favourites in 2011

Considering that the annual self-indulgent, self-congratulatory beauty and bias pageants (a.k.a awards shows) almost never get it right, I don’t bother watching them, knowing they’ll just rile me up needlessly – another post for another time. That said, I tend to construct my own mental ‘awards’ anyway, and I am rather pleased that I didn’t have to struggle for choice.

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FILM
Shame
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
Poulet aux Prunes
Tyrannosaur

DIRECTION
Andrea Arnold (Wuthering Heights)
Tomas Alfredson (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy)
Lynne Ramsay (We Need to Talk About Kevin)
Sean Durkin (Martha Marcy May Marlene)

LEAD ACTOR
Michael Fassbender (Shame)
Gary Oldman (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy)
Peter Mullan (Tyrannosaur)
Michael Shannon (Take Shelter)

LEAD ACTRESS
Olivia Colman (Tyrannosaur)
Tilda Swinton (We Need to Talk About Kevin)
Glenn Close (Albert Nobbs)
Cécile De France (Le gamin au vélo)

SUPPORTING ACTOR
Paul Giamatti (The Ides of March)
Philip Seymour Hoffman (The Ides of March)
Benedict Cumberbatch (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy)

SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Kristin Scott Thomas (Salmon Fishing in the Yemen)
Carey Mulligan (Shame)
Kathy Bates (Midnight in Paris)

SCREENPLAY
جدایی نادر از سیمین/Jodái-e Náder az Simin (by Asghar Farhadi)
Page Eight (by David Hare)
Weekend (by Andrew Haigh)
The Ides of March (by George Clooney & Grant Heslov)

SCORE
La piel que habito (by Alberto Iglesias)
Perfect Sense (by Max Richter)
Jane Eyre (by Dario Marianelli)
Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (by Hans Zimmer)

CINEMATOGRAPHY
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (by Hoyte van Hoytema)
The Tree of Life (by Emmanuel Lubezki)
Jane Eyre (by Adriano Goldman)
The Mill & the Cross (by Lech Majewski)

COSTUME DESIGN
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (by Jacqueline Durran)
L’apollonide: Souvenirs de la maison close (by Anaïs Romand)
Faust (by Lidiia Kriukova)
Jane Eyre (by Michael O’Connor)

EDITING
Drive (by Matthew Newman)
La piel que habito (by José Salcedo)
Shame (by Joe Walker)
We Need to Talk About Kevin (by Joe Bini)

DOCUMENTARY
The Interrupters (dir. Steve James)
Into the Abyss (dir. Werner Herzog)
Pina (dir. Wim Wenders)
Project Nim (dir. James Marsh)

ANIMATED FILM
Αλόις Νέμπελ (Alois Nebel)
Arrugas (Wrinkles)
Les contes de la nuit (Tales of the Night)
Un vie de chat (A Cat in Paris)

another earth (cahill, 2011)

And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he ‘s forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities.

- Plato, “Allegory of the Cave”, Book VII of The Republic

The loneliest places on the planet are those yet undiscovered – the frozen poles of ice and snow, dense coniferous forests of the north, vast stretches of sand in the south. One can wander here for days without ever meeting another living thing, and the only trace of one’s own presence are the footprints left behind (and subsequently erased by nature’s capricious temperament). But what if there were another place, lonelier still than those on Earth? Another Earth proposes just this, another planet nearly identical to this one, with the offer of a chance to start anew, explore, and escape. However, this is no Star Wars or intergalactic adventure romp – Earth 2 is a midnight veil, metaphorically positioned over the true vastness of solitude which can be found nowhere else: the human heart.

Despite the tendency to classify Another Earth as science fiction, it is clearly anything but. It proceeds in shades of blue and quiet devastation, contemplative as a steady heartbeat and complex as celestial bodies. Emotional rumination pervades the film’s atmosphere, as one becomes enraptured with the mesmerising and glacially paced narrative which is both heartfelt and hopeful. The philosophical and emotional implications are endless, and layer upon each other, creating a profoundly moving web of intrinsically human questions about grief, redemption, and second chances.

It is a tale about being lost, both within the world and within one’s own skin. Rhoda (Brit Marling) and John (William Mapother) are deeply disconnected and fragmented pieces of people, existing in apathy and disillusion. Their eventual bond is a reparation of fractured souls which is threatened by a devastating truth, but one which ultimately sets them both free. The promise of ‘another you’ on Earth 2 is enticing and frightening, presenting life-altering implications to them both – in another life, would I be different? Could I have changed? Who would I be in another life? As Earth 2 looms over Earth in silent suggestion, the urgency of these metaphysical questions become desperate, and the final scene magnificently refuses to answer them.

Haunting in its melancholy and profound in its sensitivity, Another Earth triumphs where Melancholia tripped. The prospect of another earth is not significant for its scientific possibilities (admittedly, the scientific plausibility of this other planet is rather weak to anyone with a bare grasp of astronomy), but the metaphysical manner by which it mirrors the immanence and potential of the human heart. The notion of a second chance can be conceived both from a secularist and spiritual viewpoint, and the film does not negate either, relishing both equally. Instead, it gently raises the proposition that the physical and emotional state of loneliness is not so simple as to escape to another planet, but must begin in the soul, one heartbeat at a time.

trends in cinema: 2011

2011 was an incredible year for cinema. In particular, it was a triumphant year for independent films: minimalist, thoughtful substance over parched and trite Hollywood (read: J. Edgar). British independent cinema led the way in this respect, and the The British Independent Film Awards and I were mostly synonymous in our praise of the year’s finest examples of cinematic craftsmanship, including Shame, Tyrannosaur,  and Weekend.

Moreover, two significant themes became apparent to me in observing the many films that I did. These emergent themes not only allow for interesting comparisons between films, but also for speculation on how these themes may reflect a shift in cinematic consciousness, and the intentions of the filmmaker to explore this burgeoning sense of crafting an alternate world in every frame.

A well-crafted story ought to be told in precisely the number of words it requires – no more, and no less. As such, minimalist dialogue in some of the year’s finest films spoke in infinite volumes about what we expect from a narrative. Gestures took the place of one-liners, and glances said more than pretentious conversation. 2011 was the year of restraint and introversion, as characters wrestled with internal demons and persistent ghosts. These films were structured not strictly around a plot, but around how events and instances provide insight into a character’s mental state without explicit elucidation. In Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, carefully framed camera angles and muted tones lend a particular sense of introversion each character, shrouded as they are in the necessity of obscurity. Both empty spaces and crowded bars are equally powerful in revealing Brandon’s (Michael Fassbender) crippling detachment from those around him in Shame. In Martha Marcy May Marlene, Elizabeth Olsen’s character speaks very little about her previous life, instead allowing the audience to infer her splintered psyche from harrowing flashbacks and ruminative landscapes. Even in “science fiction” cinema, Another Earth is an exploration of devastating melancholy and the fractures of the human heart, felt but not seen.

2011 cinema was also exceptionally bolder than it has appeared to be in recent years, treading the equivocal paths of gender and identity. What does it mean to be male or female? Moreover, how are our notions of masculinity and femininity molded and eroded by the world in which we live? The astonishing La piel que habito explored this notion with dada-esque rapture, questioning the boundaries of one’s identity and psychological fluidity. Tomboy did so through the eyes of a child, as the main character exerts extraordinary agency and self-defined identity, and is subsequently exposed to the rigid realities of heteronormativity. Similarly, the title character of Albert Knobbs is a queer melange of multiple aspects of sexuality in all forms, in a fascinating, almost literary, exploration of self- and other-constructed gender/personal identity. These films fairly and non-judgmentally compel the audience to deal with questions about the duality of gender and sexuality; as well as the intrinsic construction of identity, and the external forces which can hinder it.

The emergence of these particular themes is heartening for a few reasons. Firstly, advances in cinema need not only be necessitated by technology in a pyrotechnic sense for the sake of bombastic noises. The finest films of the year were refreshingly subdued, but pulsing with an incredible sense of heart and compulsion towards creating compelling characters in ambivalent situations – not a gunshot in sight. Secondly, it allows us to wonder whether these themes are reflective of similar ruminations in society, regarding these very questions of isolation and identity. They are the very opposite of escapism, rather forcing us to confront uncomfortable situations and very real heartaches. Finally, these filmmakers seem to be treating the audience as though they are human beings, rather than superficial masochistic automatons that dish out several quid only to have their ears blown off by the noise of surround-sound explosions. In other words, quick and dirty gratification is abandoned in favour of contemplative cinema, one that draws the audience in to a world with which they may have little experience (or perhaps a great deal), and compels them to be utterly enraptured with it. Without feeling the need to spell out every single plot point, it allows the audience to appreciate subtle details and read facial expressions, resulting in a lovingly non-patronising year of cinema.

Despite repetitive sequels, irksome CGI, and the ghastly trend of 3-D, perhaps we can yet hold out hope for challenging cinema that makes demands of the audience, both intellectually and emotionally, and still proves to be the most rewarding in the end. Can 2012 live up to last year’s expectations? With films such as Loach’s The Angel’s Share, Haneke’s Love, and Winterbottom’s Seven Days, we can still hold out hope.

As long as we don’t see George Smiley pop off to a futuristic Las Vegas in the year 3025 to ward off the evil Klugons with scimitars built into his fingers, with his gang of ne’er-do-wells with quick one-liners, which includes Samuel L. Jackson. In 3-D.

favourites in 2011: television

favourites of 2011: cinema

· Another Earth, dir. M. Cahill

· The Artist, dir. M. Hazanavicius

· Poulet aux prunes (Chicken with Plums), dir. V. Paronnaud & M. Satrapi

· Et maintenant, on va où? (Where Do We Go Now?), dir. N. Labaki

· The Mill & the Cross, dir. L. Majewski 

· Shame, dir. S. McQueen

· Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, dir. T. Alfredson

· Tomboy, dir. C. Sciamma 

· A torinói ló (The Turin Horse), dir. B. Tarr 

· Tyrannosaur, dir. P. Considine 

· Weekend, dir. A. Haigh 

· Wuthering Heights, dir. A. Arnold

+ Honourable mentions: We Need to Talk About Kevin, dir. L Ramsay; A Separation, dir. A. Farhadi; L’apollonide: souvenirs de maison close, dir. B. Bonello; The Ides of March, dir. G. Clooney; Martha Marcy May Marlene, dir. S. Durkin; La piel que habito (The Skin I Live In), dir. P. Almodóvar

+ And there are still so many left to see! Including: Salmon Fishing in the Yemen; The Awakening; Wreckers; Hotel Swooni; Oslo, Aug 31st; Dreams of a Life; Alois Nebel; Bir Zamanlar Anadolu’da (Once Upon a Time in Anatolia); Michael; Monsieur Lazhar; Beauty; Le Havre

tinker, tailor, soldier, spy (alfredson, 2011)

“Survival, as Jim Prideaux liked to recall, is an infinite capacity for suspicion.”

- John le Carré, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (1974)

The chill of Tomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy creeps in like Carl Sandburg’s fog “on little cat feet”, under the skin and through to the bone, purveying its quarry with an inscrutable glance and moving on without a trace; as a true spy, the damage left in its wake is devastating, while its instigator goes undetected. Accordingly, the film is possibly one of the most beautifully orchestrated espionage “thrillers” in cinematic history, escaping tropes of shoot-outs and car chases, and leaving remnants of something equally understated and unsettling.  Like an explosion in reverse, it unfolds not with a bang, but with a whimper.

For Alfredson, the actual plot of the film – while masterfully complex as per le Carré’s marvelously dense text – is not so much the focal point as is conveying the aesthetics rather than the functionality of Cold War espionage. Movements and angles are precise as the gears of a pocketwatch, and suits and glances are sharp as rapiers.  All this occurs as if in a game of fencing within oppressively claustrophobic spaces, pulsing with nervous tension and wariness; taut as a violin string, such that even a gentle shudder creates waves of suspicion. The visual style and atmosphere generated by Alfredson’s infinitely patient and controlled aesthetic echo Coppola’s The Conversation (1974), Bertolucci’s Il conformista (1970), and Melville’s Le Samouraï (1967), all featuring surreptitiously taciturn gentlemen caught in dangerous games. Even so, Tinker Tailor goes a step further in creating a sense of hyper-isolation; as much is said without dialogue as with it, with a furtive gesture or glance.

Despite being set in 1970′s London, Alfredson takes no pleasure in harbouring nostalgia for the era. The domestic colour palette of browns, taupes, and greys, like so much of the film, does not merely serve a functional purpose, but an aesthetic one, carefully blending between what is to be obscured and what is to be revealed: a battlefield in disguise. Similarly, the tone of the film is set as much through its meticulous production design as it is through Alfredson’s masterful cinematic eye: the voyeuristic camera angles play with shadows, silhouettes, and lighting as does a swordsman with blades. The feeling of being watched never quite escapes – for the characters, as well as the viewer- as if one is seeing things which are not meant for prying eyes. The gently burning flame of tension never quite vanishes, but escalates at key moments, making the brief but starkly brutal moments of violence that much more effective.

As for the cast, there is hardly a finer group which could have been assembled, each note-perfect in their parts, however brief some were – in particular, Mark Strong’s tight-jawed loner Jim Prideaux, and the brilliant Benedict Cumberbatch’s loyal and cautious Peter Guillam. However, it is Gary Oldman’s George Smiley that is the keystone of the film, hypnotising until the very last. Not nearly enough can be said about Oldman, who is all but astonishing. Like most of his impressive filmography, he again proves to be a scene-stealer, but of a very different quality. Oldman’s Smiley is ruminative and laconic, patient and solitary, but under which lies a quiet and menacing danger; much as Lucifer might passively comment on the weather before extracting your soul.

The essence of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy can be captured in a single image – a darkened room in a Georgian flat, a man seated in an armchair with a whiskey sour in one hand, and a pistol in the other. Waiting. And so begins a cinematic exercise in patience and control, of ghostlike movements and pervasive danger. Just as Alfredson’s treatment of Let the Right One In became a character study rather than a horror film, he lends a similar treatment to Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, turning the spy-genre on its head into a thoughtful and restrained examination of masculinity and isolation. No explosions, no rooftop chases – just a middle-aged bespectacled man seated on a bench, reading yesterday’s post. Waiting.

l’apollonide: souvenirs de la maison close (bonello, 2011)

In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michaelangelo

- T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

It is a fact well-known that scent is a powerful trigger for arousal – not just of a sexual nature, but an emotional one as well. Memories, too, are inexplicably modulated by recurring scents, and a triggering scent often comes without the conscious recollection of a memory, leaving one in a nebulous state until realisation. It is no wonder then, that Bertrand Bonello’s L’apollonide is a evocation of this very sensuality, promising dreamlike delirium and corporeal fantasies. A strict narrative is entirely secondary, and the intention is to convey they sort of hazy atmosphere associated with plumes of opium smoke in the fin-du-siecle bordello.

It is less a drama, than a luxuriously-paced anthropological study in a particular group of women at a particular time and place in history – as if scrolling through a post-Impressionist painting. And what a painting it is – it would be difficult to leave this film with remarking of its cinematography and colour palette: a languorously decadent melange of golds, ceruleans, greens, and ever-striking crimson. The exquisitely opulent textures of the fabrics practically beg to be stroked through the screen, with all the lushness of Boldini and the intricacy of Klimt. It is the surreal perversity of Venus in Furs combined with the almost-nostalgic opulence of Pretty Baby to explore the excess and tragedy of a ‘house of tolerance’.

It would be both predictable and lazy of Bonello to indulge in scenes of explicit sexuality – thank goodness he does not engage. Ironically, the sex itself is secondary, while sexuality itself is foregrounded, preferring eroticism over vulgarity. Similarly, men are secondary, flitting in and out in the same fashion as female characters are subjected to in other films. The focus is not on the men’s animalistic pleasure, but the glassy-eyed resignation of the women as they complete their ‘job’. Men are defined by their freakish sexual fetishes and proclivities, over which the women collectively compare notes at breakfast the morning after.

Thus, Bonello’s triumph here is the entire focus on this group of women, and compassionately depicting the fascinating dynamics between them, borne of an unique situation. Contrary to how groups of women are usually portrayed onscreen, there is a familial camaraderie between them, as they cope with their occupation in a practical and unsentimental way. To all of them, there is a sense of graceful weltschmerz that exceeds their years, and it draws them even closer. Each of the women is a fascinating character study, and all are developed to satisfaction – not merely as prostitutes, but as fully-realised characters. It is interesting in this way how Bonello cleverly juxtaposes the film into scenes of night and day; the former marked by lounging in the salon to await visiting gentlemen; and the latter marked by domesticity and the realities of their situation, choosing palettes of Beraud over Toulouse-Lautrec nights.

For all its sumptuousness, there is an eerie coldness that underlies the film, not unlike the expressions on the women’s faces as they pleasure their clients. We see them go through the motions of sex, protection, finances, and tragedy – all within the smothering confines of the brothel, and suddenly the hazy aroma of perfume becomes toxic instead of intoxicating. Appropriately, there is an undercurrent of the fear, punctuated by the almost dada-istic voyeurism of certain scenes, reminiscent of Bunuel and funhouse mannequins, particularly those involving Madeleine (played with extreme pathos by the surreally beautiful Alice Barnole), who becomes known as “La femme qui rit” (an allusion to Hugo’s similarly titled, “L’homme qui rit”). Her horrific ordeal is not presented all at once, but interleaved chronologically into various parts of the film, intensifying the shock of it. Alice’s vindication (and for all the women, really) is symbolically realised at the end with grim satisfaction, in yet another scene that hovers somewhere between reality and fantasy.

The film attempts to comment on a number of issues, and I’m not entirely how well it does so, but it certainly does so in an intricate manner – on the nature of companionship, violence, sexuality, and freedom. There is no moralising to be done, but the final scene gives you more than an indication of how things have changed – and how they really haven’t.

we need to talk about kevin (ramsay, 2011)

Watching We Need to Talk About Kevin is akin to watching a series of Francis Bacon paintings in motion – the one(s) in particular that sprang to mind were the triptych, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (1944): maligned figures on a splash of turbulent red, each more grotesque than the last. Ramsay makes equal use of the colour red that manages to be both symbolic and unsettling, without straying into heavy-handedness. Red becomes a spectre, haunting particular moments of Eva’s (Tilda Swinton) life, as a reminder of the past and a veritable omen of the future. Red: the colour of love, and the colour of rage, both of which emerge as prominent themes; “there will be blood”, so to speak. Ramsay sways us between dreamlike surrealism and domestic horror that is entirely untarnished by traditional ‘supernatural’ gimmick. The horror of Kevin is that it is real, and is played out with the gravitas of the best of the Greek tragedies.

The greatest strength of the film is its moral ambiguity. Unsettling, yes; cold, yes; but nothing is clear-cut. The characters are not meant to be likeable, nor sympathetic, and it is a mistake to engage in either. Without falling into the perils of tediously explicating emotional dilemmas,  the chameleonic Tilda Swinton oscillates masterfully between the narratives, as a mother struggling to understand her son, and a mother wracked with guilt by proxy, by mere facial expression alone. Her interactions with Kevin at different ages (particularly the younger one) are wrought with a sort of tension that cannot be fabricated, and instill a foreboding anticipation of what happens next. Brilliantly, the film pulls no punches – we know what is going to happen, and the twisting of your intestines is a testament to how anticipated knowledge does nothing to ease the actual fact that it happens.

I’ve read speculation on the motivation behind Kevin’s actions, and why he specifically chose to antagonise his mother. The beauty of this film, as opposed to the hackneyed comparisons to The Omen, Bad Seed, and Rosemary’s Baby, is that we don’t understand why – and we aren’t intended to. In what I am certain Robert Hare would salivate to get his hands on, Kevin is an unrepentant psychopath of the purest kind, and Ramsay does away with softening the character with underlying emotional complexities. The sparring between Kevin and Eva takes on a ferocious intensity and perversity reminiscent of Caligula or I, Claudius, made more so because they both understand each other perfectly. It is like watching a rat and snake with baited breath to see who strikes first.

A comment on the folly of unconditional love? An ironic cautionary tale? Both, perhaps, and more. It is a frustrating, provocative, and appropriately unsatisfying examination of a peculiar and devastating situation, and executed with Bacon-like precision from Ramsay: emotional and aesthetic incongruity, and yet you can’t seem to look away.

tyrannosaur (considine, 2011)

Recent investigations in paleontology have been exploring a highly controversial topic – contrary to popular belief, there may be evidence that Tyrannosaurus rex may have been a scavenger instead of a predator. The implications are striking – a fearsome creature with a reputation for predating relentlessly upon weaker dinosaurs that may actually be the sort of creature that avoids others and emerges only in moments of most dire need.

Whatever the case, the mechanisms underlying it are pure, evolutionary instincts – the primal, base instinct of violence and self-preservation. The opening scene of Tyrannosaur is brutal in its display of these very drives, and ruthlessly claws with raw fingers through delicate social convention to reveal the darker and more desperate aspects of human nature. What results is not only sharp and visceral, but a thoughtful and understated character study of breaking points and catharsis.

In the vein of last year’s NEDS and the British New Wave tradition of gritty social realism à la Nil by Mouth and Ken Loach films, Tyrannosaur is as grey and hapless as the industrial north England sky. These drops of grey fall between the cracks in characters’ facades, eroding them away from single dimensionality and into highly nuanced beings. Morality is a moot point, and Considine deals no preacher’s hand nor condemning fist: each character is singularly broken in a wretched way, and are not so much redeemed, but turned to the side to reveal a different facet.

At the heart of the film are the two lead performances of Peter Mullan and Olivia Colman, who do not fail for a moment in earning one’s pity and temperance with utter realism.Their characters’ relationship begins as tense and precarious, and develops in a beautifully natural way into a warm rapport and bond that is unsullied by a contrived romance. The characters, as broken as they are, find an unlikely sense of security and safety in the other. Thankfully, the relationship is not contingently overwhelming, and neither falls in love desperately – trust balances on a hesitant and perilous rope between them, and there is nothing unconditional in their arrangement. Yet, the warmth is there, and with the knowledge that they will get better before they get worse.

Despite the overwhelming tendency in cinema to harbour the clichéd route of a maudlin denouement, Considine bravely steers away from this: it is not alright, nor will it go away. However, there is the imminent spot of light through the clouds, the rose through the cement (and here I was condemning cliché). Despite the overarching bleakness, there are moments of levity which don’t debilitate the narrative, but add an authenticity that is lost in similar films which attempt to explore the kitchen sink drama. It is heartrending but never heartless, and unfolds as naturally and unpredictably as a drop of ink into a glass of water. Most importantly, it is exceedingly unglamorous, and that is the point. For every bit of dark, there is some light; for every drop of blood, there is a drop of tea. The situation is not perfect – but that’s alright.

a dangerous method (cronenberg, 2011)

Actioni contrariam semper et æqualem esse reactionem: sive corporum duorum actiones in se mutuo semper esse æquales et in partes contrarias dirigi

(“To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction: or the forces of two bodies on each other are always equal and are directed in opposite directions.”)

- Newton’s Third Law of Motion, Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica

When one thinks of psychology, very few would think to associate it with physics. Yet, the origins of Sigmund Freud’s elaborate theories in human dynamism and motivation stem from late 19th century progress in applying principles of energy conservation to thermodynamics, electromagnetism and nuclear physics. Bit of a stretch, you may think, but not so when one considers the very early considerations of Freud’s work, before his work on sexuality and childhood repression. This is the stuff of dynamic physiology and subsequent ‘psychic energy’ which Freud considered the means by which the human personality is transformed, and eventually upon which he would eventually found psychoanalytic theory.

Such a view is a highly appropriate one when considering Cronenberg’s A Dangerous Method, or rather, the brilliant Christopher Hampton’s screenplay The Talking Cure. The dialogue is a razor’s edge balance of psychoanalytic jargon and forces that modulate human relationships; an exercise in force and constraint with a veritable a push-and-pull of transformative energy states of which von Brücke would approve. As a theatrical production (recalling the 2003 production at the National Theatre in London), the script becomes incendiary, relishing bite in all the dark places. Unfortunately, the film adaptation is an oddly mottled and disjointed remnant of Hampton’s screenplay, and becomes a sorely disappointing affair.

The first problem is the editing, which is jarring and disorienting. Oddly enough, Cronenberg’s trademark habit of lingering uncomfortably within certain scenes is dismissed, and moments which ought to require further contemplation are hurriedly rushed over in favour of the next. However, the more troubling issue is the acting. Although both Fassbender and Mortensen are good – Fassbender again is a master of restraint, aptly portraying Jung’s gradual loss of pristine control; and Mortensen is fairly convincing as Freud, though slightly less impactful for short screentime, as compared to the instant charisma of Christoph Waltz – the most screentime is devoted to Keira Knightley’s Sabine Spielrein. As an actress, Knightley has never been particularly impressive, and in this film, achieves a new degree of dramatic incompetence. The role itself is a fascinating one, and as such, requires an actress of demonstrably superior nuanced ability and skill to prevent the role from veering into histrionics (I am again reminded of Jodhi May’s performance in the 2003 production). Knightley is not such an actress, and is severely ill-equipped for such a demanding role, instead becoming parodically ridiculous and trying to watch (ironically, Spielrein’s characteristic perverse lower jaw protruding motion seems to be a heightened exaggeration of Knightley’s usual mode d’emploi in every other film). All actors though seem to suffer from an almost too tightly pointed direction from Cronenberg, and instead of being able to convey emotion to the audience, feeling is lost in the psychobabble and language-obfuscated emotional restriction (ironically, the very thing psychoanalysis tries to deconstruct).

The acting problem truly is unfortunate, especially considering the success with which Cronenberg has constructed the nature of the relationship between Spielrein, Jung, and Freud. Without requiring explicit reference, the characters are metaphorically positioned as the id, ego, and super-ego, conflicting in constant opposition to one another. The symbolism and metaphors come off as slightly heavy-handed (the allusions to Civilisation & its Discontents, The Interpretation of Dreams, and Jung’s memoirs are intellectually apt but eerily non-resonant), but result in a fantastically constructed dynamic that perfectly mirrors the respective theories of Jung and Freud. However, cohesion is again lost as awkward scene shifts are made between Jung and Freud’s discourse to the ongoing melodrama between Jung and Spielrein; the ending is decidedly unsatisfactory in both regards.

Despite its picturesque authenticity of turn-of-the-century Vienna, A Dangerous Method is not a period piece, nor do I believe it was intended to be. The intended showcase of the film is the dialogue and acting, and in an ideal world, the two would be synchronously intertwined, resulting in a searing and complex portrayal of a fascinating human triangle. However, something is tragically lost in this attempt, and the result is a slightly clumsy and unfulfilling adaptation, driven into the ground by Knightley’s tragic performance.