2/14/15 (Part Two): Blame the Cat

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Adi Shankar, Anna Kendrick, auteur theory, Bosco, childhood trauma, cinema, colorful films, dark comedies, disturbing films, Ella Smith, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, flashbacks, Gemma Arterton, hallucinations, horror, horror film, horror movies, insanity, Jacki Weaver, Marjane Satrapi, Maxime Alexandre, mental breakdown, mental illness, Michael R. Perry, mother-son relationships, Movies, Mr. Whiskers, Oliver Bernet, Paul Chahidi, Persepolis, psychopaths, Ryan Reynolds, Sam Spruell, serial killers, Stanley Townsend, talking animal, talking animals, talking cat, talking dog, The Voices, Udo Kramer, vibrant films

For the most part, live-action “talking animal” movies are awful. Sure, you get the occasional Babe (1995) or Homeward Bound (1993) in the batch but most films in this particular sub-genre are rather abysmal: pitched at the lowest-common denominator, full of bad CGI, “peanut butter mouth” and dumb humor, most live-action talking animal flicks are only good for torturing doting parents unlucky enough to be caught in their orbit. Even the “good” talking animal films tend to be family-focused or comedies: to the best of my knowledge, the only “serious” talking animal film out there is Baxter (1989), Jérôme Boivin’s disturbing fable about a philosophical, if psychotic, dog who kills indiscriminately while we “hear” his thoughts. One is, indeed, the loneliest number.

To this incredibly exclusive group, let’s add the newest film by Marjane Satrapi, the Iranian auteur behind the superb animated film Persepolis (2007): The Voices (2015) is not only the best talking animal film to come out in decades, it’s also one of the most intriguing, disturbing and colorful films I’ve ever seen. In many ways, The Voices is what you would get if you threw Repulsion (1965) and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986) into a blender and had Wes Anderson serve up the smoothies. If that sounds like your drink, belly up to the bar for one wild and wooly good time.

Meet Jerry (Ryan Reynolds), our cheerful, sweet and slightly naive protagonist. Jerry works at a bathroom fixtures wholesaler, never has an unkind word for anyone and lives above an abandoned bowling alley with his faithful dog, Bosco, and his aloof cat, Mr. Whiskers. Jerry’s a happy, friendly kind of guy but he’s also go a few problems. He’s lonely, for one, since he’s so painfully shy that he can never get the nerve up to talk to any girls, including Fiona (Gemma Arterton), his office crush. He’s also regularly seeing a court-appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Warren (Jacki Weaver), for some sort of unspecified childhood trauma. And then, of course, there’s the little issue about Bosco and Mr. Whiskers: while many folks talk to their pets, Jerry’s got to be one of the only ones who actually holds back-and-forth conversations with them. That’s right, folks: Jerry’s got himself a couple of talking animals.

Jerry’s talking animals are a little different from most, however. For one thing, they’re not quite benevolent: while Bosco seems like a nice enough, if slightly dopey, kinda guy, Mr. Whiskers is a real sociopath. Snarky, foul-mouthed and a firm advocate of violence as conflict resolution, Mr. Whiskers is like a feline version of Trainspotting’s (1996) psychotic Begbie. The other way in which Jerry’s animals are different from the ones in most talking animal films is…well, it’s because they aren’t actually talking. You see, sweet little Jerry is also completely, totally insane, a character trait that he does a remarkably good job of hiding from the outside world. Driven over the deep-end by a patently terrible childhood involving his equally demented mother and abusive father, Jerry has a tenuous relationship with reality, at best.

Disaster strikes when Jerry finally gets up the nerve to ask out Fiona, only for her to stand him up on their resulting date. The pair end up running into each other after Fiona’s car breaks down and Jerry offers her a lift: a bizarre accident on an isolated, country road leads to Fiona’s shocking death and sends a panicked Jerry straight back to the wise counsel of his pets. Bosco tells Jerry that he needs to do the right thing and report the incident to the police. Mr. Whiskers, however, has a slightly different take on the situation: if Jerry comes clean, his future is going to include an awful lot of non-consensual prison sex…his only recourse, according to the cat, is to dispose of the body.

As Jerry tries to figure out what to do, even more disaster looms over the horizon: Lisa (Anna Kendrick), another of Jerry’s co-workers, is smitten with him and coming dangerously close to figuring out his secret. Will Jerry be able to suppress his darker instincts, take his meds and rejoin the land of the lucid or has Fiona’s death opened up a Pandora’s Box that will go on to consume everyone around them? Regardless of the outcome, you know one thing: Bosco and Mr. Whiskers are always ready with an encouraging word.

When press first came out regarding Satrapi’s film, I was struck by her desire to throw herself headfirst into a horror film: after all, her previous films, Persepolis, Chicken With Plums (2011) and The Gang of the Jotas (2012) were the furthest things possible from genre films. In certain ways, it seemed like Satrapi was interested in making a horror movie strictly for the novelty factor, which is always a dangerous route to take (I’m looking at you, Kevin Smith). When someone “dabbles” in something, there’s always a chance that the results are going to be half-assed or, at the very best, significantly flawed. After watching the results, however, I really only have one thing to say: All hail Marjane Satrapi, one of the boldest, freshest and most ingenious “new” faces in the world of horror.

In every way, The Voices is a revelation. The film looks astounding, for one thing, with a visual flair that’s the equal of Wes Anderson’s most candy-coated moments. Indeed, the film looks so eye-popping, colorful and gorgeous that it’s tempting to just stare at the images as if one were watching a particularly lovely slideshow. All of the colors in the film are unbelievably vibrant and genuinely beautiful: one of the neatest motifs in the film is the repeated use of pink and pastel colors, something which gives the whole demented masterpiece something of the feel of a Herschell Gordon Lewis-directed Easter special. Veteran cinematographer Maxime Alexandre (Alexandre Aja’s resident camera guy, as well as the man behind the lens of Franck Khalfoun’s equally colorful Maniac (2012) remake) paints such a lovely picture with his images that it’s easy to forget we’re watching a film about an insane killer. One of Satrapi’s greatest coups is that she has such respect for the material and the film: the quality, literally, shines through the whole production.

The script, by longtime TV scribe Michael R. Perry, is rock-solid, full of smart twists and turns, as well as some truly great dialogue. One of the greatest joys in The Voices is listening to the way that Bosco and Mr. Whiskers (both voiced by Reynolds) feint, maneuver and verbally spar with each other throughout the course of the film. They, obviously, represent the proverbial angel and devil on his shoulders but nothing about the film is ever that obvious. Just when it seems as if things are starting to fall into predictable patterns, the film throws us another curve-ball, such as the instantly classic bit where Jerry starts to take his meds and we finally see the true “reality” of his living situation. In a genre that can often have one or the other but doesn’t always have both, The Voices is that rarest of things: a smart, witty, hard-core horror film that also looks and sounds amazing.

And make no bones about it: The Voices rolls its sleeves up and gets dirty with the best of ’em. For a filmmaker with no previous experience in horror, Satrapi displays an uncannily deft touch with the gore elements: while the film never wallows in its bloodshed (certain key scenes are staged in ways that deliberately minimize what we see), it can also be brutal and shocking. More importantly, the film can also be genuinely frightening: when things really go off the rails, in the final act, the tone shifts from playful to outright horrifying in the blink of an eye. If this is Satrapi’s first shot at a horror film, I’ll spend an eternity of birthday wishes on a follow-up: she’s an absolute natural and, in a genre with a depressingly small pool of female voices, an absolute necessity.

One of the things that really puts The Voices over the top (and another testament to Satrapi’s skill behind the camera) is the stellar quality of the acting. The film has a killer cast, no two ways about it: Ryan Reynolds, Anna Kendrick, Gemma Arterton, Jacki Weaver, Ella Smith…any and all of these folks have turned in more than their fair share of great performances. A great cast doesn’t always indicate a great film, however: plenty of notable names have been attached to absolute dogs. In this case, however, each member of the ensemble compliments each other perfectly, allowing for a completely immersive experience.

Say what you will about Ryan Reynolds but his performance in Buried (2010) was absolutely masterful: his work in The Voices is even better. Reynolds is an actor who lives or dies by the dichotomy between his boyish good looks and slightly unhinged demeanor, ala Bradley Cooper, and his performance as Jerry takes it all to another level. Alternately sympathetic, likable, pathetic and terrifying, this is the kind of performance that should get people talking: at the very least, I find it impossible to believe that he won’t end up on at least a few “year-end” lists. It’s always a dicey proposition when an actor needs to portray someone who’s mentally unstable: Elijah Wood found the perfect balance in Maniac and Reynolds does the same here.

The rest of the cast is equally great: Anna Kendrick brings enough of an edge to her typically bubbly persona to keep us wondering about her actual mental state, while Jacki Weaver, who was so good as Aunt Gwen in Stoker (2013), makes her psychiatrist the perfect combination of quirky and caring. Arterton, meanwhile, manages to make the potentially clichéd, unlikable character of Fiona duly sympathetic: she’s not a “mean girl” looking down her nose at a social misfit…she a real person who doesn’t appreciate unwanted advances. As with everything else in the film, it’s the kind of characterization we don’t get enough of in horror films.

Ultimately, my praise of Marjane Satrapi’s The Voices can be summed up thusly: it’s a ridiculously self-assured, stylish and unique film that manages to constantly surprise, while finding myriad ways to upend the “psycho killer” sub-genre. While I thought Persepolis was an amazing film, The Voices practically comes with my name on it: it’s like handing a carnivore a slab of prime Kobe beef. Visually stunning, smart, packed with great performances and featuring two of the best animal performances in years (Bosco and Mr. Whiskers deserve their own franchises), The Voices is a truly singular experience.

As a lifelong horror fan who watches more than his fair share of horror films, let me close with my highest possible recommendation: The Voices is an absolute must-see and Marjane Satrapi is one of the most exciting, fascinating new voices in the field. I absolutely loved this film and I’m willing to wager that you will, too. I’m also willing to wager that if you have pets, you might never look at them the same way again.

10/8/14 (Part Two): The Ties That Blind

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31 Days of Halloween, auteur theory, Chan-Wook Park, Chung-hoon Chung, cinema, Clint Mansell, coming of age, Dermot Mulroney, dysfunctional family, English-language debut, family secrets, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Flannery O'Connor, flashbacks, Harmony Korine, insane asylums, insanity, Jacki Weaver, Lady Vengeance, Matthew Goode, Mia Wasikowska, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, murder, Nicole Kidman, Old Boy, Phyllis Somerville, psychopaths, psychosexual, Stoker, Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance, Uncle Charlie, uncompromising voice, voice-over narration, Wentworth Miller

Pitched somewhere between Flannery O’Connor’s Southern Gothics and Pedro Almodovar’s psychosexual jaw-droppers, Korean auteur Chan-Wook Park’s English-language debut, Stoker (2013), is quite a piece of work. Long known for films that are as impressive to look at as they are often difficult to watch, Park’s newest film pulls few punches and holds even fewer hands, coming off as more fairy-tale influenced than any of his previous films, achieving an intoxicating, if confounding, atmosphere that’s fairly close to a fever dream. For anyone who expected the transition to Western films to “tame” park, Stoker stands in towering confirmation to the idea that Park, like all true film auteurs, will always follow his muse first and popular conventions second. While the film won’t supplant Park’s classic “Vengeance” trilogy anytime soon, Stoker is a meticulously crafted, often beautiful, treatise on the destructive nature of obsession and the familial secrets that haunt us all. While the movie seems slightly more subdued than films like Oldboy (2003) or Lady Vengeance (2005), it still packs a pretty vicious bite, albeit one informed by a particularly chilly sensibility.

Stoker centers around the surviving members of the titular family, namely the neurotic Evelyn Stoker (Nicole Kidman) and her odd, 18-year-old daughter, India (Mia Wasikowska). India’s father, Richard (Dermot Mulroney) has just been killed in a car accident, an event which has, effectively, shattered what remains of Evelyn and India’s lives. At the funeral, the Stokers are introduced to Richard’s long-lost brother, Charlie (Matthew Goode), a handsome, intense young man who claims to have been traveling the world for many years. He wants to stay and help Evelyn and India make it through their current tragedy, although his motives seem to lean more towards romancing India’s mother than to helping to soothe their mental wounds.

As Charlie hangs around, India begins to pick up little hints of things that may be…well, just a little askew, as it were: a strange argument with the housekeeper, Mrs. McGarrick (Phyllis Somerville), that seems to come out of nowhere; Charlie’s strange, knowing glances at India; Aunt Gwen’s (Jacki Weaver) seeming distrust and unease around Charlie; a piano lesson that hovers at the acceptable boundaries between instruction and seduction…indeed, trouble seems to follow Charlie around like a second skin, facts which are certainly not lost on young India.

To complicate things, however, India appears to be just as mysterious and complicated a figure as her uncle. She’s a dour, serious young woman who’s constantly bullied and harassed at school (one obnoxious student draws naked pictures of India and shoves them in her face, while constantly “punching at” her face, always stopping just shy of actually making physical contact) and doesn’t seem to have any friends whatsoever. There’s one telling scene where India spends her art class drawing the detailed pattern on the inside of the vase, rather than the vase, itself, as her other classmates do: as with everything else, India just doesn’t see things in the same way as the rest of the world.

As Charlie continues to stay with the Stokers, however, the psychosexual storm gets whipped into a veritable frenzy: India’s sexual awakening seems to coincide with Charlie’s increased interest in both Evelyn and India, although her coming-of-age has started to take on certain violent aspects, not the least of which is the explosive moment where she finally strikes back at her bully. As events progress, India gets ever closer to deciphering the mystery of the key that hangs around her neck, a key that will help explain not only Uncle Charlie’s strange behavior but will also set India upon a path of self-discovery, a path that will ultimately lead to both salvation…and destruction.

As with all of Park’s films, Stoker is so carefully crafted as to seem almost like a clockwork marvel. The film is a constantly moving, evolving puzzlebox, a tricky construction that purposefully obscures key information, leaving the audience in the dark for a majority of the proceedings in a similar manner to Oldboy. This sense of complexity extends to every aspect of the film, from its narrative structure to its visual language, although the cinematography ends up being the most identifiable aspect of this structure. Quite simply, Stoker’s cinematography and shot construction, courtesy of long-time Park collaborator Chung-hoon Chung, is a complete marvel. It goes without saying that Stoker is frequently beautiful and always interesting to look at: more impressive are the myriad ways in which Park and Chung use the visual language of film to get across their subtextual themes and ideas. The scene where India is completely encircled by identical shoeboxes…the bit where a spider crawls up her leg and between her thighs…the gorgeous, surprising shot where brushed hair suddenly becomes a flowing field of waist-high grass…unrelated imagery juxtaposed in ways that seem to indicate that everything, no matter how irrelevant is interconnected…Stoker is all but bursting with subtle nuance and just-out-of-eyesight symbolism.

Into this beautifully realized visual tapestry, then, Park pours a trilogy of performances that manage to accentuate and support each other in some nicely organic ways. Mia Wasikowska, currently making quite a name for herself in just about every type of role imaginable, is pitch-perfect as the morose, guarded India. In the hands of any other actress, India might have come across as more enigmatic than necessary, a “real-life” Wednesday Addams who exists purely to pour Pernod on everyone’s ice cream. Wasikowska is amazingly subtle, versatile performer, however, and India becomes a full-realized character in her capable hands. I won’t lie and say that I found India to be likable, at any point in time, but it wasn’t hard to see things from her point of view, as twisted as it may be: her continuous voice-overs were also well-handled, allowing us insight into her cluttered little brain.

For her part, Kidman turns in another dependably solid genre performance: there’s always a thinly concealed streak of insanity running through her controlled performance but Kidman’s Evelyn never comes across as a certifiable nut. If anything, she’s a wounded, needful mother who foolishly pines for the one thing that mothers take for granted: the love of their own children. Evelyn is never a completely pathetic character, however, mostly thanks to the cold steel that Kidman brings to the performance, as if one could see the metal framework just below the skin.

Special mention must also be made of Matthew Goode’s performance as the sinister Uncle Charlie. Although I must admit to being far less familiar with his career than either Kidman or Wasikowska’s, I was completely taken with Goode’s performance. Like Wasikowska’s take on India, Goode brings an overriding sense of barely contained neuroses to his depiction of Charlie: he’s able to convey a world of information with just the barely perceptible uptick of an eyebrow or a smile that’s just slightly too curdled to instill much warmth. Goode’s performance is the epitome of restrained tension: you know that he’s going to uncoil and explode, at some point, but you’re damned if his eyes give any indication as to when that might be. By the film’s conclusion, Goode and Wasikowska make an almost unbeatable pair, playing off of each other’s mannerisms and tics in some truly impressive, startling ways. Park is definitely an “actor’s director” and his newest film comes top-loaded with some typically impressive treading of the boards.

As with almost all of Park’s films, Stoker is incredibly easy to respect, although it’s just a little more difficult to really love. While the film is constantly twisted and the narrative always unpredictable, this complexity sometimes translates into moments that are pure-headscratchers: by the conclusion, I found myself second-guessing a few “facts” that previously seemed pretty solid, mostly because I felt a little lost in the back-and-forth of the flashback-heavy narrative. The film is also just about as bleak and chilly as a film can possibly get: this sense of frigid sterility may be a little off-putting for many Western audiences, although there’s nothing in here that will challenge Western taboos in quite the same way as the plot twist from Oldboy does.

Ultimately, Park’s Stoker is an impressive English-language debut and a mighty fine film on its own rights, even if it’s not quite as incendiary or feral as the Korean films that preceded it. On a craft-level, the film has few equals: quite frankly, it’s one of the most astoundingly beautiful films I’ve ever laid eyes on. If the narrative/thematic elements of the film don’t get me quite as jazzed as the visual/aural elements…well, that’s alright, too. I respect and trust Park enough to stay with him on his cinematic journey into the darkness of the human soul: in a world where more and more things seem to get “dumbed down” for the masses, it’s always refreshing to find an uncompromising voice who trusts that we’ll “get it,” even if we’re not quite sure what “it” is.