7/7/14: Sometimes Truth is Better Than Fiction

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Alessandro Nivola, Arkansas, Atom Egoyan, based on a book, based on a true story, child killing, cinema, Colin Firth, Damien Echols, Dane DeHaan, Devil's Knot, drama, false accusations, film reviews, films, James Hamrick, Jason Baldwin, Jessie Misskelley, Joe Berlinger, Kevin Durand, Kris Higgins, Mireille Enos, Movies, murdered children, Pam Hobbs, Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills, Reese Witherspoon, Satanic panic, Scott Derrickson, Seth Meriwether, small town life, true crime, West Memphis, West Memphis Three

Sometimes, there’s only so often you can replow the same ground before you have to let it fallow. Farmers know this but, unfortunately, it’s a fact of life that many filmmakers have yet to fully grasp. This can be applied to remakes and “reimaginings” (my personal pet peeves) but it’s just as valid when discussing multiple films made about the same subject. This problem becomes more pronounced when there’s already a “definitive” work on the particular subject, since anything that follows will either seem lesser, by comparison, or will borrow too much from its predecessor in order to capture some of that lightning twice. Such, unfortunately, is the case with Atom Egoyan’s recent crime-drama, Devil’s Knot (2013), which attempts to put a “slightly fictionalized” spin on the true-life story of the West Memphis Three. The problem, of course, is that the same story was already told in a much more definitive way with Joe Berlinger and Sinofsky’s excellent documentary Paradise Lost (1996). When you already have a film (and two follow-up documentaries) that have already examined the subject in great detail, what more could a fictionalized account of the same incident bring? In the case of Devil’s Knot, the answer is a resounding “Not much at all.”

For those not familiar with the circumstances behind the case, here it is, in a nutshell: In 1993, the bound and tortured bodies of three 8-year-old boys were found in the woods outside of West Memphis, Arkansas. Due to the intense interrogation of teenage suspect Jessie Misskelley (who just happened to be mentally handicapped), two other local teens were arrested: Damien Echols and Jason Baldwin. Due to the three boys’ interest in heavy metal, along with Echol’s interest in witchcraft and Aleister Crowley, the small town immediately suspected Satanic influence and the trio were tried and convicted with remarkably little actual evidence: Misskelley and Baldwin were sentenced to life in prison, whereas Echols, seen as the “ringleader,” was sentenced to death. After filmmakers Berlinger and Sinofsky began poking around in the case, they began to find lots of discrepancies, along with plenty of other potential suspects (including some from the various boys’ families). The whole thing began to seem like a witch-hunt and the filmmakers’ resulting documentary, Paradise Lost, became a huge hit and initiated a groundswell of support for the trio, including some rather famous folks like Eddie Vedder and Henry Rollins. After new evidence finally surfaced, the three were released from prison in 2011: to this point, no one else has been officially charged in the murders, leaving the whole thing as a tragic, unsolved mystery.

Egoyan’s film, then, takes all of the basic facts from the case (and Paradise Lost) and gives everything a melodramatic sheen, choosing to focus in on the character of Pam Hobbs (Reese Witherspoon), the mother of one of the murdered boys. We begin with a few bits of small-town life before getting right to the terrible crime, as the bodies of the missing boys are found in the woods. After the police lean hard on Jessie (Kris Higgins), he gives up his two “friends,” Damien (James Hamrick) and Jason (Seth Meriwether, looking so much like a teenage Geddy Lee that it became distracting): all three boys have a reputation as misfits and loners which, along with Damien’s penchant for listening to Slayer and carving his girlfriend’s name into his arm, leads the town to make all the connections they need to. This is, of course, despite the fact that we see plenty of other odd occurences going on: a mysterious muddy and bloody man washes up in a local fast-food bathroom, while local ice-cream truck driver, Chris Morgan (Dane DeHaan), acts so strange that it seems impossible to think he’s not guilty of something. There’s also the highly suspicious behavior of one of the boys’ fathers, Mark Byers (Kevin Duran), and local woman, Vicki Hutchenson (The Killing’s Mireille Enos), who seems to be sexually obsessed with Nichols and openly lies about being taken to a “witches’ coven” by the teen.

A “white knight,” such as it were, emerges in the form of Ron Lax (Colin Firth), the highfalutin’ big city lawyer who takes on the trio’s case, pro bono, in the interests of serving justice. He faces plenty of opposition, obviously, not the least of which comes from Pam’s angry husband, Terry (Alessandro Nivola) and Mark Byers. In time, however, Ron begins to chip away at Pam’s resolve regarding the guilt of the trio: at first, she’s positive that they’re guilty but the facts just don’t add up for her and she comes to believe that the three might be innocent, after all. Worst of all, however, Pam begins to suspect that the real killer might be someone close to her…maybe even her own husband.

Right off the bat, Devil’s Knot suffers from one massive problem: it’s telling the exact same story as Paradise Lost but without the benefit of real-life footage. In Paradise Lost, we meet the real Pam and Terry Hobbs, as well as the real Mark and Melissa Myers, which is a much different ballgame than getting their characters filtered through actors like Witherspoon, Nivola and Duran. In Devil’s Knot, we get everything filtered through a distinct layer of melodrama that gives the situation as much gravitas as a made-for-TV movie. In particular, Witherspoon turns in a wildly dramatic performance, highlighted by scenes like the one where she pulls at her hair (after someone asks for a sample, she responds, “Take it all!”) or goes into her dead son’s classroom in order to drop off his last homework assignment and ends up getting hugged by a mob of his classmates. Couple this with her dead son’s propensity to reappear in flashbacks, singing the same Elvis Presley song, ad nauseam, and it’s pretty clear Egoyan and writer Scott Derrickson (himself the director of films like The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005), Sinister (2012) and Deliver Us From Evil (2014)) are much more interested in tugging at the heart-strings than actually exploring the ins-and-outs of this particular tragedy.

There are also issues with the way in which the film introduces certain plot elements (the mysterious man at the fast-food restaurant, the bit about young Stevie Hobbs’ pocketknife, Chris Morgan) without ever fully developing them: it’s as if Egoyan and Derrickson wanted to touch on everything but couldn’t be bothered to tie it all into a cohesive whole. Since Devil’s Knot has the benefit of being released after the trio were set free, it would seem to have access to more information, not less, than the preceding Paradise Lost. Despite this, however, the film feels unbelievably slight, like a Cliff Notes-version of the events. We spend so much time with Pam and Ron that Echols, Baldwin and Misskelley kind of fade into the background: the film seems to want to focus on the victims and their families, yet basically allows Pam Hobbs to just sub-in for all of them. In many ways, this is the story of how she comes to grips with what happened, which ends up marginalizing everyone else’s struggles (including those of the other grieving parents, who are rarely seen).

There’s no denying that the film is well-made: Egoyan has a way of staging everything that can make even the most “innocent” things see ominous and portentous, which is especially evident at the beginning of the film, which is shot almost like a horror movie. While I found the acting to be frequently over-the-top and too “stagey” (Enos is particularly awful, which is strange considering how great she is in The Killing), I was really taken by Firth’s performance: he disappears so completely into the role of the “crusading American lawyer” that it reminded me (fondly) of Hugh Laurie’s performance as the cynical House. Firth ends up being one of the few characters in the film that comes across as genuine, although it’s certainly a case of “too little, too late.”

Ultimately, I’m not sure who Devil’s Knot is supposed to appeal to. Anyone who’s interested in the actual facts of the case would be much better served seeking out Berlinger and Sinofsky’s original film, along with its two sequels, Paradise Lost 2: Revelations (2000) and Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory (2011): between those three documentaries, just about everything gets laid bare. Fans of true-crime dramas, on the other hand, would be much better suited seeking something that wasn’t so melodramatic and narrowly focused: if one were to remove the West Memphis Three angle, Devil’s Knot is revealed to be a fairly turgid, if well-made, pot-boiler. All in all, Devil’s Knot ends up being a rather out-of-place creation, a film that’s forever doomed to live in the shadow of a much better, more definitive work.

6/8/14 (Part Two): What’s Blood For But Shedding?

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1990s films, based on a short story, bees, Bernard Rose, Cabrini-Green, Candyman, cheating husbands, Chicago, child killing, childhood fears, cinema, Clive Barker, Daniel Robitaille, DeJuan Guy, dream-like, electronic score, false accusations, film reviews, films, graffiti, hook for a hand, horror, horror films, housing projects, Immortal Beloved, Kasi Lemmons, Michael Culkin, mirrors, missing child, Movies, murals, Philip Glass, racism, revenge, self-sacrifice, serial killer, Ted Raimi, The Forbidden, Tony Todd, urban legends, Vanessa Williams, vengeance, Virginia Madsen, voice-over narration, writer-director, Xander Berkeley

Urban legends are funny things. On their surface, most of them seem pretty easy to discount: How, exactly, do baby alligators grow to enormous size after being flushed down the toilet? Do we actually believe that people have died from mixing Pop Rocks and soda? How come this stuff always happens to a friend of a friend’s twice-removed cousin? Examined in the cold light of day, almost all urban legends seem absolutely ridiculous (even the hook on the door requires too much suspension of disbelief to be truly scary): rational thought is always there to chase away the boogeymen and monsters of the imagination. As our parents may have been wont to say, we’re only scaring ourselves most of the time: there isn’t really anything out there to be worried about.

In reality, however, humans are deeply flawed, superstitious creatures who possess boundless capacity for believing in anything under the sun. We need look no further than the infamous witch trials that claimed the lives of so many innocent people in the 1600s: none of us believe in witches until there’s mob rule, at which point we all believe in witches. The human mind is a wondrous thing, the equal to any computer that’s yet been conceived. Part of the mind’s power comes from our ability to acquire, examine and interpret information around us, changing our preconceived notions if the new information should go against them. In other words, we possess the limitless capacity to learn, to absorb new knowledge and experiences and allow these experiences to change and color our overall world-view. We are so amazing because we have the simultaneous ability to soundly reason and to unleash our wildest imaginations. We believe in urban legends because we are human: our rational mind examines the evidence and discards each situation as it arises, yet the imaginative, childlike part of our brain allows for any number of possibilities…including the very real possibility that everything we think we know is wrong. Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992), an adaptation of one of Clive Barker’s short tales, examines the intersection of rational thought and unchecked imagination, detailing what happens when our belief in something becomes so strong that we can pull something from the shadowy world of legend into the cold, hard light of the real world.

After an ominous, impressionistic opening that establishing the oppressive mood of the film, we meet our protagonist, Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen). Helen is a grad student who happens to be married to the egotistical, philandering Prof. Trevor Lyle (Xander Berkeley). Helen and her friend, Bernadette (Kasi Lemmons), have been doing research on urban legends, with their eyes on publishing a paper about their results. In particular, their work focuses on the legend of Candyman, a hook-handed, vengeful spirit who’s said to haunt the Cabrini-Green housing projects in Chicago. While neither Helen nor Bernadette actually believes in the myth (say “Candyman” five times in a mirror and he’ll appear to gut you with his hook), Bernadette lets Helen know that there are plenty of real-world horrors to be found in Cabrini Green, including vicious street gangs and omnipresent drug devastation.

Ignoring her friend’s warnings, Helen plunges headfirst into the mystery of Candyman, going so far as to examine the abandoned apartment of one of his supposed victims. Once there, Helen finds a hidden passage into an area that contains a giant Candyman mural, explaining the events that led to his original death, as well as what appears to be a shrine to the cult figure. She also meets and befriends Anne-Marie (Vanessa Williams), an initially suspicious and standoffish neighbor who has an infant child and a healthy distrust of white people like Helen: “The white folks that come around ain’t to handshakey,” she tells Helen and it’s not impossible to believe. Cabrini-Green, as portrayed in the film, is an almost post-Apocalyptic, burned-out wreck: Helen seems to be the only white person for miles and the various residents she meets view her with a mixture of contempt, amusement and dislike.

As she continues her journey into Cabrini-Green, Helen befriends a youngster named Jake (DeJuan Guy), a firm believer in the Candyman mythos thanks to a “friend of a friend” connection to the supposed killings. Jake shows her the public restroom where another young boy was supposed to have been butchered by Candyman and, once there, she runs afoul of a local gang leader who calls himself “The Candy Man” and wields a sharp hook. When the police arrest the gang leader, everyone (including Helen) assumes that he’s responsible for all of the Candyman-related deaths. Helen changes her mind, however, when she’s confronted by the real Candyman (Tony Todd) in a parking garage. Helen passes out and wakes up in Anne-Marie’s apartment, covered in blood: Anne-Marie’s dog has been brutally killed, her baby is missing and Helen is lying on her apartment floor, holding a bloody knife.

As the terrified, confused Helen finds herself the number-one suspect in a terrible crime, the walls between fantasy and reality begin to collapse. Helen keeps seeing Candyman everywhere and, when she does, someone around her is sure to be butchered. He seems to want Helen for something although whether it’s vindication or vengeance is left up for debate. As she finds herself increasingly alone, Helen becomes even more connected to Candyman and his tragic history. In order to clear her name and end the terror, Helen must descend into the shadowy recesses of Cabrini-Green, in search of Anne-Marie’s missing child and the truth behind Candyman. Will Helen end up solving the mystery, bringing peace to Cabrini-Green, or will she end up as another of Candyman’s victims? Is there really even a Candyman or is Helen just losing her mind?

I remember watching Candyman when it originally came out and being less than impressed, perhaps because I was such a gonzo Clive Barker fan at the time: I was so eager for any Barker content on the screen that my expectations were constantly too high (damn you, Lord of Illusions (1995)) and I was always getting disappointed. Ironically enough, I haven’t read the original story, “The Forbidden,” in decades, so it’s a little hard for me to determine how close/not Rose’s adaptation ends up being. My most recent viewing of the film, however, revealed a pretty simple truth: Candyman is actually a really good film.

Part of the reason for the film’s success is due to the unrelentingly oppressive atmosphere served up from the first frame to the last. Thanks in part to renowned experimental composer Philip Glass’ haunting, dissonant score and some beautifully evocative cinematography from industry vet Anthony B. Richmond (who shot The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976), The Sand Lot (1993) and one of my all-time favorite films, Ravenous (1999)), there’s a thick, Gothic vibe to everything that really accentuates the horror. Cabrini-Green, with its dilapidated buildings and empty, burned-out streets is a helluva location even before we get to the ultra-creepy “shrine” that Candyman calls home. Stylistically, the film often plays out like a fever-dream, as if avant-garde genius Ken Russell were helming the proceedings rather than a more workmanlike director like Rose. Many of the scenes, such as the beginning and any of Helen’s meetings with Candyman, play out with imperfect logic. The apex of this definitely has to be the disorienting, horrifying scene where Helen wakes up in Anne-Marie’s apartment: the scene is played with such a breathless, breakneck pace that it’s easier to absorb what’s happening than to actually understand it. It ends up being a genuinely powerful cinematic moment in a film that could just as easily have been aimed at lowest-common denominator multiplex audiences.

On occasion, Rose’s film can be a bit heavy-handed (heavenly choirs on the soundtrack always indicate something is up) but this tends to play nicely into the thick, cloying atmosphere. If anything, Candyman often plays a modern-day fairytale, an update to the cautionary tales of the Brothers Grimm. As a horror film, Candyman contains not only the requisite moments of gore and violence (which tend to be a bit shocking, although that’s always been Barker’s milieu) but also scenes that are genuinely creepy and unsettling. One of the most well-done moments in the film involves Helen and Bernadette discovering the secret passage in the murder victim’s apartment. As Helen looks into the mysterious, dark unknown, the sense of creeping tension and dread is palatable. Her passage to the other side carries the same sense of primal wonder and fear that can be found in the similar scene in Michael Mann’s The Keep (1983): humanity moving from the warm light of understanding into the frigid abyss of the unknown.

Candyman’s backstory is well-integrated into the overall themes of the film, driving home the notion that our history of racial inequality and a terrible lynch-mob mentality are ultimately responsible for Candyman’s rampage. While it’s painfully evident that Daniel Robitaille’s transformation into the Candyman is due to the violence inflicted on him by his white oppressors, it’s just as evident that a similar, if much more subtle, form of violence is being inflicted on the mostly black residents of the Cabrini-Green housing project. When Anne-Marie makes her comment about the “white folks not being too handshakey,” she seems to be speaking for most of the residents of the Green: if white people are there at all, they’re there to take advantage, satisfy their curiosity or get a cheap thrill. Even Helen, who seems to have the best of intentions, ends up bringing an untold amount of misery down up on the residents of Cabrini-Green: she presumes to be helping them but she’s really only furthering her own academic ambitions.

Acting-wise, Candyman is top-notch, with Madsen presenting a nicely vulnerable, multi-faceted performance as Helen. Even though she’s far from perfect, Helen actually means well and Madsen takes a character that could come across as condescending and makes her appealingly real. I didn’t always agree with everything Helen did (to be honest, she made some astoundingly bad decisions from the jump) but she never felt like a plot contrivance, especially once we reach the powerful, emotional climax. The final scene is one that could have across as over-the-top and unnecessarily maudlin, but Madsen wisely takes the “Ellen Ripley” approach, letting the character’s inherent heroism shine through, if for only a brief moment.

As the titular “villain,” Tony Todd is excellent in the role that brought him to the attention of the horror world and turned him into a household name along the likes of Robert Englund, Sid Haig, Kane Hodder and Bill Moseley. While Todd doesn’t get a ton of screen-time, relatively speaking, he is a completely empathetic, complicated character, as far from a one-dimensional slasher like Freddy Krueger or Jason as one could get. There’s an inherently sad, tragic and romantic component to the Candyman backstory that’s beautifully communicated via Todd’s ever-expressive, sad face. Combined with his powerful, mellifluous voice, Tony Todd’s depiction of Candyman went a long way towards enshrining the character in the annals of pop culture. That and the ribcage full of bees, of course.

Ultimately, Candyman is equal parts bombastic and restrained, hushed and explosive. While Clive Barker’s books/stories haven’t always survived the transition to the big screen (the aforementioned Lord of Illusions is ridiculously disappointing and the torture-porn version of Dread (2009) is thoroughly wretched and despicable), Candyman is one of the best, perhaps only bested by Barker’s own Hellraiser (1987). I can only imagine that my teenage mind must not have been quite ready to process what was presented on-screen, since my recent viewing brought up very few actual issues with the film, many of which were endemic to ’90s-era horror films. For its intriguing collision of the past and present, violence and sexuality and white vs black relations, Candyman deserves to be dusted off and given another look in the 2010s. Just remember: you better think real hard before you get to that fifth “Candyman.” It’s probably just a myth but…better safe than sorry.

2/3/14: Shouting Into the Snow (Oscar Bait, Part 5)

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Academy Award Nominee, Academy Awards, Alexandra Rapaport, Annika Wedderkopp, Best Foreign Film nominee, child abuse, cinema, Danish films, Dogme 95, false accusations, film reviews, films, Franz Kafka, guilty until proven innocent, hunting, independent films, Jagten, Lars von Trier, lies, Lucas, Mads Mikkelsen, Movies, Susse Wold, The Hunt, Thomas Bo Larsen, Thomas Vinterberg, tragedies, witch-hunts

Journey back in time to last week…Monday, to be exact. On that particular day, my Oscar viewing continued with the first of the Best Foreign Language Film nominees that I’ve been able to see: Thomas Vinterberg’s The Hunt.

Imagine being accused of a crime that you know you didn’t commit. Regardless of how much you protest, how much evidence you amass in your favor, the tide of public opinion continues to turn against you. Former friends shun you or, worse, spit on you. Loved ones doubt you. You’re not even able to shop at the local grocery store, since they don’t even want your money. Everywhere you turn, there is nothing but obscenity, hatred and fear: you have become, truly, an island unto yourself. This Kafkaesque scenario would be terrifying enough under the best of circumstances. Now: imagine that you’re a beloved elementary school teacher and the crime you have been falsely accused of is child abuse. This bleak, terrifying and soul-crushing experience forms the crux of Vinterberg’s powerful, solemn The Hunt.

Lucas (the always amazing Mads Mikkelsen, never better) is a well-liked elementary school teacher still trying to put the pieces together after a particularly acrimonious divorce and custody battle. He is absolutely devoted to his students, the kind of teacher that makes Mr. Holland look like a raging bully. Lucas is best friends with seemingly every male in town, hanging around with best friend Theo (Thomas Bo Larsen) whenever possible. Lucas has just began to date one of his co-workers, Nadja (Alexandra Rapaport), and has finally received word that his son, Marcus (Lasse Fogelstrom), will be able to stay with him, signalling a thawing, of sorts, in the battle with his ex-wife. Lucas is adored by every student in the school, none more so than Theo’s angelic little daughter, Klara (Annika Wedderkopp).

Klara, unfortunately, is the definition of a troubled child. Her parent are constantly fighting, her older brothers have gotten into the disturbing habit of showing her internet porn and she’s looking for affection from whomever will pay attention to her. The object of her affection, unfortunately, becomes Lucas. When he admonishes the girl after she plants an illicit kiss on his lips, Klara becomes sullen and upset. Later on, she tells the school’s administrator Grethe (Susse Wold) that Lucas has exposed himself to her, confusing the porn that she has seen with reality. Grethe jumps on the story and, in an effort to move as quickly as possible, does little to no fact-checking. In no time at all, the entire town has turned against Lucas: he’s let go from his job, the local grocery store refuses to sell to him and his friends, led by Theo, have turned violently against him. No matter how much Lucas protests, no one will believe him. Even worse: the other students are now beginning to say that Lucas molested them, as well, even if their shared story prominently mentions a non-existent basement. It’s up to a small, dedicated group of relatives and friends to try and clear Lucas’ name but will they succeed? And will there be anything left of Lucas or his reputation if they do?

Foreign-film fans might recognize writer/director Vinterberg as one-half of the team responsible for bringing the concepts of Dogme 95 to the world at large. Along with famed agitator and all-around genius Lars von Trier, Vinterberg came up with Dogme 95 as a reaction against the spiraling budgets and endless special effects extravaganzas of films in the 1990s. The first “official” Dogme 95 film was actually Vinterberg’s The Celebration, which The Hunt resembles in many ways. There’s also quite a bit of von Trier’s dour influence to be found here, whether it be in the icy, sterile environments or the escalating piles of misery heaped onto the lead character. And make no mistake about it: there is plenty of misery to go around here.

Like von Trier, Vinterberg examines the many, many forces that conspire to utterly crush and destroy a person’s humanity and the capricious way in which luck and fate can make this possible. The entire source of Lucas’ downfall comes from one single lie, a lie that he had nothing to do with and did nothing to contribute to. This stands in sharp contrast to traditional notions of tragedy, where a character’s fatal flaw always contributes to their inevitable downfall. In this case, Lucas’ biggest sin seems to be that he genuinely likes and cares for the children. His caring is twisted into something ugly but it’s completely illusory: never once is the audience made to believe that Lucas is guilty in any way, shape or form. This fundamental understanding of his innocence, on behalf of the audience, stands in sharp contrast to his neighbor’s absolute belief in his guilt, sans any proof. As Theo says, he knows that his daughter would never lie, about anything, so Lucas has to be guilty, regardless of any proof.

It’s a maddening concept but one that’s been played out too many times in the media to be discounted as simply a fictional construct. Just as any claim of abuse must be thoroughly investigated, so, too, must that investigation be through, fair and clear-headed. The violent persecution of an individual based on nothing but innuendo and hearsay is, as the film makes abundantly clear, nothing short of a witchhunt (perhaps “the hunt” of the title, despite the prominence of deer-hunting in the story).

The Hunt is a sober, unrelenting and unflinching film, although there are just enough moments of levity and joy to make the surrounding darkness and misery hit that much harder. The film actually begins with its most joyous sequence, a bit where Lucas and his friends skinny-dip in a icy lake, only for Lucas to end up saving one of the others from drowning. It’s a great bit of shorthand that quickly and efficiently establishes the characters and their relationships. This scene stands in sharp contrast with the film’s emotional centerpiece, the Christmas Eve service.

In a film that contains many striking scenes and images, the Christmas Eve church service still manages to stand head-and-shoulders above the others. At the nadir of his experience and ostracized from everyone in the town, Lucas decides to make his stand at the church. The entire town is gathered there, bathed in the beautiful warm glow of lights, candles and holy righteousness. Lucas enters the church and makes his way to the very front, past every disapproving glare and silent reproach, past the downcast, baleful glances of Theo and his family. As he sings the hymn, we get a close-up of Mikkelsen’s face and the effect is like getting kicked repeatedly in the stomach: we see the sorrow, the pain and the fear in Lucas’ eyes, feel them through the tears that stream down his face. We also, however, get a front-seat to the anger and hatred that have been simmering in him, emotions brought to a full-boil as Lucas finally directs his rage at the town, in general, and Theo, in particular. It’s an amazing scene, one of those moments that is simultaneously too painful to watch and too incredible to look away from. In any other hands, whether a different director or a lesser actor, the scene may have stumbled into the realm of the histrionic. As it is, however, it’s a perfectly brittle, lacerating moment, easily the equal of anything in von Trier’s films.

In many ways, The Hunt can be seen as a sort of Dogme 95 film, although the cinematography is genuinely gorgeous and much better than one usually sees in Dogme films. The raw emotions, simple structure and naturalistic lighting, however, are all elements that are readily associated with the Danish film movement. As with other Dogme films, the acting is of primary importance and The Hunt does not disappoint on that angle. Were there any justice, Mikkelsen would be a lock for whatever the Danish equivalent of the Best Actor award would be: he’s one of the only actors I’ve ever seen who can be simultaneously chilly and vulnerable. If Ingmar Bergman were still around, I’m pretty sure that Mikkelsen would be his muse. There’s one moment, where Lucas returns to the grocery store that turned him away, that serves as a minor bright spot of badassery in an otherwise grim landscape: after being beaten and humiliated by the butcher and several bag-boys earlier, Lucas returns to collect and pay for his groceries, mustering as much dignity as he can. When he’s confronted by the butcher, Lucas proceeds to lay the kind of righteous ass-whupping upon the guy that made me stand and pump my fist in the air: it’s a small victory but it’s his victory, dammit, and ours, by default.

In the end, The Hunt is an exceptional film, the kind of quiet, powerful art that sinks its claws into you and refuses to let go. There are no easy answers, here, and no handy villains. Despite the destructive power of her lie, it’s impossible to hate Klara: she’s just as much a victim as Lucas, ultimately. Likewise, we cannot hate Theo: he’s only making the same terrible decision that any parent in a similar situation would need to make. What, then, can we blame for Lucas’ turmoil? As vague as it may seem, Vinterberg seems to have a clear target in mind: if you want to blame anything for what happened to Lucas, blame the misery of humanity. It’s a heart-breaking revelation but it’s the closest we’ll get to absolute truth in The Hunt.