We Need to Talk About Kevin

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN              B+          
Great Britain  USA  (112 mi)  2011  ‘Scope d:  Lynne Ramsay

“Way worse than I imagined,” was the comment heard coming out of the theater, which perhaps unintentionally perfectly expresses the point of the film, where the words of the title suddenly take on greater magnitude.  A decidedly difficult film, told completely out of sequence, which has a jarring effect on the viewer, keeping them continually off balance, as the story has a fractured and impressionistic style, revealed only in pieces.  It’s simply impossible to get comfortable with this film due to the harsh and uncompromisingly bleak nature of the story, despite the beautifully chilly and austere production values that might resemble a Kubrick film, cinematography by Seamus McGarvey, and once again a superlative musical track from Jonny Greenwood, but the downbeat mood, especially from Tilda Swinton’s continuously frustrated portrayal of the mother of a loathsome child Kevin, a son who hates her from birth, couldn’t be more oppressive.  Based on the best-selling novel by the same name from Lionel Shriver, adapted by the director and Rory Stewart Kinnear, the film hints all along of greater catastrophes lurking ahead.  Ramsay interestingly presents the town’s hateful reaction to Swinton before revealing what horrifying event they are responding to.  But all along, Kevin devises ways to express his contempt for his mother, while switching gears to become the supposedly happy and perfect son to his clueless father, John C. Reilly.  In another realm, this would be a child of the devil, told with horror subtext, where grotesque exaggerations would fill the screen along with impaled bodies, but here what damage Kevin does is almost always offscreen, where the audience is forced to draw their own conclusions.       

Originally trained as a photographer, Ramsay reworks the text into a highly stylized, contemporary visual world, including the perfect suburban home that becomes infested with dread, like a haunted house, where Kevin becomes the personification of evil.  Moving freely between the present and the past, Swinton experiences her own horrors from Kevin early on, where he simply refuses to do anything she asks, but she matches his vitriolic meanness directed at her with her own inappropriate behavior, growing more irritated over time, as the two develop their own language of avoiding one another.  In one of the strangest sequences of the film, Swinton is reading him a bedtime story, where in reality her eloquence with language is renowned, like listening to the voices of Laurence Olivier or Orson Welles, but this time Kevin grows so attached to the lurid description of bows and arrows in Robin Hood that he doesn’t want his mother to stop, actually curling up next to her in a sign of affection.  Afterwards, however, he remains his meanspirited and completely detached self, feeling nothing but contempt for his family members.  His father, however, buys him a bow and arrow set, becoming extremely proficient over time, which has the effect of introducing firearms to a mentally unstable kid.  Jumping ahead, while we never see any traces of Kevin with other students in high school, the audience is instead treated to the aftereffects of a horrendous, catastrophic event at the school which turns the entire town against Swinton, where interestingly Ramsay uses the lovely innocence of Buddy Holly’s song Buddy Holly - Everyday on YouTube (2:13) as a prelude to the event.

While the film recounts shocking and astonishing events by connecting personal family tragedy with the public’s reaction to unspeakable horrors, one might wonder why there’s an absence of psychiatric intervention, as this kid is definitely a danger to himself and others, and while that may be true, he’s also likely a smart and gifted student and not exactly a willing participant for treatment, especially at an early age where he’s already learned to manipulate adults through his own behavior, so why would he want to change that?  Swinton grows so suspicious of him that she searches his room for any sign of something amiss, intriguingly set to the Beach Boys In My Room - The Beach Boys on YouTube (2:10), where it’s as if his room has been wiped clean of any and all forensic evidence, knowing this would be one of the first places people would look.  His entire life shows a cunning and willful emotional detachment, which Swinton tries to match in personal indifference by avoiding having her buttons pushed, but she’s hopelessly drowning in the turmoil of her own shortcomings, feeling completely powerless and inept at being able to reach this kid.  What’s evident, however, is that this is a story of communal judgment, where she’s been judged an incompetent mother by the entire town, subject to sneers and stares, even getting socked in the face, and worse, developing a witch hunt mentality where she’s judged responsible for the behavior of her sociopathic son.  Swinton herself may be her own worst critic, grown weary from continually blaming herself, expressed through her cold and severe manner, but what’s inevitable is every day having to face the horror, guilt, and shame of living with a world soiled and contaminated by your own offspring.  Nine years since her last film, the first to branch away from working class Scotland, Ramsay’s unflinching vision spares no one and offers no easy answers, and is in itself a horrifyingly bleak and brutal film. 

Norwegian Wood

NORWEGIAN WOOD          B+                  

Japan  (133 mi)  2010  ‘Scope  d:  Trân Anh Hùng 

Trân Anh Hùng is the only Vietnamese filmmaker to ever receive an Academy Award nomination in the Best Foreign Film category, received for his first film, THE SCENT OF GREEN PAPAYA (1993), though the filmmaker emigrated to France at age 12 following the fall of Saigon.  Known for his lush visuals and languorous pace, this film is no exception, adapted from the Haruki Murakami novel which is interestingly set during the student protest movement of the 1960’s along with the accompanying air of sexual liberation.  Feeling almost like two separate films, the first half establishes the characters and sets the tone for the rest of the film, beautifully shot by Hou Hsiao-hsien’s cinematographer Mark Lee Ping-bin, a visual extravaganza narrated by Watanabe (Ken’ichi Matsuyama), a socially aloof but conscientious and bright college student in Tokyo whose boyhood friend commits suicide, where he falls in love with the dead boy’s emotionally fragile girlfriend Naoko (Rinko Kikuchi) who mysteriously disappears after their initial sexual encounter apparently brings back painful memories, leaving no trace of how he can find her, so he writes letters to her known addresses hoping they would be forwarded to her.  Through the letters we get an understanding how deeply he feels for Naoko, believing he’s somehow responsible for her pain.  Living in a college dormitory, he is dragged along with others where he meets other girls, namely Midori (Kiko Mizuhara), who actually pursues him, where initially the audience feels this is a much better match for him as she’s so outgoing and confident, where the pair actually seem happy together, but in a startling confession, they each claim to love another, which places their aspirations on the back burner, which gives rise to letters from Naoko, who is living in a remote retreat of some kind in an attempt to heal her wounds.  

Throughout the film is a remembrance and lavish tone poem to first love, where the extraordinary visual beauty interweaves with the irrationality of obsessive longing, where Watanabe and Naoko feel a desperate need for one another, both clinging to hopes of reuniting, yet there is an overriding sense of futility that accompanies their feelings, as if weighted down by the death of their friend.  There is also plenty of sexual experimentation, where much of the dialog attempts a kind of abrupt confessional honesty.  Featuring another superb musical score by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood, this is one of the quietest and youthfully tender film experiences in recollection, exceeded perhaps only by Naomi Kawase’s SUZAKU (1997) which is even more fragile, but both of these two lovers remain damaged goods throughout, where initially there is a spirit of hope, accelerated by the gorgeously optimistic presence of Midori, which offers Watanabe an option, but one he fails to recognize, as he insists he will not abandon Naoko as her deceased lover did.  This road is a perilous journey, as Naoko hasn’t recovered, needing the spiritual guidance of others to get through each day, where Watanabe can visit her, but only in the presence of others, as she still loses herself in her troubles, falling ever deeper into psychological turmoil.  One of the best scenes of the film is when her friend plays the Beatles song “Norwegian Wood” on the guitar, where Naoko is sitting on the floor with Watanabe lying next to her in a moment of quiet relaxation, but to Naoko the lyrics are simply crushing and overwhelming, creating a hyper-sensuous personalized moment, like an acid rush, where her past traumatic recollections come streaming into her head all at once leaving her devastated and alone.   

As the audience begins to realize the seriousness of Naoko’s condition, this leads us into the second half of the film which could otherwise be called the descent, taking on maudlin, melodramatic aspects that will likely turn off many Western viewers as lengthy, over the top, and unnecessary, bordering on pretentious, as it remains bathed in such a luminously beautiful setting, featuring plenty of walks through green fields or forests in natural landscapes, also including similar ventures in the wintry snow, where every shot glows in an idealized light.  Despite the downward trend, a meandering turn towards futility and utter pointlessness, which becomes the pervasive theme, happening suddenly, like dropping off the edge of a cliff, this remains faithful to Japanese sentiment—when honor has been soiled, suicide remains a noble option—where Naoko waffles back and forth between appreciation for the attention paid by Watanabe, and her hints that it’s all a waste of time and that he should get on with his life without her.  The initial pangs of romantic love have evolved into pathos and paternal obligation, where he has a highly developed sense of responsibility which continually paints him in a good light, but he’s aboard a sinking ship, and while valiantly trying to stay afloat, he remains lost in a cloud of death and denial, where his life is a charade of pretense and make believe, putting on a happy face for the ever dour Naoko.  When the two talk of the happiness they bring each other, there’s simply no sign of it any more, drowning in a sea of sorrows and regret.  The exaggerated sense of doom has a heightened sense given this artful design, as it perfectly matches youthful idealization, where disappointment can be catastrophic when hopes and dreams are undone by the sheer inadequacy of reality, leading to an emotional paralysis, where one remains in a permanent, near catatonic state of heartbreak.