You, the Living (Andersson, 2007)

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This astonishing 2007 Swedish film, presented as a series of serio-comic vignettes, is the work of writer-director Roy Andersson. It’s no easy task attempting to categorise You, the Living; simply put it’s like nothing else you’ve ever seen. Each scene is short and sharp and virtually every set-up is a static one, but filled with fascinating, tiny details that speak of a meticulous attention to detail. It allows a painterly, dreamlike through-line to develop, like watching abstract works of art slowly come to life. Only twice in the entire film does the camera move.

The colours are muted and drab in this sunless world of mostly nameless, pasty-faced protagonists whose lives are played out in mournful, incremental advances. Andersson’s deadpan humour provides memorable surreal moments of suffering and joy, the avenging, repeating lines of these hapless, downtrodden souls insisting that “tomorrow is another day” regardless of their proximity to despair.

There’s a randomness of observation that borders on genius, and yet there are moments of perfect clarity too. Though a large ensemble of characters’ lives overlap without rhyme or reason, there is also the irreparable damage caused by acute isolation, more than one person bemoaning the fact that “nobody understands me!”

There are moments of poignant contemplation; in others, characters speak directly to the camera, whilst some seem to be speaking to a person who isn’t there. There’s a lovesick girl who pines for the lead singer of a rock group; an old doctor who’s fed up with unhappy patients he regards as beyond his help; a hilarious sex scene where a wife’s sporadic, ecstatic groans are drowned out by her husband’s continual dispassionate descriptions of the intricacies of his retirement funds.

There are dozens of others too, perhaps a few don’t come off, but nearly every one is a gem in its own way – and ripe for rediscovery in a film that demands multiple viewings to re-assess its subtleties and vagaries.

You, the Living is unique and unconventional, pulled off with such startling precision that I’m tempted to label it a masterpiece, and yet one simmering with barely tangible notions; a film so rich with minute, eccentric detail that it threatens to redefine the very nature of cinematic storytelling. Watch it and, like me, you’ll crave to see it again and again.

The Paperboy (Daniels, 2012)

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What a wonderfully lurid, sleazy, twisted southern jewel this 2012 film from Lee Daniels is. Replete with off-beat characterisations, pointless diversions, and a swampy, murderous atmosphere, this is certainly a film that defiantly marches to its own beat. Does it have mass appeal? Not on your life. Is it packed with unsavoury elements sure to repel certain audiences? Yes, yes, yes!

In the 1960’s a lawyer, Ward Jansen (Matthew McConaughey), returns to his small Southern home town to investigate the case of a man, Hillary Van Wetter (John Cusack), he believes has been wrongfully arrested for murder. Aided by his Miami co-worker, British writer Yardley (David Oyelowo), naïve younger brother Jack (Zack Efron), and the woman, Charlotte Bless (Nicole Kidman), who, through letter exchanges with men in prison has finally settled upon Hillary as her perfect man, Ward begins to dig deeper into the case. The whole deliriously colourful episode is viewed as a flashback and narrated by the Jansen family’s all-knowing maid Anita (Macy Gray).

Though the narrative clearly plays second fiddle to the characters that heedlessly drive it along, a rough, raw vitality is what energises Daniels’ left-of-centre vision for adapting Pete Dexter’s novel to the screen. This rawness is also reflected in the often unconventional visual approach which sets a dulled, dirty colour scheme against strangely incongruous perspectives. You could argue the whole project has been haphazardly wrought but the approach feels daringly original in its own crazy way.

There are memorable scenes aplenty, including the notorious but hilarious urination scene involving Charlotte and Jack, and another vividly realised sexual encounter of sorts in the jailhouse. But it’s the work of the performers that will linger longest in memories. For McConaughey this the continuation of a hot streak which peaked again around this time with William Friedkin’s Killer Joe (2012). Efron proves he’s capable of striking out successfully against his wholesome image whilst negotiating some tricky scenes with Kidman. Then there’s the startling Cusack who blows perceptions of his once romantic lead status to smithereens.

But it’s Kidman who shines brightest; her daring, luminescent turn is a wonder to behold. Rarely has she been more magnetic on screen, channelling every white trash vixen from a back-catalogue of Jerry Springer specials. Offensive, demented, lazily plotted and overflowing with extraneous lurid asides, The Paperboy (2012), for all its shortcomings, is at least a memorable, deliriously idiosyncratic concoction.

 

Dogtooth (Lanthimos, 2009)

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Director Yorgos Lanthimos offers the ultimate example of parental control gone mad in the subversive, mystifyingly oblique Dogtooth (2009). In this amusingly minimalist work we’re transplanted behind the walls of a remote compound where a father (Christos Stergioglou) and mother (Michelle Valley) have indoctrinated their children to accept a narrowly-conceived worldview of their own creation. This insulated trio of offspring – a son and two daughters, seemingly all in their late teens – has been denied access to the outside world their entire lives, relying on their parents to expand their minds through a very specific form of education.

This has succeeded in providing them with a warped, off-kilter perception of mundane things, often assigning very different definitions to concepts and objects. They have no idea what a cat is for instance and there’s a perversely funny scene where one strays onto the grounds before being beset upon by a fearful son with a pair of garden shears. Cat lovers look away!

Is it all for the purpose of satisfying some wicked sense of amusement? There’s little exposition or motivation imparted, denying us any rationalised justification for this forbidding environment’s existence. Lanthimos simply tosses us down the deep well of his imagination to fend for ourselves. He doesn’t even allow his characters to be humanized on a basic level; other than Christina – the blindfolded young woman the father sneaks from his workplace to ‘service’ his son – the family members aren’t even afforded the familiarity of names.

Dogtooth is inspiringly idiosyncratic, an ambiguous merger of absurdist humour and darkest, probing drama. Sometimes the absurdist vignettes reach beyond their grasp and come off feeling self-consciously excessive or silly. But the director’s aim mostly hits its mark, ensuring a compelling and uncomfortable night at the cinema.

Lanthimos, in a stroke of genius, doesn’t really allow his film, co-written with Efthymis Filippou, to settle into any predictable rhythm; he tweaks its tone like an obsessive, eccentric musician. He even flirts with taboos like boredom-alleviating-incest whilst inserting strangely clinical moments of sexual activity and violence into his evasive, unsettling narrative.

As the external world slowly begins to impinge upon the steady ratification of the parents’ universe and the meticulously manufactured facade becomes more difficult to uphold, Dogtooth makes you laugh and grimace, often in the same moment. It could almost be viewed as a twisted fairytale secluded between the pages of an ogre’s personal collection. It’s never possible to predict where this challenging film is headed and the strangely elliptical ending too revels in being an arbitrary point of cessation rather than fulfilling the conventional expectation of an easy conclusion.

The Hidden (Sholder, 1987)

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Maybe once in a journeyman director’s career all the pieces will line up, the stars mysteriously aligned; if so, there’s a chance for something remarkable to occur, and in the case of veteran Jack Sholder, the fateful project was 1987’s The Hidden. Intelligently blending a police manhunt with strong elements of horror and sci-fi, it has – I was pleasantly surprised to discover – survived the intervening decades remarkably well. Earning a shot in the director’s chair on the back of the first Nightmare on Elm Street sequel two years previous, Shoulder delivers the goods with a superbly executed thrill ride featuring two memorable central performances.

L.A. detective Tom Beck (Michael Nouri) and his men are the trail of a ruthless thief and killer engaged in a random spree of terror across the city. With a propensity for stealing Ferraris and blaring heavy-metal music at full blast, Jack DeVries (Chris Mulkey) needs to be stopped, and after an exhilarating chase in the opening sequence, he crashes his car before being ruthlessly pounded by a police artillery. In hospital and near-death, it seems the city’s most wanted criminal has finally come unstuck.

In fact, it’s only the beginning of Beck’s trouble, for DeVries’ body has been nothing but a shell harbouring an alien lifeform, a slithering black worm-like creature that hops from body to body once it senses the weakening physical capabilities of its host. A quiet, undemonstrative FBI agent arrives from Seattle, Lloyd Gallagher (Kyle MacLachlan), his assignment to track down the now dead DeVries, but his concerns are hardly alleviated by the sight of the man’s mortal remains. Confounding Beck with his oblique suggestions of a danger still at large, he keeps the detective frustrated, uncomprehending but intrigued.

Together they hunt for the body-hopping alien, Beck at first convinced of an elaborate scheme tying all the participants together. Before long however, even he becomes a believer as Gallagher, with a secretive past of his own, realises the need to spell out their predicament in black and white to ensure a legitimate chance at tracking the alien down and exterminating it once and for all.

The Hidden succeeds on so many levels, not only as a riveting police thriller, but as a genre film and wicked satire with cleverly suggestive moments of ironic dark humour. Beck and Gallagher are an odd but inspired pairing, with Nouri’s physicality and wearied, hardened edge complemented by MacLachlan’s minimalist underplaying of the outsider and his motivations.

There are clever touches aplenty in the screenplay by Bob Hunt, including a series of light-hearted jabs at the gulf separating the pair’s working processes, the reasons for which remain elusive until well into the film. It’s never clear how it all might end either and even when it seemingly does, Hunt has another neat trick in store for the film’s poignant coda. It’s rare that alien life forms are given the dimensions they are here, with qualities that clearly delineate the hunter from his prey, including empathy for earthly compatriots and a constant pining for simple family values.

Unlike so many films from its era, visually The Hidden has retained a toned-down, drab but gritty appeal that isn’t marred by glaring, grossly anachronistic fashion or style; much of that can be attributed to the fine work of production designers Mick and C.J. Strawn and cinematographer Jacques Haitkin. Another successful component are the many well-chosen pieces of rock music regularly inserted into the action, fitting comfortably between the harsh, jagged electronic daggers of Michael Convertino’s score.

Sholder has been a prolific workman over the years but nothing in his subsequent output – which seems to have ended in premature retirement in 2004 – comes close to what he achieved on The Hidden, a mostly forgotten but genuine treasure from the ‘80’s, one still highly regarded today as more than just a B-grade or cult classic.