Tag Archives: sexual violence

Seeing Double: Funny Games

By Ashley

During my horror movie binge, I watched both Michael Haneke’s Funny Games (1997, 2008) within a day of each other. I found both to be pretty good, if somewhat shallow. I feel like there are other movies that say the same things about brutality and violence in cinema and the audience’s participation in that violence in much more interesting, thought-provoking ways (hello, Martyrs) but I definitely appreciate Funny Games for what it is and find Haneke’s choice to make a meticulous, shot-by-shot American remake fascinating.

Since I watched them so close together I was able to point out most inconsistencies in dialogue, setting, and blocking between the two movies. I noticed some really interesting things, most of them really small, like changes in certain words (using “tubby” as opposed to “fatty”) or the different color palettes (FG ’97 has a tannish color scheme while ’08 FG’s is blue). But there is one major difference that is so jarring and obvious that I’m still frustrated and confused about it.

There’s a point in the Funny Games narrative where Paul and Peter force wife and mother Anna/Ann to strip. While she is stripping the camera stays on a close-up of her face; all we see during her disrobe is an uncomfortable, tear-stained face. The shot is all about depriving the audience of the pleasure of seeing her body. It’s about calling out the audience for taking any kind of pleasure in the sexualization of this woman’s torment. The next time we see her body in the original, she is clothed again. In the remake, however, it’s a totally different story.

Naomi Watts spends almost the entire rest of the movie in her bra and panties; Susanne Lothar in the original remains clothed save for one brief moment when she changes into jeans and a sweater. I just could not get over this. The whole point of the stripping scene is to deprive the viewer of the pleasure of seeing the female body, but in the ’08 version we get to see Watts writhing around half-naked anyway. I don’t understand why Haneke would undermine the subtext of the scene so completely. It could be that—since it’s an American remake—it’s an attempt to appeal to American sensibilities. But literally nothing else in this movie does that. This is a movie that, while in English and taking place in America, could not feel farther from an American movie.

So, I’m still pondering: What is Haneke trying to do with this particular change, the only major change in the remake? What say you, readers?

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Link Dump: #32

What better than a lunar cat family to host this week’s (rather full) Link Dump! I was never personally fond of Diana myself; adding kids to the mix just ruins everything (just like what happened when they added Rini/Chibusa; you’d think they’d learn from their mistakes) but it’s an adorable kitty family to go with some adorable (and some severely not adorable) links!

Not much to share in the realm of search terms this week: we had somebody looking for the “la belle et la bete porn version” (hint: Cocteau didn’t make one, although Genet’s Chant d’Amour is as close as you’re going to get); someone else typed in the run-of-the-mill misspelling “secks fail”; and finally, we continue our chronicle of icky bestiality search terms with “fucking “cow pussy””. Does this mean the searcher wanted to learn about how to fuck cow pussies? Or just, you know, colloquially: fuckin’ cow pussy? We may never know. (I hope.)

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Lust, Duels, and Matadors

Pedro Almodóvar’s Matador (1986) is a film about erotic obsession. It’s about the lusts that lead men and women to fuck, and to murder. But since it’s Almodóvar, you know it’s done with a fairly light touch – a self-consciousness about just how campy and ridiculous this whole affair really is – even as he spreads on the color and sensuality like so much molasses. Matador is a well-crafted Hitchcockian thriller about Ángel, played by a young Antonio Banderas, who is neurotically consumed with mother-instilled Catholic guilt. One night, he attempts to rape his neighbor Eva, who is also the girlfriend of Diego, a retired bullfighter who’s been giving Ángel lessons.

After confessing it to the police, he also assumes the guilt for four unsolved murders – of which two were committed by Diego, and the other two by Ángel’s lawyer María. This creates a roundelay of desire and suspicion worthy of the Master of Suspense, as the two killers smell blood and draw gradually nearer to one another. And just like the finest tales in Hitchcock’s repertoire, it’s all totally preposterous – which couldn’t matter less, because this is Almodóvar, so it’s not about logic. It’s about María’s sinful allure and Diego’s unquenchable thirsts; it’s about melodrama and madness and orgasms at the brink of death.

Diego and María’s dance of death leads to a climax (pun intended) that’s about as extravagantly, disturbingly erotic as anything this side of In the Realm of the Senses (1976). The rest of the characters burst in and gaze, shocked, at the remnants of their two-person orgy. They may have died, but they get the romance and tradition of bullfighting, a pair of beautifully entangled corpses, and the satisfaction of finally fulfilling their passions. It’s excessive, it’s perverse, but that’s Almodóvar for you. His film’s endings are often hard to categorize, a mix of happy and sad, troubling and comforting. Matador follows the same enigmatic, convention-defying pattern in its own weirdly sexy way.

Hitchcock isn’t Matador‘s only inspiration. Almodóvar is a highly allusive filmmaker, and midway into Matador, María sneaks into a movie theater, with Diego in hot pursuit. The theater, naturally, is playing the steamy climax of David O. Selznick and King Vidor’s feverishly epic western Duel in the Sun (1946). Just like Matador, Duel in the Sun ends with its two obsessive, doomed lovers – Pearl (Selznick paramour Jennifer Jones) and Lewt (Gregory Peck) orgiastically destroying one another. It’s a bloody end for a saga of family, betrayal, and industrialization – but one that’s just as ridiculous as any scene in Matador, even if the film never admits it.

Duel in the Sun begins with the hanging of Pearl’s father (Herbert Marshall) for the murder of his wife and her lover. She’s sent off to live with distant relatives – the McCanles family, who live on a vast ranch called Spanish Bit. There’s the ornery, paraplegic Senator (Lionel Barrymore), his more sympathetic wife (Lillian Gish), and their two sons, the lusty Lewt and the more civilized Jesse (Joseph Cotten). As you can tell, this is a giant, expensive, all-star affair – even Walter Huston steps in for a tiny role as an itinerant, fire-and-brimstone preacher who lectures Pearl about her sinful nature: “Under that heathen blanket, there’s a full-blossomed woman built by the devil to drive men crazy!”

By men, of course, he means Lewt, who has a sinful nature of his own. This is an unusual character for Peck, who would go on to fight anti-Semitism shortly thereafter in Elia Kazan’s message movie Gentleman’s Agreement (1947); here, he’s a gun-toting rapist fixated on owning Pearl (and her sexuality) to the extent that he kills her kind-hearted fiancé in cold blood. However, the Senator’s racism makes Lewt refuse to marry her; Pearl, you see, is part-Native American. (As a result, the very white Jones’s skin is crudely slathered in brown makeup, just like Charlton Heston in Touch of Evil.) Through all of her trials, Jesse tries to help her, but he gives up once he believes that she’s actually interested in Lewt. So Pearl grows more and more attached to Lewt… and draws nearer to her own death.

This is not a racially or sexually progressive movie, at all. Its protagonist is essentially martyred from the start just because of her skin color and her mother’s affair, and she’s blamed for every bit of persecution she receives – whether by the Senator, the preacher, or the brothers she alternately loves. It’s none too surprising, either, since Duel in the Sun was basically intended as Selznick’s follow-up to his super-popular but similarly regressive magnum opus Gone with the Wind (1939). While it doesn’t match the earlier film’s romantic heights or historical scope (despite having three times as many uncredited co-directors), it still has plenty to recommend it – especially if you’re a junkie for torrid melodrama like Almodóvar clearly is.

Duel in the Sun‘s delights are more cultish and weird than its southern predecessor, especially as the film approaches its sun-burnt, homicidal finale, which borders on the surreal. The film’s oneiric qualities are aided by the dazzling Technicolor cinematography, shot by the team of Lee Garmes, Ray Rennahan, and Harold Rosson, which make the desert look distinctly unreal. Regardless of Selznick’s intentions, Duel in the Sun is definitely closer to Johnny Guitar than How the West Was Won – and it’s to the film’s credit. Jones isn’t exactly an acting dynamo, but thankfully she’s surrounded by a cast of legends, and Peck makes one hell of a sleazy, unapologetic villain.

Finally, Duel in the Sun is unabashedly erotic, as Jones’s heaving bosom is just as vital to the film’s success as any given line of dialogue. Much of the movie, especially the conflict between Jesse and the Senator, seems geared to make you think this is a movie about nationhood, the death of the west, and the taming of the land. But that’s an afterthought in relation to the film’s real and true subject matter, which is the kinky, violent, death-tinged relationship between Lewt and Pearl. As much as I wish that Jesse could’ve been the main character (ohh, Joseph Cotten…), it just wasn’t to be.

No, Duel in the Sun‘s heart belongs with Lewt, his phallic guns, and his frequent, contentious trysts with Pearl. Their behavior together makes Rhett and Scarlett look like a model of chastity – as well as a model of respectful consent and female self-determination. Gender equity and healthy sexuality are tossed out the window, and the same goes for any conception of subtlety or restraint – Selznick really wanted to paint the landscape with his character’s outsize emotions. So you can see why Pedro Almodóvar (or Martin Scorsese, for that matter) loves this movie. It’s ambitious, audacious, opulent, unhesitatingly melodramatic, and it charts the inevitable path from erotic obsession to stylized death.

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Celebrity, Identity, and Perfect Blue

Before we lost Satoshi Kon, and before he had made a dreamscape spy movie, a yuletide comedy/drama about homeless people, a postmodern masterpiece of TV anime, and a meta-cinematic fantasia about Japanese film history… before all that, he made a tight little psychological thriller called Perfect Blue (1997). The film’s style has been compared to those of Hitchcock, Argento, and de Palma, and while it shares their interests in obsession, subjectivity, and nail-biting suspense, deep down it’s pure Kon. His is a world where self-definition is all-important, and where our identities can be shaped by the images that surround us.

This is the crisis that threatens to destroy Mimarin, a Japanese pop star who tries her hand at serious acting with a small role on a TV crime drama. Her fans aren’t happy with this change in career, and they’re encouraged by a website called “Mima’s Room” that purports to record her every thought and move; together, this fan backlash and invasive website shatter Mima’s confidence and rip away any veil of privacy that she may have had. But while her privacy disappears, she’s still secluded, made emotionally and verbally inert by all the traumas she’s undergoing. Then the murders start…

Perfect Blue is one of the tragically few animated horror movies. Thankfully, it’s also an extraordinarily good one. Even though it’s Kon’s first feature film, it shows a director fully in control of his medium and his ideas. Every scene is bursting with subtext, whether it’s about the relationship between fans and celebrities or the media’s impact on female body image. Kon also demonstrates a talent, crucial to later films like Millennium Actress and Paprika, for mixing Mima’s subjective experience and loosening grasp on real life with the film’s literal reality. This nonstop ambiguity comes fully into play during the film’s big final revelation – one which took me by surprise, and upended my assumptions about all the preceding events. (I won’t give it away in writing, but if you’re really curious, an out-of-context visual spoiler is here.)

This is also a very creepy, very violent movie, combining Repulsion-style internal horror with extremely graphic slasher-style killings. But the killings are never gratuitous or contextless, as they feed into or build off of Mima’s own traumas. Her bloodthirsty stalker, like the rest of his obsessive ilk, feels that Mima owes him something for all his loyalty. When she insists on continuing her career the way she wants, he decides she’s a fake and has to die. It’s particularly telling that this decision follows Mima’s participation in a brutal televised rape scene – one that, according to her online doppelgänger, she didn’t want to make in the first place. Due to her association with a sexual act, she has been tainted and now she’s no longer the same Mima. The girlish illusion in a pink dress has been shattered.

This is one of the movie’s most eloquent, well-developed points: the male fans want ownership of their pop star’s sexuality. They have a picture of her in their minds and it must be maintained. (This is relevant across a wide spectrum of celebrities; think about all the singers and actresses whose personal lives have been distorted for publicity’s sake to mesh with their onscreen appearances.) And all the slut-shaming that Mima receives for doing the rape scene worsens her fears. As the movie goes on, the slender and fleet-footed vision of who she used to be, complete with pink ribbon and tutu, comes to dominate her life. In a great scene, the fake (or real?) Mima skips freely down a hallway, unburdened by gravity; meanwhile, the real (or fake?) Mima gasps for breath and struggles to keep up.

This is the issue that Perfect Blue dramatizes so ably in horror form: for her adoring public, the real Mima is a fake. She’s not demure, graceful, or pretty enough; she has her own opinions and desires. She has a weight and realness to her that prevent her from bouncing down a rainy street like her eternally smiling double. But this double, this duplicated image, is the only version of her that can satisfy the fans, and this fact obliterates her self-esteem, as well as her sanity. The process of being a celebrity, of forging the illusions that define music and TV, blur her very notions of who she is. If you’ve seen any of his other movies, you know: Satoshi Kon was the perfect director to take on those problems in Perfect Blue.

I’ll close with a fun illustration of Kon’s debt to American slasher movies. By chance, I happened to recognize a shot that had been quoted from the obscure, gory film The Toolbox Murders (1978). Directed by Dennis Donnelly, it stars Cameron Mitchell as a handyman who perpetrates of the titular murders. It’s a pretty ugly, misogynistic piece of work, with a suitably batshit ending, but at least Kon found it inspiration. Feast your eyes:

Coincidence?

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Hungry for Cinema: Eating Raoul

I’m looking for new formats in which to discuss individual films or directors. Haven’t really thought of anything yet. However, I do have a movie to discuss – I watched it last night and, after browsing the Internet, decided that no one’s really talked about it thoroughly enough. So this is my meager attempt to do so.

The movie is Paul Bartel’s cult classic Eating Raoul (1982), a recent purchase I requested for the Carleton library. It’s a very entertaining black comedy about a perversely normal couple named Paul and Mary Bland (played by Paul Bartel and Mary Woronov) who want to start up their own restaurant, but lack the necessary funds. One thing leads to another, and soon they’re inviting rich perverts up to their apartment, bopping them on the head with a frying pan, then taking their money. But then they team up with a Chicano locksmith/thief (Robert Beltran, later Voyager‘s Chakotay), and things get a little complicated…

The film opens with a very cute credit sequence set to the 1930 song “Exactly Like You,” and followed by an introduction to “Hollywood, California! City of contrast… Here, sex hunger is reflected in every aspect of daily life…” All of these little touches add up to a very disarming atmosphere – sure, it’s about rape and murder, but in a pleasant, nostalgic way. Mary Bland works in a hospital, where she deals with a horny patient; Paul is fired from his job at a liquor store for pushing expensive wines. Their inability to get along with the modern world is a recurring subtext – with their utter disinterest in sex and their fixation on providing high-quality wine and dining, they’re actually pretty weird.

“I don’t mind a little hugging and kissing,” says the prissy Paul after a run-in with a dominatrix, “but that…” In an adorably bizarre twist, the Blands even sleep in separate, adjacent beds – Mary with her stuffed animals, and Paul with his stuffed bottle of wine. It’s such a strange choice, to make a film not about perverts, but about hard-working asexuals who are OK with a little murder now and then (or, as it turns out, every night). It gets especially interesting as the Blands’ scheme introduces them to sex, after a little prompting from Doris the dominatrix.

Their conference with her is unforgettable: she spoon-feeds her baby while explaining to the Blands, “Everybody’s gotta make up his own mind about where to draw the line. Like I personally draw the line at golden showers.” (Sadly, Susan Saiger, who plays Doris, has only had three other screen credits, and none in the past 20 years.) As Mary begins catering to the fantasies of strangers, they find themselves exposed to all sorts of weird fetishes, from a wanna-be Nazi commandant to a Vietnam vet with a sexual grudge against hippies, played by Ed Begley, Jr.

Then Raoul comes in. Robert Beltran plays him brilliantly: he’s dishonest, charismatic, sexually voracious and not exactly shy about it. He’s a man of many rackets, and makes an odd fit as a business partner with the Blands, leading to no end of friction with Paul, and a decided lack of friction with Mary. Paul’s paranoia leads him to stalk Raoul for a day, and later to hire Doris for some undercover work… as you might imagine, hilarity ensues.

But recounting the film’s plot doesn’t really do it justice. While the story’s clashes between very different ideas of the American dream (most of which either involve sex or someone’s death) provide the background for the morbid comedy, it’s the offbeat dialogue by Bartel and Richard Blackburn that make Eating Raoul the spicy treat it is. It’s often absurd and gleefully satirical, taking shots both at the Blands, who just can’t seem to help killing people, and at the swinging, rape-happy world they live in.

As the film’s introduction suggests, this is a world where “the barrier between food and sex has dissolved.” Every act is just about expressing one’s appetites: hot tub orgies, burglary, marijuana use, cooking dinner. Eating Raoul, right up to the titular event and the unexpected ending that follows, is a deliciously sick movie, constantly shifting the targets of its weird sense of humor. I trace a lot of this sensibility back to Bartel’s origins as a student of Roger Corman, for whom he made his directorial debut, Death Race 2000; you can see a lot of similar comedy in such Corman classics as A Bucket of Blood (1959) and The Little Shop of Horrors (1960), both of which also have well-meaning protagonists who commit mass murder.

While watching Eating Raoul, I was also reminded of other 1980s black comedies, like Basket Case (1982) and Repo Man (1984), both of which also take broad, comical shots at the modern world. I’d be interested in finding other ’80s movies that integrate comedy with horror/sci-fi with such great success. But ultimately, no film can quite pull off what Eating Raoul does so hilariously. I have to give credit to some stand-out supporting players: in addition to Beltran and the multitalented Saiger, the film has appearances by Buck Henry as a lecherous bank employee, and Edie McClurg as an inane swinger who giggles, “We like B&D, but we don’t like S&M. We met at the A&P!”

So I grant that Eating Raoul isn’t for everyone (the same probably goes for most comedies where fetishists are ground into dog food), but it’s about as funny a cinematic exploration of libidinous violence as you’re likely to find. I’ll also mention that the film has been adapted into a stage musical, which seems oddly appropriate. As cult films go, Eating Raoul is both rare and well-done.

Beaujolais

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