Repulsion

From the very beginning of Roman Polanski’s masterpiece in psychological horror, as we watch a close up of an eye flittering erratically to the sounds of a steady, paranoid drum beat, we realise that what we are about to experience is going to take us into the very depths of a title characters psyche. An uncomfortable journey that will allow us to venture dangerously far into the recesses of a disturbed mind, and one that won’t let us escape easily once the film has ended. The psyche of whom we are about to venture in to belongs to Carole, a young French manicurist, played to perfection by Catherine Deneuve. Astonishingly beautiful yet painfully shy and withdrawn, Carole shares a flat with her sister, returning home from work a solitary figure, relentlessly ignoring the romantic advances of a good intentioned male acquaintance and the countless males who comment on her obvious beauty along the way. While this first appears to be a reflection of her introverted nature it becomes more intriguing in the introduction of the sisters boyfriend, who for inexplicable reasons, Carole seems to perceive as an annoyance and sometimes even a threat as she throws away the toothbrush he has left from an overnight stay causing her sister to scold her -‘silly little girl. You don’t understand anything!’ 

 It is at this point that we start to suspect that Carole’s unusual reactions to men may be result of something far deeper rooted than a shyness or insecurity, our suspicions eventually given weight in the final shot of the film, as we zoom in on a still photograph, a picture that manages to convey much more than countless psychological explanations ever could. 

Repulsion marked Roman Polanski’s first venture into English language cinema and the first of his films to be entirely filmed in London, England. Often overshadowed by his later work, such as the terrifying  Rosemary’s baby, Repulsion is a film that is unfortunately much lesser known despite many critical claims that it is in fact Polanski’s greatest film as director, succeeding in creating an atmosphere of absolute tension and unease that no other film, including the aforementioned Rosemary’s baby, has bettered. Left alone, as her sister and the boyfriend leave for Europe for a romantic getaway, Carole’s mental state begins to deteriorate as she sits alone in the apartment, listening to the ticking of clocks and dripping of taps that punctuate the silence, as the food she has been left to eat slowly rots around her. This includes the sinister carcass of a rabbit meant to have been cooked days ago- that begins to reflect the psychological decay Carole begins to slip into and an omen of what is to come. Eventually we realise that we are being shown is in fact a slow descent into madness, symbolised in the phantom cracks that begin to appear in the walls, representing Carole’s fragile mind set and the terrifying visions of sexual attacks she begins to experience, heightening the films prominent themes of sexual repression and sexual repulsion, as Carole reacts to phone calls and visits from her admirer as if he were a axe murderer rather than an attractive man in a business suit. 

  Stylistically, the film is extremely interesting to watch, as the camera is used almost as an invasive device as it follows Carole closely and intently, always keeping the focus on her and feeding the paranoia that begins to build in her character, making us implicit in the horror that unfolds as this paranoia begins to seep dangerously close to the surface.  A brilliant scene of this sort, that is also a highlight of the film, involves Carole walking through the streets of London quietly and passively, to the sound of a gentle yet strange jazz piece in the background. Moments like this are very distinctively Polanski, as well as being extremely accomplished and stylish, worthy of becoming an iconic moment in cinema. Repulsion is truly a landmark of psychological terror and one that is a brilliantly executed experiment into the unease and deep rooted fears and anxieties associated with sexuality. Deeply unsettling, utterly compelling and strangely fascinating to watch, Repulsion deserves to be seen by many and considered one of the most effective contributions to the horror genre.

DogVille

‘Evil can arise anywhere as long as the situation is right.’ Lars Von Trier

Dogville represents what Lars Von Trier considers an allegoric American town, one which is conservative, wary and suspicious of strangers and eventually capable of persecution and acts of true cruelty. The town itself is created using a soundstage, chalk outlines mark the houses and use of props is bare.  There is nothing outside of the town except blackness and the bare set allows us to become consumed in the story and focus on the brilliantly written dialogue and flawless acting. It is almost as if we have been taken back to the beginning of cinema, stripped of unnecessary features until we are left with the most important elements, a story told in a masterful way and truly believable and talented performance from those involved. At just under three hours long the film isn’t one for those who lose interest easily or find it difficult to connect to complex characters, but the time the director spends with the characters of the town , makes the film seem far more realistic and true to life even with its unusual structure and scenery. Nicole Kidman plays Grace, a sensitive yet strong woman on the run from gangsters in what is an effective and accomplished performance. Her character has an overwhelming goodness to her that at first seems to charm the residents of this 1930’s Rocky Mountain town who offer her shelter. The residents of the town are good people, Grace is assured, and at first we are inclined to believe this. But tensions soon arise as Grace becomes subject to a large amount of unwanted male attention and the town becomes increasingly wary about outside intervention, and soon they begin to turn on her. This eventually leads to Grace being humiliated and mistreated daily at the hands of her original rescuers and forced to wear a collar around her neck so she can no longer escape the town. At one point a jealous wife threatens to smash the porcelain figurines that Grace has bought with her meticulously earned wages from the errands she does for the townspeople. Bringing up the concept of stoicism, the woman decides that only two will be smashed if Grace can keep herself from crying. Distraught that the only physical symbols of her acceptance from the town and her triumph over adversity are gone, Grace can no longer keep herself from sobbing and the remaining figurines are destroyed. A scene like this is incredibly emotionally cruel and raw, yet this feeling is created in the audience purely through superb acting and is not exploitative in any way. 

 Director Lars Von Trier has created a film that is constantly asking questions. Are the townspeople intrinsically bad, only deluding themselves that they are good? Does the arrival of Grace bring out these evil instincts that have been lying dormant within them for so long? Or do they simply take advantage of the situation and choose to treat her so horribly? The speech at the end suggests that there is justification in destroying the town, as it is such a pox on humanity that the world would be better off without it. The towns’ people have acted like the animal of their namesake, yet unlike dogs they have always had the choice to suppress their bad nature, unlike a dog which has no choice but to obey. And here the director seems to be suggesting that the only way you can teach a dog or a child to make a morally correct choice is to punish them. What is most disturbing is the arousal of our own dormant instincts during the final scene where Grace exacts her revenge and we internally cheer for her. Perhaps Trier is suggesting that despite our best efforts, despite our original good instincts, the potential for cruelty lies quiet and hidden within all of us, and the choice to deploy such instincts is far more tempting than we would like to believe. By the end, the film seems to suggest that justice has taken place, an extremely warped and perhaps morally impermissible form of justice, but justice all the same.

Wait Until Dark

1967,s Wait Until Dark works best when considered a tightly-wound and intensely effective thriller. It also contains what is widely thought of as one of the tensest and relentless climaxes in cinema which accumulate in a one of the greatest jump-out-of-your-seat moments, that needs to be experienced to be believed. The films premise revolves around Audrey Hepburn’s character Suzy, in a performance that would give her an Oscar nomination and finally prove to the sceptics that she was a brilliantly capable actress. Suzy lives in a basement flat with her husband, having recently been blinded in an accident and still trying to adjust to living her life in absolute darkness. The other components of the plot involve a doll full of heroin and three men who are determined to get it back, even if it means infiltrating the life and home of the blind Suzy and trying to bend her to their will. Once Suzy’s husband has left on business, the three men assume characters and take shifts in conducting a fake, elaborate scenario, slowly gaining Suzy’s trust and eventually terrifying her out of her mind in aid of one conclusion-to get the drug-filled doll that they believe Suzy has somewhere in her apartment. The leader of these men is the psychotic Mr Roat, played to creepy perfection by Alan Arkin, in a role Stephen King would go on to describe as the ‘greatest evocation of screen villainy ever.’ This claim is certainly not far off as the character is in equal parts quietly menacing, disarmingly funny and down right terrifying, especially in the final fifteen minutes when only himself and Suzy remain, in a locked room. The films climactic final minutes are relentless in their pace, Henry Mancini’s score tightening the tension constantly with ominous precision, the darkness slowly enveloping Suzy until we worry that there is no way out. 

 The majority of the film is set within Suzy’s basement apartment and we are constantly reminded of the vulnerability and hindrance her blindness causes her- the effect being both claustrophobic and disorientating as the audience vicariously share in her panic. Having recently seen a screening of wait until dark at the cinema, I can say that this is definitely a film that needs to be seen on the big screen to fully appreciate its brilliance. The effect of being in darkness with only the illuminated screen being a source of light, makes us share in the darkness of the apartment at the end of the film and puts us is the same position as the characters. We can only try and grasp what is happening when the light appears, a worrying sensation that probably adds to the infamously extreme reaction audiences had to Audrey’s showdown in the dark, both today and when it first came out.

Picnic at Hanging Rock

Peter Weir’s, now classic, 1975 film must surely be considered one of the greatest examples of creating a beautifully eerie and unsettling atmosphere in the history of cinema. The film unfolds like a feverish dream, calm and surreally beautiful yet also subtly frightening, it’s sinister undertones always present but hidden- we can feel from the very beginning that something worrying is about to happen but can’t quite place what it is.

The plot of the film itself is deceptively simple. It is Valentines Day in 1900, and a group of girls from a British boarding school in Australia are preparing for an excursion to Hanging Rock. We witness the girls as they lace their corsets, swap valentines cards and idly gossip, the heat stifling and omnipresent. There is tension and an uncomfortable sense that something is being repressed amongst these young women, of something unspoken yet pervasively powerful. This suggestion can be perfectly applied to Hanging Rock itself, an ancient, almost phallic structure, providing a rift in the heat- scorched wilderness surrounding it. The girls have been forbidden from exploring the rock, and instead picnic and sleep in its intimidating shadow. Eventually a group of them venture to climb the rock as if entranced, and three of them disappear within its primeval crevices. One later returns with no memory of what happened and the remaining two are never seen again.

 The remainder of the film revolves around the empty and unsettled atmosphere that permeates the lives of those left behind as they attempt to come to terms with what happened and await an eventual explanation that may never come. The films soundtrack blends perfectly with its surreal quality; the echoing pan flutes in the beginning seem to lull the audience into a serene complacency. So when the plot begins to unfold into something more akin to a nightmare, it is impossible to fully trust our perception of what happened anymore than the unfortunate characters that become caught up in such a bizarre mystery. Cinematically the film is beautiful to look at as well as unnerving at times and there is often a dream-like haze to the shots, constantly reminding us of the stifling heat. The scenery of native, aboriginal Australia is captured in a way that is majestic yet blank and faceless, as if it is withholding a secret from those that try to gaze into it.

 There were and still are, many movie goers who convinced themselves that the film and original novel, were based on true events although there has never been any record of such a thing occurring at hanging rock and the author eventually confirmed that it was indeed nothing more than a piece of fiction. However, despite its fictionality and possible supernatural undertones, the film’s ambiguous ending and lack of closure is certainly more akin to reality than it is to celluloid. As the film ends we have not been offered a true explanation as to what happened to the girls and have to deal with the unsettling thought that they may still be out there somewhere, swallowed up in nature’s dwarfing power, never to be found. In reality there are not always solutions to such mysteries, life is full of ambiguity and uncertainty and most often the truth remains horribly elusive. It is precisely this that makes Picnic at hanging rock such a continuously troubling and haunting film.

Left Bank

Belgian cinema has never been considered a key player in the horror genre, but director Pieter Van Hees’ slow-burning, yet wholly terrifying contribution should be enough to draw considerable attention. Left Bank is an atmospheric psychological horror, in the vein of Roman Polanski, in the way it captures the natural sinisterness of contemporary urban living and its ancient and diabolical connections with the past.

The film, Linkeroever in its Belgium title, revolves around Marie, an introverted athlete consumed with qualifying for an upcoming championship. Struck down with a mysterious illness that forces her to abandon her dream, Marie meets a handsome archer Bobby and it is not long before the two have embarked on a passionate love affair and Marie has moved into his sinister apartment complex , on the hidden left bank of the river. It soon becomes worryingly apparent that all is not as it seems in left bank, as Marie’s condition begins to worsen and she stumbles upon some worrying information regarding an ancient tradition that is definitely not as innocent as it sounds. As her relationship with Bobby takes a turn for the worse, the sense of unease that permeates the apartment gradually becomes stronger and Marie is left to consider the possibility that the past is not as dead as she or the audience would like to believe. 

 Stunningly shot and compelling even in its quieter moments, the film is devoid of typical horror clichés and an overuse of violence and gore that has recently become tiresome in the genre. Instead Pieter Van Hees offers us a film that is intriguing, subtlety terrifying and one which is always steeped in a surreal atmosphere of doom and hidden danger.

It could be suggested that the director sacrifices typical horror scares in the beginning for close and steady character development, but it is this development that keeps the audience with Marie at all times, and allows her to be such a familiar and identifiable character. It is this identification that makes her eventual fate all the more visceral and troubling as we share in her frustration, confusion and finally her terror in the films final moments. In the same way Left Bank succeeds in being so unsettling because it is very much grounded in reality despite its supernatural undertones. It plays upon the reality of our bodies failing us, of our lives spiralling out of our control and the slow realisation that the presence of those around us is becoming a force of evil rather than support.

Despite being extremely slow paced at times, the films final ten minutes are some of the most intense and utterly terrifying that I have ever seen and result in an unnerving pay off that justifies any original scares that the film lacks in the beginning. Left bank is also one of the only horror films to truly unsettle me and one which led me to have a succession of troubling dreams after watching it. The mood and overwhelming sense of unease is so distinctive and so strange, that it is hard to forget about once the film is over and you are again safe in reality. It is this quality that makes Left Bank far superior to many of its contemporaries, that seem to deal so heavily in meaningless scares, and makes it a horror film that deserves to be seen.

The Ice Storm

Ang Lee’s 1997 film The Ice Storm is a rare gem of a film. It is a film that never quite reached a mainstream audience yet received critical acclaim at the time of its release and still remains largely unknown today, except by those who might consider themselves film ‘enthusiasts.’ Still the film remains an extremely accomplished and compelling piece of cinema, and probably the most distinctive example of director Ang Lee’s cinematic style.

  Based on the book of the same name by author Rick Moody (who was reportedly so happy with the adaptation of his novel that he sobbed through the credits), the film takes place in Connecticut in 1973.As the innocence and idealism of the sixties melts into quiet desperation, two middle class families prepare for thanksgiving weekend within affluent suburbia. Both families have suffered an almost complete break down in communication, the parents have become distant from each other, their children are unresponsive and the sons from one family don’t even notice when their father has been away on business.  The adults indulge in affairs and drug taking, activities that offer some form of escape from their seemingly successful lives that now feel poisonous. Their children are already experimenting with drink and casual sex, missing a vital understanding of the true ramifications of adulthood but struck with the same urge to alleviate boredom and fear as their parents.  There is an atmosphere of impending doom that permeates the films earlier scenes, excellently created through a musical score that is both simplistic yet haunting.  This overwhelming sense of danger, which acts as a prolepsis to the films tragic outcome, is emphasised through the children’s actions-one child balances precariously on the edge of a frozen diving board, another is blowing up toy planes with dynamite, much to the exasperation of his mother. 

Then an ice storm hits, the worst for a century, and our sense of dread is justified. As the storm envelopes their small town with dwarfing power, the parents of both families attend a ‘key swapping’ party, in an attempt to vanquish mutual feelings of doom with some adulterous frivolity. The children are once again left alone, isolated and vulnerable, eventual victims of a society that is asking them to grow up too fast. The people within this film are by no means extraordinary, and neither are the events that befall them. In fact they could be seen as extremely flawed and perhaps even unlikable in some cases. Yet where The Ice Storm becomes truly brilliant is in the way it deconstructs these characters, stripping away the layers until we are left not with caricatures or stereotypes but with characters that are genuinely real, their veneer fast fading leaving the hurt, disillusion and disappointment as clear to see as sunlight.

The most stirring and heart rending scene belongs to the ending  sequence, where a title character weeps helplessly into his steering wheel like a child, the tragic accumulation of events finally catching up with him. A sudden realisation that he has allowed everyday life to tilt dangerously out of balance.

Oldboy

With  moments including the ingestion of a live octopus, tongue dismemberment and a scene involving a claw hammer that would make even the bravest of us think twice before going to the dentist, Korean director Park Chanwook’s Oldboy is definitely not for the faint hearted. However it is not the films often graphic scenes of violence that make it such an intense and disturbing viewing experience but the extent of human emotion that it reveals in all its nakedness. Even after several viewings, the film still remains one of the most disturbing, and emotionally raw that I have ever watched and never fails to devastate even once the ending is known. The film starts with Dae Su, a drunken man and neglectful father who has ended up at the police station on his daughter’s birthday for disorderly behaviour. Soon after, before he or the audience has time to react he has been kidnapped and imprisoned for reasons that appear to be inexplicable. This seemingly arbitrary imprisonment lasts for 15 years during which his wife is murdered and his daughter put up for adoption. After Dae Su manages to escape by tunnelling through a wall ten stories up, he is told that he has 5 days to find the man responsible for his captivity and satisfy his desire for revenge that has been building for over a decade. Although this seems to play out as the beginning of a standard revenge story, the discovery of his captor, Woo Jin’s, motivations takes the film to an entirely different level as we begin to understand that this desire for revenge is no longer exclusive and that both men have grievances that they believe justify what they inflict upon each other. To reveal anymore about these motivations would spoil the story but it is safe to say that what follows is in turns disturbing, heart wrenching and involves a great deal of violence. Yet these events are not  simply  devices to further the plot but are  attacks on our perceptions of justice and are unrelenting in the way they force us to identify with the unidentifiable and to feel in a way that is sometimes helpless in its intensity. 

Eventually these events lead us to a series of revelations that are undoubtedly diabolical but also extremely sad, regardless of whose point of view we choose to share. In this way Oldboy is superb, as it challenges our pre existing notions of victims and villains through several uncomfortable moments where we are no longer certain of whose side we are supposed to be on.  The film is not only superb in its narrative but is visually and sonically very impressive, with several incredibly well choreographed fight scenes and an effective and beautiful musical score that is near perfect in its reflection of the films themes of impossible love and perpetual inner pain. One scene that epitomizes Oldboy’s brilliance occurs after the murder of Dae Su’s brother, as a shot of Dae Su screaming obscenities, his anger spilling over in primal urgency, is combined with a shot of Woo-Jin alone, a silent tear rolling down his cheek. It is at points like this where the films paramount message, that suffering is never one sided, is made clear and makes claims of Oldboy being a masterpiece seem entirely justifiable.

Withnail and I

It is sometimes unclear exactly what a film like Withnail and I is trying to achieve or trying to extract from its audience. Usually we regard films as being in certain categories, such as those that make us laugh, devastate us with tragedy or allow us to lose ourselves in unfolding plots or special effects. In this way Withnail and I is largely a different animal, because it seems to transcend any of our collective ideas about what should make an enjoyable film. It is a film that some would say is too depressing, the humour too random and off kilter, yet Withnail and I has gone on to become one of the most adored cult films of all time. The reason being that it is brilliant in the way it is able to perfectly capture a moment in time and the eccentric yet unextraordinary character s that share in its gloom.

The exact moment in time is 1969, the end of the sixties fast approaching, as two out of work actors share in an existence of becoming horrendously drunk, and then stumbling through the squalor of their Camden flat until the local pub opens and they are able to get similarly drunk all over again. The Withnail of the title (played to perfection by Richard E Grant) is an over theatrical, drunken, gloomy character, utterly hilarious in his child like petulance. ‘I’ or Marwood, as has been discovered through a glimpse of a letter, is perhaps the more sober and dependable of the two, often acting as that little voice that exists in all of our heads letting us know when we’ve become ridiculous in our excess. The plot of director Bruce Robinson’s debut film is deceptively simple as our two unconventional heroes decide they’ve had enough of London and want to get out into the country to ‘revitalise.’ In doing so they haul up in the dilapidated cottage of Withnail’s uncle and everything seems to go wrong, to hilarious effect. The trouble they encounter involves wild bulls, a disagreeable poacher and an unnerving run in with said uncle, the homosexual  Monty, a likeable character who completely misjudges  Marwood’s own intentions.

Withnail and I is utterly brilliant for reasons that are probably too long to list. For one, Bruce Robinson’s dialogue is some of the wittiest and most inventive that I have ever come across. He is the only director outside Tarantino to make a conversation between two people, no matter how mundane, completely gripping and fascinating. A strength that is a massive gift the film has seeing as it is mainly preoccupied with funny and idiosyncratic conversations between characters.  The often inebriated Danny, who serves as drug dealer and confidante to the characters of the title gives us some of the best moments in dialogue, one such gem being when he advises Withnail not to get a haircut because ‘hair are your aerials, they pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain’ the sort of drunken declaration we are all familiar with making which is exactly why lines like this seem to resonate much more than they should.

This film is able to avoid the realm of the farcical, despite how bizarre the humour can be, because the characters are created in such a way that they are utterly human, truthful and unpretentious as they are flawed. Even characters such as Uncle Monty are saved from being ludicrous because they never lose their fragility and we never forget how vulnerable they are to being hurt. 

Despite how funny the film is, I never fail to be moved by its melancholic ending and the atmosphere of gloom and uncertainty that permeate its quieter moments. It is at these points, and after Danny’s last speech at the end, that we realise the film deals in death. The death of the sixties, emphasised in a soundtrack comprised mainly Of Jimi Hendrix- who would of course die the next year-including the classic ‘All along the watch tower’. A song which, to me, serves as the biggest atmosphere builder the film pocesses. It is also about the death of a friendship, an era in every sense, as the ending of the film sees Marwood leaving to pursue a part in a play, leaving Withnail alone in the rain to give the greatest performance of his uneventful career that only the wolves will witness.  Because Withnail has been portrayed with an abundance of humanity, we feel for him and worry about his eventual fate.  The ending gains extra poignancy in the fact that Bruce Robinson based Withnail on his own dear friend Vivian Mackerrell, who eventually died prematurely of throat cancer after years of hardened drinking.  However, like most of us who have chosen to take an opportunity that may improve our lives and expand our prospects for the future, we don’t judge Marwood for leaving his friend to his chosen fate because, as Danny says ‘the greatest era in the history of man kind is over.’ The balloon is rising, and you can either let go before it’s too late, or cling on to the rope for as long as you can. As the credits roll, we find ourselves questioning how much longer Withnail can cling on to his own safe darkness before he becomes his own casualty.

It is this unflinching portrayal of undesirable normality that has made this film speak to so many people and transcends it to extraordinary, cult viewing.