2012 Top Ten Films of the Year: #6 Bullhead (Rundskop)

BULLHEAD (Rundskop)         A-                 

Belgium  (124 mi)  2011  'Scope  d:  Michaël R. Roskam

A brutally dark and uncompromising film that encompasses many different styles, veering into film noir, but most often using the suspenseful manner of a thriller featuring a loner character on-the-edge who’s capable of doing anything, often coming very close to the cringe factor, as this film ventures into territory few would wish to explore.  Despite the exquisite direction, which is never showy or ever intended to draw attention to itself, it’s quite surprising this film, from a first time director, was chosen by Belgium over the nation’s patron saints of cinema, the Dardennes Brothers’ latest Cannes offering The Kid With a Bike (Le gamin au vélo) (2011) as the country’s selection for Best Foreign Film, and even more surprising that the American Academy Award Foreign Film Selection committee, which has had fits in this category in year’s past, overlooking what many felt were the best films, named this as one of the five finalists for 2012.  Because of the uncomfortable subject matter, which keeps the audience at an arm’s distance while simultaneously telling a riveting story, brilliantly using old-fashioned film techniques like storytelling through editing and camera movement, integrating the sound design or changing the film speed, it’s a daring and superb choice, one that chooses art over individual comfort.  If truth be told, there are literally hundreds of films that explore damaged women, who have been raped or abused in some manner, where the psychological implications become the narrative of the film.  Isabelle Huppert has made a living playing this kind of part.  It’s quite rare, however, to see such an accomplished examination of a brutally damaged man, especially one exhibiting this degree of skill behind the camera.  We saw glimpses of it with Michael Fassbender in Shame (2011), but this is something different altogether.  Written by the director, cinematography by Nicolas Karakatsanis, there is an immediate connection to the screen from the opening shot, a superb rural landscape, where one doesn’t wish to look away to read the subtitles, as there’s also a brief opening narration which gives the audience a clue what to expect when there is an imbalance in nature.

Among the many things happening in this film is a playful dig at Belgium’s own split culture, the Dutch-speaking Flanders and the French-speaking Wallonia, where each side refuses to learn the language of the other, as they’ve basically grown up to despise the other half, where lifelong prejudices rule the day, which becomes somewhat comical in this film as the story plays into this built-in prejudice.  Heavily grounded in near documentary style realism, it’s also an examination of machismo, especially as defined in rural outbacks or in the criminal element that remains outside the bounds of mainstream society.  Matthias Schoenaerts plays Jaky, who gained 60 pounds of muscle to bulk up for this role, using bodybuilding techniques to become a hulking muscular mass, a kind of gentle giant walking among us who has the strength to tear any man apart, yet he works quietly on his family farm with his own parents raising cattle.  What separates them from other farmers is they inject illegal hormones into their beef in order to fatten them up prematurely, where bigger cattle means more money, also saving money in the long run as they don’t have to keep them as long.  This is as much a family way of life as cooking crystal meth is in the Ozarks, or bootlegging moonshine whisky in Kentucky.  It’s regional, becoming cultural through the years, and it’s outside the law.  Despite efforts to stop it, the practice continues as it’s become ingrained with organized crime.  As Jacky’s small group of outsiders attempts to extend their territory into crime-infested Wallonia, all hell breaks loose, including the killing of a policeman, which doesn’t exactly do wonders for business and sets the tone for a police investigation.  Through flashback sequences back to childhood, we learn the devastating origins of Jacky’s own personal trauma, one which remains a lifelong skeleton in his closet, and a clue to his behavior.    

The film is also something of a police procedural mixed together with bits and pieces of Jaky’s past which resurface with the police killing and the attempted entry into forbidden territory, where Jaky has to come to terms with what’s haunted him his entire life.  He’s such an imposing presence, bulking up by injecting the same drugs he uses on the animals, which affects his mental outlook, creating such an unstable force the audience recognizes a potential train wreck when they see one.  It’s significant to recall, however, just what little harm he’s caused others up to this point, as he largely keeps to himself and his small circle of friends.  It’s this unfortunate business on the other side that’s creating havoc, stirring up something inside, which plays out like long lost memories rising to the surface.  Once the external circumstances are revealed, the director changes focus and moves inward, becoming a hyper intense interior examination of personal tragedy, where Jaky is continually battling his internal demons.  Set largely in the rural outskirts away from the mainstream of life, they set their own laws out there and define their own cultural traditions, where this concept of macho strength and male personal fortitude has a different definition altogether, becoming an intense character study.  Schoenaerts truly offers an astonishing, testosterone-laden performance, chasing the boundaries of inner rage, where his behavior grows more erratic and unpredictable, becoming a human timebomb waiting to explode.  Darkly disturbing, but also internally complex, the audience may feel alienated from the brutality, but drawn to the impressive craftsmanship of the director who really pulls it all together in this psychologically probing and constantly inventive work that challenges our own preconceived notions of masculinity. 

Bullhead (Rundskop)

BULLHEAD (Rundskop)         A-                 

Belgium  (124 mi)  2011  'Scope  d:  Michaël R. Roskam

A brutally dark and uncompromising film that encompasses many different styles, veering into film noir, but most often using the suspenseful manner of a thriller featuring a loner character on-the-edge who’s capable of doing anything, often coming very close to the cringe factor, as this film ventures into territory few would wish to explore.  Despite the exquisite direction, which is never showy or ever intended to draw attention to itself, it’s quite surprising this film, from a first time director, was chosen by Belgium over the nation’s patron saints of cinema, the Dardennes Brothers’ latest Cannes offering The Kid With a Bike (Le gamin au vélo) (2011) as the country’s selection for Best Foreign Film, and even more surprising that the American Academy Award Foreign Film Selection committee, which has had fits in this category in year’s past, overlooking what many felt were the best films, named this as one of the five finalists for 2012.  Because of the uncomfortable subject matter, which keeps the audience at an arm’s distance while simultaneously telling a riveting story, brilliantly using old-fashioned film techniques like storytelling through editing and camera movement, integrating the sound design or changing the film speed, it’s a daring and superb choice, one that chooses art over individual comfort.  If truth be told, there are literally hundreds of films that explore damaged women, who have been raped or abused in some manner, where the psychological implications become the narrative of the film.  Isabelle Huppert has made a living playing this kind of part.  It’s quite rare, however, to see such an accomplished examination of a brutally damaged man, especially one exhibiting this degree of skill behind the camera.  We saw glimpses of it with Michael Fassbender in Shame (2011), but this is something different altogether.  Written by the director, cinematography by Nicolas Karakatsanis, there is an immediate connection to the screen from the opening shot, a superb rural landscape, where one doesn’t wish to look away to read the subtitles, as there’s also a brief opening narration which gives the audience a clue what to expect when there is an imbalance in nature.

Among the many things happening in this film is a playful dig at Belgium’s own split culture, the Dutch-speaking Flanders and the French-speaking Wallonia, where each side refuses to learn the language of the other, as they’ve basically grown up to despise the other half, where lifelong prejudices rule the day, which becomes somewhat comical in this film as the story plays into this built-in prejudice.  Heavily grounded in near documentary style realism, it’s also an examination of machismo, especially as defined in rural outbacks or in the criminal element that remains outside the bounds of mainstream society.  Matthias Schoenaerts plays Jaky, who gained 60 pounds of muscle to bulk up for this role, using bodybuilding techniques to become a hulking muscular mass, a kind of gentle giant walking among us who has the strength to tear any man apart, yet he works quietly on his family farm with his own parents raising cattle.  What separates them from other farmers is they inject illegal hormones into their beef in order to fatten them up prematurely, where bigger cattle means more money, also saving money in the long run as they don’t have to keep them as long.  This is as much a family way of life as cooking crystal meth is in the Ozarks, or bootlegging moonshine whisky in Kentucky.  It’s regional, becoming cultural through the years, and it’s outside the law.  Despite efforts to stop it, the practice continues as it’s become ingrained with organized crime.  As Jacky’s small group of outsiders attempts to extend their territory into crime-infested Wallonia, all hell breaks loose, including the killing of a policeman, which doesn’t exactly do wonders for business and sets the tone for a police investigation.  Through flashback sequences back to childhood, we learn the devastating origins of Jacky’s own personal trauma, one which remains a lifelong skeleton in his closet, and a clue to his behavior.    

The film is also something of a police procedural mixed together with bits and pieces of Jaky’s past which resurface with the police killing and the attempted entry into forbidden territory, where Jaky has to come to terms with what’s haunted him his entire life.  He’s such an imposing presence, bulking up by injecting the same drugs he uses on the animals, which affects his mental outlook, creating such an unstable force the audience recognizes a potential train wreck when they see one.  It’s significant to recall, however, just what little harm he’s caused others up to this point, as he largely keeps to himself and his small circle of friends.  It’s this unfortunate business on the other side that’s creating havoc, stirring up something inside, which plays out like long lost memories rising to the surface.  Once the external circumstances are revealed, the director changes focus and moves inward, becoming a hyper intense interior examination of personal tragedy, where Jaky is continually battling his internal demons.  Set largely in the rural outskirts away from the mainstream of life, they set their own laws out there and define their own cultural traditions, where this concept of macho strength and male personal fortitude has a different definition altogether, becoming an intense character study.  Schoenaerts truly offers an astonishing, testosterone-laden performance, chasing the boundaries of inner rage, where his behavior grows more erratic and unpredictable, becoming a human timebomb waiting to explode.  Darkly disturbing, but also internally complex, the audience may feel alienated from the brutality, but drawn to the impressive craftsmanship of the director who really pulls it all together in this psychologically probing and constantly inventive work that challenges our own preconceived notions of masculinity. 

Haywire

HAYWIRE                  B                     

USA  (93 mi)  2011  ‘Scope  d:  Steven Soderbergh

While Gina Carano will not make anyone forget about Jennifer Lopez as Karen Sisco in OUT OF SIGHT (1998), she may be a logical extension of her badass personality, though never reaching the elevated Pam Grier echelon.  In fact, rather than accentuate her feminine traits, she comes across as just one of the guys, a former marine/private contractor/mercenary hired for delicate operations where the best in the business is desired.  She can be counted on for her intelligence, discretion, and thorough nature, where she leaves no loose ends behind.  It doesn’t hurt that she’s also gorgeous.  Soderbergh, with his second release in the past 6 months, has hinted on retirement after wrapping up these last few films, but his signature stylization is all over this film, a sleek, fast paced action thriller that easily moves to various on-location sites around the world, where from the opening sequence Carano continually fights her way out of jams, with the pulsating, jazzy soundtrack by David Holmes.  In fact, it would fit nicely with the international globetrotting themes of the memory challenged but ballsy action of the BOURNE Trilogy (2002 – 2007), but since it shares a similar actor in Antonio Banderas, the film it likely compares to is Brian de Palma’s FEMME FATALE (2002), featuring model/actress Rebecca Romijn-Stamos in an action role, where De Palma wipes the mat with the alluring sexuality, body doubles, and a much more intricate and complicated web of deceit, an homage to Hitchcock that was off-the-wall entertaining.  This film pales in comparison, largely because Carano never explores the sex factor and tellingly doesn’t attempt much complicated dialogue or acting interaction, instead she can be counted on for terrific ass kicking sequences, more in line with her brief career as a mixed martial arts star, formerly seen as Crush in the American Gladiators (2008) television series.   

Even Tarantino, or Russ Meyer for that matter in FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL! (1965), have fun mixing female action with clever or humorous dialogue, but despite a B-movie script from Lem Dobbs who wrote Soderbergh’s best film, THE LIMEY (1999), there isn’t a trace of memorable dialogue here.  While entertaining, to be sure, this is not heady stuff, despite surrounding Carano with some of the top actors working today, where it’s likely to be a split decision as to how well she pulls it off.  The fight scenes were overseen by Aaron Cohen, a specialist in providing counter-terrorism training to the U.S. military.  From an opening restaurant scene gone wrong that recalls PULP FICTION (1994), Soderbergh introduces a flashback sequence where Carano pulls off a hostage rescue operation in Barcelona with the guy she’s beating the crap out of in the restaurant (Channing Tatum), where they worked successfully as partners with no hitches, but suddenly her team has inexplicably turned against her, which she discovers in another highly suspicious undercover operation in Dublin with Michael Fassbender, as she moves invisibly through a world of espionage, double agents, government cover ups, and secret identities.  Never trusting anyone, she develops a secret sense, but unlike so many of the other action movies, she doesn’t seem like a super hero, as she gets hit frequently and knocked down, even smashed against walls and windows, but she has a way of sustaining the battle until she gains the upper hand, where her action sequences look real instead of choreographed and computer enhanced.  She’s an interesting figure, running through the gamut of men in this movie, but something of a lone wolf, where the double crosses by the employers in her line of business, namely Ewen McGregor and Antonio Banderas, have a way of playing themselves out, where she has to sit tight and make her move when they least suspect it.

 

Even Michael Douglas, looking more like his father’s gruff intensity as he ages, is another player on the scene who has to cut his losses and regroup due to unexpected backroom deals that eventually lead them to the Santa Fe desert home of Carano’s father, Bill Bixby, a former marine who is not easily fooled by all this monkey business.  It’s a beautiful home with a stunning landscape, another glass-windowed, Architectural Digest pick, like the spectacular Big Sur home on the edge of the woods overlooking the ocean in THE LIMEY.  But for all the meticulous detail prevalent in Soderbergh films, the rooftop chase sequences, her miraculous escapes, the brilliant locales, the alternating time sequences, the upper tier cast of characters, the mano a mano fight to the finish on the beach, and even a steady hand behind the camera that doesn’t resort to handheld movement to capture the physicality of mood, which is instead captured by the natural grace of Carano’s fight sequences, all of this overshadows the lack of interior character, which was the biggest selling point of Terence Stamp in THE LIMEY, as he was a man driven to do the impossible.  Not so here, as Carano is simply a well-trained professional that gets double crossed, something that happens all the time in the give and take of international power struggles, corporate takeovers, and government corruption.  This heavy style over substance is the ultimate undoing of the film, though it’s perfectly enjoyable, just not particularly memorable, unless, of course, you're a teenage fanboy who prefers watching this over playing video games, where the director is attempting to tap into the YouTube generation.  Oh, and Soderbergh has 3 more films lined up in post production—so much for retirement—at least none of them are in 3D. 

A Dangerous Method

A DANGEROUS METHOD                           C+                    

Great Britain  Germany  Canada  Switzerland  (99 mi)  2011  d:  David Cronenberg

Sort of like watching paint dry, as this ultra repressive, interior chamber drama moves with the glacial pace of Chekhov, usually stuck inside the sanctitude of one of many rooms but without his power of observation and social dissection.  Instead, this is a historical costume drama that presupposes the meeting of Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) and Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) at the dawn of the psychoanalytic age around the turn of the 20th century.  The film is a Christopher Hampton adaptation of his own play called A Talking Cure, which was adapted from John Kerr’s book using the film title.  As such, all action is advanced by dialogue, much of it through patient to therapist sessions, but also person to person discussions and through various letters sent between the two colleagues, who after striking up a rich personal friendship and professional associative relationship fell out of favor with each other, basically ending all communication.  Since the two are known to have fathered what is known today as the practice of psychoanalysis, it’s ironic that in their own relationship they couldn’t practice what they preached, falling instead into utter dysfunction.  While there is no doubt this raises intelligent issues, it will be hard to find an audience that is moved or actively interested in a cold intellectual discussion of their methodology as a science.  Unfortunately, this was reminiscent of Richard Linklater’s WAKING LIFE (2001), his animated, color-coated, drug fantasia that becomes a dull soliloquy of endless ethereal monologues spoken as if in a perpetual daydream that brought back memories of being lectured to, as the tone of the entire film here is as if what it has to say is so extremely important that it begins to sound entirely self-serving instead of interesting.  Both of these men, Jung and Freud, seem so arrogantly self-centered and full of themselves that it’s hard to believe anyone ever listened to either one of them.  

The two actors are among the best actors working today, but here both are toned down and restricted to emotionally straight jacketed performances, especially Fassbender as Jung, who always looks like he’s framed in a picture book of some kind or an upscale magazine devoted to the elegant lifestyles of the wealthy class living in the luxurious mansions along beautiful Lake Zurich.  His wife inherited money, so his ultra civilized dress and manner represents wealth and status, but also social rigidity, where one can suffocate in the righteous air of theoretical ideas, almost as if the body is completely cut off from the head attached to it.  Freud’s studies in Vienna, Austria led him to the conclusion that all neurotic behavior was caused from sexual repression, leading to a dialogue between patient and therapist in an attempt to discover the root of the problem, using dream analysis and a discussion probing the unconscious mind in an attempt to unlock the key to a healthier life.  Jung followed in his footsteps in Zurich, Switzerland, but refused to single out sex as a cause of repression, believing there could be a myriad of other possibilities.  Both believed in intensive dream analysis, which they shared with one another, holding nothing back about their private lives in their intimate discussions until eventually something happened to change all that.  Enter Keira Knightley, aka:  Sabina Spielrein, the patient.  If ever there was a hysterical, overacted performance, it is this one, which is barely watchable at times.  Add to this the phony accents and you’ve got yourself a turkey of a performance in a film that’s already difficult to engage with due to the sometimes studious and at times professorial content of the endless discussions. 

When Sabina describes her abusive family history, which has left her in an apoplectic state of continual hysteria, no one needs a degree in psychology to understand what a fragile and terrible condition she is in, where her body is filled with uncontrollable spasms reacting to her personal fears of continually being beaten by her father.  Making matters worse, she enjoys the punishment.  Promoting his inner calm, Jung is successful at getting her to accept herself as she is, an exceptionally well-educated woman unafraid to delve into the intellectual matters at hand, joining the psychoanalytic profession, though taking issue with both her colleagues.  While this speaks of the success of therapy, no one believes Sabina is ever cured due to Knightley’s sprawling performance which is all over the place, always eccentric, never really losing the hysteria, just the flinching body spasms.  While there’s not a lot to see and nothing particularly engaging, only lines of trust that are continually crossed, the film really dovetails off the charts, perhaps entirely miscast, where no character is the least bit interesting or sympathetic, made worse by the stifling oppressive tone of scholarly reserve, where anything outside this artificially passive world of stately elegance and manners is already seen as out of the ordinary and eventually out of bounds.  It well describes the fissure that came between the two men, all of which precedes the advent of World War One, a crisis of unthinkable proportions which would change the thinking forever about battle fatigue and chronic stress syndrome.  But these terms hadn’t yet been invented as Freud and Jung continue to squabble like children about their self-professed techniques in combating psychological relief.  Both men are out of  favor today due to advancements in the use of medicine for mental health treatment, which has all but replaced the idea of dream analysis and free associative psychoanalytic therapy sessions which are now largely based on an accumulation of family history and circumstances.  The elegance and classical style used by Cronenberg never varies, matched by the music of Howard Shore who steals excerpts from a Viennese composer from the same era, the uncredited Gustav Mahler.

Post Script – The irony is not lost to viewers, as any therapist who would actually do what is suggested here by one of the founders of the field would likely lose their license, be thrown out of practice, and receive a hefty jail sentence.  But of course, they were pioneers slogging their way through the wilderness. 

Shame (2011)

SHAME                                   B+                  

Great Britain  (101 mi)  2011  ‘Scope  d:  Steve McQueen

As reflective of a deep cultural divide in this country, Cinemark Theaters, the third largest theater chain in the nation, refuses to show any film rated NC-17, which this is, as has Carmike, the nation’s fourth largest, and as will WalMart, the country’s top retail outlet, as they won’t sell Adults-only DVD’s.  Mind you, this is much ado over nothing, as there are no erections and no penetration shots, standard features in adult porn films, instead offering occasional naked glimpses of both men and women, and perhaps three featured graphic sex scenes, one fairly hard core in intensity only, while the other two are more suggestive than graphic, but the soundtrack includes plenty of online porn chatter.  The last NC-17 film to hit the theaters was Ang Lee’s LUST, CAUTION (2007), which grossed $4.5 million dollars, a sexually graphic, behind-the-scenes espionage tale set in Japanese-occupied Shanghai in 1942 where a seductress was used to betray a powerful political figure suspected of collaborating with the enemy, reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman in Hitchcock’s NOTORIOUS (1946). 

Not to be confused with the exquisite 1968 Bergman film by the same name, this film has no historical context but instead exudes a modern day existential emptiness, featuring the exploits of Michael Fassbender as Brandon Sullivan, an Irish born transplant to New York City where he has a successful executive career in sales.  Brandon’s thing is incessantly watching porn, where the shot is always upon his face, where nothing else besides sex seems to hold his attention for long.  While he goes bar-hopping after work with his boss, James Badge Dale, something of an obnoxious, overly anxious motor mouth that won’t shut up, his boss strikes out while Brandon’s quiet stares usually reel in the girl.  His life (without condoms) seems to be a neverending stream of loveless sex where one could certainly foresee a sexually transmitted disease to knock some sense into his head.  Instead the surprise blow comes in the form of an unexpected naked girl in his shower (Carey Mulligan, we should all be so lucky!!) when he arrives home one night.  While the two obviously share some intimate history that’s never revealed, McQueen extends the curiosity factor for quite some time before revealing this is his sister. 

Honestly, brother and sister movies are relatively rare, where Polanski had a field day in CHINATOWN (1974), or Kenneth Lonergan’s quirky indie film YOU CAN COUNT ON ME (2000), but more often children are featured such as Bergman’s classic FANNY AND ALEXANDER (1982), Hirokazu Kore-eda’s NOBODY KNOWS (2004), or Charles Laughton’s THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER (1955).  One of the best ever remains John Cassavetes' last film, LOVE STREAMS (1984), a superlative love story swirling in wrong choices and missed opportunities, where its last breath of hope suggests it’s never too late to start anew.  Written by the director and Abi Morgan, this is not your typical family drama, as both siblings are drenched in a profound hurt and sadness that runs so deep they can’t even talk about it, instead growing frustrated and angry.  But one of the scenes of the film is hearing Mulligan sing a slow and heart wrenchingly sad rendition of “New York, New York” heard here:  Shame Official Trailer #2 - YouTube (1:34), which can’t help but alter one’s expectations of this film, as this is Mulligan unlike we’ve ever seen her before, turning this overheated promotional anthem to a city into a song of quiet introspection.   The performances simply excel, as both brother and sister are fiercely intense and provocatively uninhibited, yet also damaged goods that are internally scarred.  Brandon’s reaction to her is powerfully devastating, throwing him off his game, as she’s disrupting his routine, invading all the spaces where he’s used to hiding from the rest of the world, eventually throwing out several giant garbage bags of illicit material he doesn’t want her to see. 

There’s an interesting turn of events at work when an attractive black coworker, Nicole Beharie, outwardly flirts over coffee, leading to a dinner date in a restaurant, where their conversation is compelling by the very casual yet sincere way he acknowledges his distaste for extended relationships, where she instantly sees herself potentially trapped, yet also intrigued by his easy going charm and intelligence that makes her sense there’s more going on with this guy than he’ll admit to.  Other than his sister, these two spend the most onscreen time together and exhibit the highest levels of acute sensitivity, certainly piquing the interest of this black director, where the next afternoon Brandon whisks her away from the worksite for a little afternoon delight, bringing her to the most fabulous upscale hotel room (The Standard Hotel, The Standard New York) most have ever seen with ceiling to floor windows overlooking a wharf with the picturesque city skyline across the river.  It’s enough to make your knees buckle and impossible not to feel an adrenal rush of excitement and a tinge of sensual titillation in such a plush environment.  People’s reactions to this film may vary, as many are simply uncomfortable watching couples in the throes of sexual intimacy, especially where there’s scant evidence of love in the air, where meaningless intimacy evades explanation altogether.  McQueen eloquently frames these affairs with an air of prolonged indifference, holding the camera and refusing to look away from the collateral damage, usually accompanied by Glenn Gould’s near scientifically perfect technique playing the piano music of Bach.  Within this sublime perfection something must go amiss, and within that minefield of confusion lies Brandon’s endlessly lost soul.     

Perhaps the strongest asset this film offers is the sound design and use of music, original score written by Harry Escott, where the quietly detached precision of solitude contrasts against a heavy surge of emotion that occasionally overwhelms the viewers, flooding the scene with depths of sound that seem to come out of nowhere, where you’re literally captivated and engulfed in the moment.  McQueen’s use of quiet and spare music during some of the most wrenchingly emotional moments is reminiscent of Kurosawa’s poetic use of hushed music during the most horrific battlefield sequences in RAN (1985), offering an eerie calm to an endless series of mounted columns of soldiers sweeping across the plains, most plundering to their bloody deaths in a savage depiction of human brutality.  By the end of this film, a composite of ever increasing uncomfortable moments, Brandon has gone through a meat grinder and plunges into unknown territory, haunted by the depths of despair, driven by circumstances completely out of his comfort zone, where what should be sexual ecstasy written on his face instead shows wearying grimaces of sorrow and agonizing pain.  Life is reduced to a struggle where nothing comes easy, where anguish falls on deaf ears, where his own capacity to involve others leaves something to be desired, as all he knows how to do is evade reality and create his own private space, becoming invisible, like a ravaged ghost of a human being, reduced to a kind of male incubus whose spirit wanders the streets like Sisyphus preying on the subconscious sexual needs of women, where his own needs are eternally unfulfilled.

Michael

Markus Schleinzer

MICHAEL                   B                     

Austria  (96 mi)  2011  d:  Markus Schleinzer

The icily cool Austrian veneer doesn’t cover up the fact this is a creepy little film, one where the audience can’t help but hate the protagonist (Michael Fuith), a non-descript, ordinary, Fassbinderish Herr R. (1970) kind of guy who goes to work every day at an insurance company, keeps his home neat and clean, and never draws attention to himself so as not to expose the fact that he’s keeping a 9-year old boy locked in his basement.  We watch the outside of his house in the evening when the shades automatically come down closing the window, literally blocking out all signs of the outside world.  Markus Schleinzer worked as a casting director for fellow countryman Michael Haneke from 1994 to 2010 before venturing out on his own to make this first feature film.  It’s by no means a show stopper or one that even attempts to impress, instead it moves with that glacier pace of meticulous control, where every shot is designed to establish the ordinary rhythm in the man’s life, where keeping a boy hostage as a sex slave is all part of his normal routine, offering nothing salacious or sexually provocative, but the age of the boy and the locked bar on the basement door tells us all that we need to know.  The boy himself (David Rauchenberger) is never named, where his identity is completely submerged, but he’s adorable and docile, obviously accepting of his circumstances for some time now, as he’s allowed to join Michael for dinner, sitting at a table with perfect placemat settings, and together they clean up afterwards and wash and dry the dishes like a well oiled machine.  The boy colors pictures and regularly writes letters to his missing parents that Michael never sends, but in obsessively orderly fashion, keeps the letters in a hidden file, much like the Nazi’s maintained meticulous train records for the transportation of the Jews to all the death camps. 

This emotionally repressive style of film has become familiar to filmgoers by now, where the purposeful exactitude is hard to fault, as the composition and editing scheme reveals not only what’s happening, but also makes a comment on the suffocating psychological implications by choking out any hint of emotions onscreen, where it plays out like a recorded diary, never adding any personal commentary, as the interior world of Michael may be pretty close to a void, where the director often captures him sitting all alone in the dark.  Occasionally, however, something stirs inside and he takes the boy out on a field trip excursion, like a visit to a petting zoo, his hand always firmly clasped, where for a brief moment he’s actually part of the world outside.  But for every moment of optimism, it also produces that wincing moment when he’s locked back inside again like a caged animal on display whose only contact is during regular visiting hours, where he’s forced to capitulate to Michael’s world, whatever that may entail.  Where this film does make a brief break from the typical austere stylization is adding bits of humor, where outlandishly enough this occasionally becomes a comedy about pedophilia, where the audience is primed to laugh and poke fun at the sexual possessor, to see what a fool he can make of himself, similar to the use of violence in Haneke films, like FUNNY GAMES (1997), where the films play to the audience’s expectations.  But every variation from the norm is extremely brief, where the established routine dominates the landscape.  

As anyone with children knows, it’s hard to raise children alone, and despite Michael’s orderly world, he’s no exception, as kids act up, get hurt, cry, or even get sick, all things beyond his control, challenging the range of his parental skills, as he has to keep his prized possession alive and in good health. We get clues into the boy’s deepening psychological depression and his moments of rage, while also seeing Michael occasionally off his game, as sometimes the boy just isn’t in the mood to play and instead feels listless and disconsolate, where it ends up as Michael boiling over with inner rage.  He’s a man used to getting his way, and as the boy gets older, he’s less inclined to show any interest in what Michael wants from him, instead growing more aloof.  This presents a challenge for Michael, who has no experience whatsoever in human relations or how to motivate the disinterested, and every attempt leads to a further misstep on his part, where it’s his all controlling world that is coming apart, like steam exploding from a boiling teapot.  He lives in constant denial over his captive’s abuse, filling his life with ordinary moments, watching television, living in an ordinary world, but occasionally he gets a good look at himself in the mirror which makes him feel exasperatingly feeble, like a child himself, helpless and uncomfortable, as apparently he’s never matured emotionally beyond the age of his captive, where all he can be is a bully on the block.  A few years ago, there was a common theme of movies using the Turtle’s song “Happy Together,” often to humorous effect—see Wong Kar-wai’s HAPPY TOGETHER (1997) or Christophe Honoré’s MA MÈRE (2004), for instance.  Here the director has chosen a variation on a similar song to a chilling and strangely provocative effect.