life, and that he is capable of great contrasting acts - loving his family and saving a drowning girl on the one hand, but equally capable of great acts of evil.
George Sluzier’s 1988 thriller The Vanishing is a masterpiece, with the ability to root viewers to their seats. BR
Film: The Headless Woman
Release date: 12th July 2010
Certificate: 12
Running time: 89 mins
Director: Lucrecia Martel
Starring: Maria Onetto, Claudia Cantero, Inés Efron
Genre: Mystery/Drama
Studio: Drakes Avenue/New Wave
Format: DVD
Country: Argentina
The follow-up to Lucrecia Martel’s La Niña Cannes nominated La Nina Santa (The Holy Girl), sees the director tackling and exploring weighty issues such as guilt and emotional repression.
At the beginning of the film, Vero (María Onetto) is driving home from a family gathering and hits something with her car, bumping her head in the process. What follows is a study of Vero’s increasing anxiety as she begins to believe that she has killed someone, and a dazed and confused look at the inner workings of her strange and secretive family...
It is difficult to define exactly what is happening throughout most of the film, both in terms of what is happening in the story and in terms of the abstract, disjointed position that Martel’s camera chooses to place the viewer in many scenes of the film. Often we are not entirely sure what we are seeing, or where we are seeing it from. Sound is also used to this effect, with conversations being scarcely heard through thick windows, or taking place in the background of crowded and densely layered scenes. These techniques work to intriguing and often visually striking effect. Martel’s attention to detail is admirable, as is her use of depth of frame, meaning most of the film is aesthetically indulgent. As well as this, the distracted and unfocused mode of delivery serves as a window into the world of Vero, who is often slow to respond when asked a question, and seems to wander around in a dream-like state of apathy; her cheery half smile masking a vacant and world-weary look in her eyes.
However admirable Martel’s attempt to frame the world of the film through Vero’s perspective may be, it is in doing so that she encounters the film’s biggest problem. In creating a world so dreamlike and unfocused, she has also made a film which is fairly dull and unfulfilling. So little happens in the course of the film that we are left to ponder what, if anything, it was all about, and several aspects of the story of which more could have been made are subjugated in order that the camera may linger on several shots which, beautiful though they are, always seem to last a few seconds longer than they should.
Narrative ambiguity is always risky territory for filmmakers, as some viewers are always going to demand some kind of definite idea of what is going on, nevertheless an ambiguous ending can be rewarding if it comes at the end of a story that is gripping and layered, that provides material for viewers to discuss long after seeing the film, and demands to be seen again. This is clearly the effect that Martel is aiming for, but she has not left enough interesting material within the framework of the narrative to make any attempt to understand the sub-textual implications worthwhile. The film certainly does drag on, rarely has a film with such a short running time managed to seem so long and this is because we are moving from scene to scene waiting for something to happen, waiting for something to get our teeth into and ponder - something which never arrives.
It is in the nature of arthouse cinema to offer character studies rather than coherent, fast paced narratives, and this is perfectly fine in many cases because we see characters with such complex psychologies that delving into them and exposing what makes the character behave in the way they do is the most interesting aspect of the film. Vero, sadly, is no such character, and this is not a failing on the part of Onetto, who plays the role very well, but of Martel’s in deciding to make a film based on such a character. The whole point about Vero is that she is distracted, that she finds it difficult to engage with those around her, and that she has a lot of internal conflict that she does not allow to spill over into the surface. The fact that there is no penetration of these exterior characteristics, no supporting character who gets in side her head and exposes to the viewer what she is really feeling, leaves the viewer with very little to gain from watching the film, as it doesn’t really work either as a drama or as a character piece.
If Martel’s story had the strength of her artistic vision, she could have made a truly powerful, gripping drama. Instead what we are left with is a visually impressive but ultimately unfulfilling film, which leaves the viewer looking for answers, but not particularly willing to revisit the film in order to find them. PK
Film: Hidden
Release date: 19th June 2006
Certificate: 15
Running time: 113 mins
Director: Michael Haneke
Starring: Daniel Auteuil, Juliette Binoche, Maurice Benichou, Annie Girardot, Bernard Le Coq
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Studio: Artificial Eye
Format: DVD
Country: France
Being spied on as we go about our daily lives is virtually impossible to avoid in CCTV-covered cities across the globe, but in Hidden, director Michael Haneke’s 2005 thriller, surveillance is given a far more ominous dimension.
Georges and Anne Laurent are a married upper-middle class couple who enjoy a comfortable, if slightly muted existence in the stylishly understated, book-lined Parisian home they share with their 12-year-old son Pierrot.
Both Georges and Anne have good jobs that they seem to enjoy: Georges is the host of a TV chat show about literature and Anne works for a publisher. They have dinner parties with friends, and tend to the needs of their slightly sullen son, but we see their routine being shattered right at the beginning of the film, when they watch and try to make sense of a video that has been anonymously left at their front door.
The video, shot from an adjacent street, shows them leaving their home on their way to work. Who sent it and why is a mystery, but as further videos and disturbing drawings begin to appear, Georges is forced to look back to his childhood, and an episode from his past that he would have preferred to remain hidden.
At first, Georges is unwilling to share his suspicions about a young Algerian boy who his parents adopted then later sent away, and his relationship with his wife suffers as a result, but as events unfold and edge beyond his control, his past comes messily spilling out, with terrible results…
There is no neat conclusion to the events that unfold in Hidden, and Haneke deliberately avoids providing the audience with a definite answer as to who was responsible for the videos and drawings. Whether this makes him a bold provocateur or a perverse fraud is a matter that has divided many viewers and critics, but what is certain is that Haneke enjoys unsettling audience expectations, and disobeying narrative conventions.
Frustrating, thought-provoking or both, Hidden is not afraid to touch a few raw nerves in its treatment of everything from colonialism and marital fidelity to childhood innocence and guilt. If there was a Hollywood remake of Hidden, and Haneke chose not to direct to it himself (as he did in the case of Funny Games), such topics would no doubt be dealt with in a far less ambiguous, open-ended way, but that is not the case here.
Haneke seems to revel in the insecurity and lack of certainty that plagues his characters, and he makes sure that we, as viewers, share in this unease. At times, you are not even sure whether what you are watching is part of the main body of the film or a section of one of the surveillance tapes. The two blur into one another, and we can’t help but be drawn into this voyeuristic, deeply unsettling world, wanting to see and know more.
Daniel Auteuil (Georges) and Juliette Binoche (Anne) are both exceptional in their roles, each expertly drawing out the nuances in their respective characters. It’s difficult not to sympathise with Georges as his cool facade unravels under the pressure, but, at the same time, you question who the real Georges is, as he begins to show increased aggression and an inability to own up to his past mistakes. Anne, too, elicits conflicting responses in the way she responds to the growing turmoil: at times vulnerable and confused, at others tetchy and self-centred.
Lester Makedonsky’s Pierrot, likeable yet prone to typical preteen sulkiness, is cleverly kept on the margins and we’re never quite sure what he makes of his parents. Does the Eminem poster in his room signal a rejection of parental control, or is he just another well-to-do kid going through growing pains?
There are significant stretches of the film where not a lot really happens, and the tone is one of detachment, as though what is happening to Georges and Anne is more of a rude inconvenience than a crisis in the making, but this only serves to make the film’s shocking moments all the more powerful and emotionally jarring.
The final scene, a static long shot showing pupils leaving a school, is quietly devastating in the way it echoes the earlier surveillance footage and suggests new, profoundly disturbing possibilities. If you don’t watch very carefully, you may miss this final sucker punch, and the full, quietly chilling effect of Hidden may remain exactly that.
Austrian director Michael Haneke has stated that he uses his films to pose questions rather than provide answers, and it is this approach that makes Hidden such a compelling and memorable viewing experience. JG
Film: Hierro
Release date: 18th June 2010
Certificate: 12A
Running time: 89 mins
Director: Gabe Ibanez
Starring: Elena Anaya, Nea Segura, Mar Sodupe, Andrés Herrera, Miriam Correa
Genre: Mystery/Drama/Thriller
Studio: Optimum
Format: Cinema
Country: Spain
For the last half-decade, Spain seems to have been establishing itself as the place to go if you want to indulge in imaginative and atmospheric spine-tinglers. Films like Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) and The Orphanage (2007) have gone on to win over both international audiences and critics alike with their compelling storylines and interesting visuals. This leads us to Hierro, Spain’s latest export proudly sporting the now attractive: “From the Producers of Pan’s Labyrinth and The Orphanage” marketing hook on its poster.
A single mother – María (Ellen Anaya) – takes time off work to be with her young son Diego (Kaiet Rodríguez). They take the ferry to El Hierro (situated within the Canary Islands) for a vacation. However, María’s son goes missing mid transit, which results in an extensive search of the ferry and surrounding port once the vessel has docked, but to no avail. Diego has disappeared.
Time has passed, and María is seemingly coming to terms with her loss, but has developed a phobia of the water, which is all the more frustrating considering that she works in a sea-life centre/aquarium.
She receives a call from the Hierro police stating that they have found the corpse of a young boy and need her to identify the body. María, along with her friend Laura (Bea Segura), travel back to the foreboding shores of Hierro where María, based on a chance encounter that she has on a desolate beach, soon becomes convinced that her son is still alive…
The film starts in promising fashion: opening on a minor character driving through the mountains with her young son, which makes way for a startling and interestingly realised car crash whereby the son simply vanishes during the aftermath of the wreckage before the mother regains consciousness. In retrospect, this scene merely sets a trend for things to come: a film with plenty of visual flash but absolutely no weight and a severe lack of emotional punch. In fact, it’s surprising just how bland and by-the-numbers Hierro is, even while it basks in its professional and stylish light.
The main problem is a severely underwritten script that borrows quite heavily from The Orphanage. Both films centre on a woman searching for their missing child in an isolated and unfamiliar locale, but while The Orphanage creates a genuine foreboding and uneasy mise en scène with a supernatural undercurrent, Hierro, by compassion, feels somewhat watered down and tired, reserving any and all eeriness to short lived Lynchian, effects laden nightmare sequences with a particular favouritism towards birds and water imagery (for reasons that are not satisfyingly apparent).
Since the disappearance María, for no readily ascertainable reason, develops a phobia for water making her work, as well as simple tasks such as swimming and bathing, very difficult. This would be understandable had her son drowned when he went missing on the ferry but reasons for his disappearance remain inconclusive. The inclusion of the frequent bird symbolism is perhaps even more frustrating; making aspersions towards some enigmatic or supernatural force, but ultimately proving to mean nothing of merit, except for possibly a shallow attempt at creating an eerie atmosphere.
María’s investigation into the possibility of her son still being alive takes her to all corners of the island, with the script forcing her to interact with the usual cavalcade of red herrings, including the disgruntled ex-employee and the isolated hermit. She even receives help and advice from the island’s well meaning but close-minded police officer. The result is sequence after sequence of drab enquiries for a mystery with little intrigue or emotional investment for the audience’s part. It makes for a flat and predicable experience, with the film’s overt symbolism and insistent musical score strongly implying a rather unimaginative twist which, when it does finally arrive, sets in motion the usual flashback sequence, where the previous clues are relived again in all their obvious glory.
First time feature film director Gabe Ibáñez has a clear flair for visual indulgence, as the cinematography is perhaps the film’s strongest asset; showcasing a beautiful and frequently threatening landscape. It comes as no surprise that Ibáñez is a former music video director, and while he has the potential to go on to become a filmmaker of note, he hasn’t been able to shake off the pop promo stigma of having style with no substance in this debut. All that’s mustered here is a nicely shot film with some welcome eye-candy in the form of Ibáñez’s leading lady. It may be worthy to note the surprising amount of nudity in a film that’s been certified 12A, although it’s never sexualised.
The cast do what they can with a decidedly under-developed script. There is a distinct lack of chemistry from most of the cast members, as well as a slight air of animosity. The relationship between María and her son – perhaps the most pivotal aspect to the narrative – lacks warmth and feels half-baked. They only share three or four scenes together before the disappearance, which doesn’t give much time for the audience to bond and then switch to empathy in time for the frantic searching of the boat and beyond.
Despite the pedigree of those involved, Hierro, while not a complete disaster, is a mostly lacklustre affair that bears no real resonance after the credits have rolled. While occasionally pleasant to look at, the film’s one note, transparent and ultimately predicable storyline, only serves to erect great big signposts pointing towards a rather easy-to-guess and unsatisfying conclusion. Those not accustomed to the genre will possibly find it more impressive; the rest will find it to be a hollow exercise in stylish tedium, which is disappointing to say the least. MP
Film: The Orphanage
Release date: 21st July 2008
Certificate: 15
Running time: 102 mins
Director: Juan Antonio Bayona
Starring: Belen Rueda, Geraldine Chaplin, Fernando Cayo, Roger Princep
Genre: Mystery/Horror/Drama/Thriller
Studio: Optimum
Format: DVD
Country: Mexico/Spain
The Orphanage is the first feature film from Juan Antonio Bayona. Helped into production by Guillermo Del Toro, whose influence can be felt throughout, the film combines the drama of a missing child mystery with an old fashioned ghost story.
The Orphanage focuses on Laura, who, along with her husband Carlos and their adopted son Simón, moves into the orphanage in which she was raised, intending to re-open it as a residential school for special needs children. However, on the school’s opening day, Simón goes missing, and the rest of the film sees the couple search for their son with increasing desperation, as Simón has HIV from birth and cannot survive for long without his medication.
As any hopes of a logical explanation gradually subside, Laura begins to believe that there could be some supernatural involvement - that the children whom she grew up with before leaving the orphanage as a child are still somehow connected to the house.
Tensions increase between Laura and Carlos, as he wishes that they accept that there is no hope of Simón returning and attempt to rebuild their lives, while Laura refuses to give up on finding her son and continues the search for him in increasingly unlikely ways. In one of the films most memorable scenes, she has a team of parapsychologists visit the house to attempt to find out if Simón is still there in any capacity. When Carlos sees this as an elaborate hoax, he decides that the couple must leave the house in order to get on with their lives, but Laura chooses to stay behind for one more night, and one more chance to communicate with the orphans she left behind as a child…
In his first feature length film, Juan Antonio Bayona has managed the difficult feat of creating a horror film that is not rooted in constantly startling the audience, or in mindless, repetitive violence. Instead, he has created a film which is rich in emotional depth, and in which the horror is not contrived by a series of ‘jumps’ but comes from genuine human fear. The scenes in which Laura and Carlos struggle to come to terms with the loss of Simón impact as much as anything supernatural, and it is a testament to Bayona that he balances drama and horror in a way that few filmmakers (in America at least) have come close to in recent years.
Still, the film delivers potency in the horror department, as Bayona creates several scenes which are downright chilling, such as the aforementioned investigation, and the final scenes of the film, which generate the kind of nerve shredding tension that no amount of cheap shock tactics could possibly achieve. As well as these scenes, on which the film’s horror greatly depends, there is a feel of unease surrounding the house, and Guillermo Del Toro’s influence can be felt in this aspect of the film. The house seems to be a true-life variation on the gothic excess of the world of Pan’s Labyrinth, with winding stair-cases, hidden rooms and dark, eerie spaces. The house provides a perfect setting for the slow, intense build towards the film’s dramatic finale, as every creaking door, and every squeaking movement of the playground apparatus against the winter silence seem to suggest that the house is alive with an indefinable energy.
Praise must also go to the performance of Belén Rueda as Laura. Her portrayal of the mother of a missing child is one filled with desperation and tangible despair, which increases as the film develops, and her search becomes more helpless. As well as this, we see her mental condition gradually deteriorate, and at some points question whether what we are perceiving as supernatural is not simply her mind playing tricks on her as she refuses to accept the death of her son. What makes Rueda’s performance particularly worthy of acclaim is also what makes the film so impressive, the powerful feeling of love that permeates her every action. Bayona has made a horror film rooted in love, one in which the horror is effective and impactful because it feels real. In an age of endless SAW sequels and Texas Chainsaw Massacre remakes, this is something particularly commendable.
While The Orphanage may lack the cheap thrills of a modern American horror it is hard to see this as a drawback. Juan Antonio Bayona has brought storytelling back to a genre which has become saturated with gruesome violence and nonsensical twist endings.
A beautiful, emotional story, and one in which the deep rooted horror is likely to remain with us in a way which no amount of guts and gore could possibly hope to achieve. PK
