The Haunting of Julia
Despite being the bastard son of The Exorcist (1973), Rosemary's Baby (1968), and a slew of other superior supernatural horror pictures, The Haunting of Julia (or Full Circle as it was first released) remains one of the very best Canuxploitation titles out there, as exemplified by its clinching the Grand Prize at Avoriaz in 1978. Produced jointly by UK and Canadian concerns, the project was made to take advantage of the Canadian government's tax shelters for film producers. Seemingly patched up from several different trends in the film market, the end result is surprisingly cohesive if not entirely overwhelming.
The Haunting of Julia is full of overdetermined imagery:
here, the seance reaps the exact results one would expect.
In here, Mia Farrow is, you guessed it, a crazy modern woman with a debilitating trauma to overcome. But the reason for her madness is somewhat original. In the very fist scene, which follows a clever tracking shot that shows her entrapped in an imposing London house, protagonist Julia is seen serving breakfast to her kid and uncaring husband. When the kid suddenly starts choking on a piece of breakfast pastry, the panicked mother quickly performs an improvised tracheotomy that proves fatal. It's a parent's worst nightmare, and the posh family house is nothing to cheer Julia up. Momentarily granted her leave from the hospital, where she's been under scrutiny for a nervous breakdown, Julia runs away from her husband and buys a house of her own. Obviously, she chooses a haunted house, a nice piece of Victorian palace on a lively London street that's full of kids... But there is something that lurks beyond the lustrous veneer of the bourgeoisie, something that's hardly a mystery to whoever has looked around for a spell. It is something that Julia will come to know very well thanks to a revelatory spirit that will cause a lot of overdetermined turmoil before finally helping the young woman overcome her trauma and escape gender shackles.
I would be hard-pressed to try and find a novel way in which the spirit interacts with the living here. Besides the obligatory occult seance, it provokes a series of simple misunderstandings that merely help depict Julia as a madwoman. With her mother and ex-husband working in tandem to bring her back to the corral, the noose soon tightens around her and a local antiquarian with whom she entertains an ambiguous relationship of commensalism. Interestingly however, what would have pushed a normal woman to the brink of hysteria fails to rattle Julia completely as she eventually manages to ascertain herself as an active hero and not simply as passive victim. This emanates from a deep-seeded, almost motherly desire to learn about her spectral guest (a dead child). In turn, this helps her forget about the mundane reality of unrequited love. In fact, it helps the entire narrative divert from the path it had set out, namely that of the supernatural thriller feeding on a poor woman's descent into madness. With Julia slowly taking control over her life, she simultaneously leaves the inside of the house in which she has been entrapped. Taking to the park first, then to the British Museum library, the asylum and the dens of two former killers, she eludes her strictly feminine role of stay-at-home wife and helpless victim. Instead, she delves into the world of forbidden knowledge and becomes another genre archetype altogether. She becomes a supernatural inspector, instead of remaining an overdetermined victim. Through efforts, she starts to have a nearly scientific understanding of her spectral guest, and she acts on it to better free herself from its influence, and thus metaphorically evade her strict gender role. At the same time, she manages to stay feminine by toiling to aid a murdered child and simultaneously exorcize her own child's death. What's truly beautiful however is how Julia's eventual liberation stems from her own initiative and gutsy inquiry into the mystery and not her agency with men, which proves to be nearly useless but for some occasional comfort.
(Spoilers ahead) Although I do not specifically wish to spoil the film's denouement to eager thrill-seekers, I think it is particularly important to address its implications within the framework of British genre cinema. Although it is based on an American novel (Julia by Peter Straub), the narrative's transposition to London is extremely relevant here as it helps us prefigure a major theme in contemporary British horror, children's horror, which can be traced back even further with Village of the Damned (1960). At first, the horror of Julia is that of her own dead child, claimed by the Reaper before she has had any significant experience. Then, it becomes the horror of a murdered child, claimed violently by the Reaper for reasons unknown. But it is in the end that horror is paramount, when we discover that the latter child was claimed by peers, other children who trade their own roles as victims for those of tormentors. Once more, appearances are deceiving and this gives some more water to the wheel, which is smoothly driven across the finish line. Juvenile violence first intrudes into the narrative when Julia spots a knife in the playground. This prompts other parents to infer violence exerted by adults on children, while it actually points to something more sinister altogether. After all, it is those very children who are responsible for the death of Julia's elusive friend. That is the shocking truth that we slowly uncover, a truth that will resonate across time and space to include contemporary British films such as The Children (2008) and Eden Lake (2008).
On a purely technical note, while I know that the print on display was hardly the best ever shown (thanks to the rarity of the film itself), I must say that the overall quality of the lighting is atrocious, with a few scenes being filmed in near-total darkness. This isn't too bad, since atmosphere eventually becomes subservient to the thematic and narrative needs of the screenplay. As for the locales themselves, they contribute a classical sense of nobility to the characters' lives, whose belonging to a nearly-defunct social strata is unchallenged and unquestioned. London's architecture is gorgeous and the film takes full advantage of it. As for the two stars, they're equally tailor-made to fit the part. In a type of role she was used to, Mia Farrow seamlessly brings her natural sensibility to great use as the traumatized mother while opposite Keir Dullea uses the appropriate restraint to depict the unflinching manipulative husband. With Colin Towns' nearly-superfluous giallo-inspired soundtrack stealing the show, it's a miracle that The Haunting of Julia came out as well as it did. A surprisingly potent effort.
*** Sumptuous London decors, a seamless performance by Mia Farrow as a refreshingly active character and a synth-heavy soundtrack help distinguish this quick cash-in from others of its ilk.
I would be hard-pressed to try and find a novel way in which the spirit interacts with the living here. Besides the obligatory occult seance, it provokes a series of simple misunderstandings that merely help depict Julia as a madwoman. With her mother and ex-husband working in tandem to bring her back to the corral, the noose soon tightens around her and a local antiquarian with whom she entertains an ambiguous relationship of commensalism. Interestingly however, what would have pushed a normal woman to the brink of hysteria fails to rattle Julia completely as she eventually manages to ascertain herself as an active hero and not simply as passive victim. This emanates from a deep-seeded, almost motherly desire to learn about her spectral guest (a dead child). In turn, this helps her forget about the mundane reality of unrequited love. In fact, it helps the entire narrative divert from the path it had set out, namely that of the supernatural thriller feeding on a poor woman's descent into madness. With Julia slowly taking control over her life, she simultaneously leaves the inside of the house in which she has been entrapped. Taking to the park first, then to the British Museum library, the asylum and the dens of two former killers, she eludes her strictly feminine role of stay-at-home wife and helpless victim. Instead, she delves into the world of forbidden knowledge and becomes another genre archetype altogether. She becomes a supernatural inspector, instead of remaining an overdetermined victim. Through efforts, she starts to have a nearly scientific understanding of her spectral guest, and she acts on it to better free herself from its influence, and thus metaphorically evade her strict gender role. At the same time, she manages to stay feminine by toiling to aid a murdered child and simultaneously exorcize her own child's death. What's truly beautiful however is how Julia's eventual liberation stems from her own initiative and gutsy inquiry into the mystery and not her agency with men, which proves to be nearly useless but for some occasional comfort.
Luxurious houses are a prison for the protagonist.
(Spoilers ahead) Although I do not specifically wish to spoil the film's denouement to eager thrill-seekers, I think it is particularly important to address its implications within the framework of British genre cinema. Although it is based on an American novel (Julia by Peter Straub), the narrative's transposition to London is extremely relevant here as it helps us prefigure a major theme in contemporary British horror, children's horror, which can be traced back even further with Village of the Damned (1960). At first, the horror of Julia is that of her own dead child, claimed by the Reaper before she has had any significant experience. Then, it becomes the horror of a murdered child, claimed violently by the Reaper for reasons unknown. But it is in the end that horror is paramount, when we discover that the latter child was claimed by peers, other children who trade their own roles as victims for those of tormentors. Once more, appearances are deceiving and this gives some more water to the wheel, which is smoothly driven across the finish line. Juvenile violence first intrudes into the narrative when Julia spots a knife in the playground. This prompts other parents to infer violence exerted by adults on children, while it actually points to something more sinister altogether. After all, it is those very children who are responsible for the death of Julia's elusive friend. That is the shocking truth that we slowly uncover, a truth that will resonate across time and space to include contemporary British films such as The Children (2008) and Eden Lake (2008).
On a purely technical note, while I know that the print on display was hardly the best ever shown (thanks to the rarity of the film itself), I must say that the overall quality of the lighting is atrocious, with a few scenes being filmed in near-total darkness. This isn't too bad, since atmosphere eventually becomes subservient to the thematic and narrative needs of the screenplay. As for the locales themselves, they contribute a classical sense of nobility to the characters' lives, whose belonging to a nearly-defunct social strata is unchallenged and unquestioned. London's architecture is gorgeous and the film takes full advantage of it. As for the two stars, they're equally tailor-made to fit the part. In a type of role she was used to, Mia Farrow seamlessly brings her natural sensibility to great use as the traumatized mother while opposite Keir Dullea uses the appropriate restraint to depict the unflinching manipulative husband. With Colin Towns' nearly-superfluous giallo-inspired soundtrack stealing the show, it's a miracle that The Haunting of Julia came out as well as it did. A surprisingly potent effort.
*** Sumptuous London decors, a seamless performance by Mia Farrow as a refreshingly active character and a synth-heavy soundtrack help distinguish this quick cash-in from others of its ilk.
.........................
Massacre Gun
This typical Nikkatsu gangster film from the 1960s uses Joe Shishido's stature as a genre icon and the jazzy aesthetics of American noir to frame the compelling story of three brothers and their brushing with the mob. The result is a marvel to look and a nice reminder of how the young Japanese directors of the 1960s shared the Frenchmen's preference for American genre cinema. The many sumptuous tableaux comprising the criminal underbelly of Tokyo are captured with great flair in this low-budget production as if by the best artisans of the Hollywoodian Golden Age. With nearly-Shakespearean fratricidal struggles as key to narrative construction, Massacre Gun is a virtuoso effort in bringing a distinct Japanese flavor to the American masterpieces of old out of pure love for the medium.
Three brothers united? (I suggest you
linger on this image for a while.)
Baby-faced Joe Shishido is a hired gun for a local mob boss here, the same mob boss who oversees the boxing career of his younger brother. But when a heated argument leaves said brother with broken hands, the two men, along with their musician brother start their own organization dedicated to taking over the crime syndicate owned by their previous boss. The subsequent struggle sees Shishido's character confront a former friend and colleague, whose jazz bar is a frequent meeting place for the two men. Ultimately, it's an epic highway that will decide which gang will rule the city, if any.
The incarnation of the yakuza code, or jingi (which translates to "honor and humanity", as popularized by the eponymous series by Kinji Fukasaku), Shishido's Ryuichi is a classic romantic anti-hero. First having to murder the woman he loves in order to please his superiors, he then turns the table on them as their authority comes into question. In keeping with the romantic ideal of the yakuza, or that of the criminalized biker from our own Quebec mythology (see Mom et moi, part of the double bill screened on August 5th), the hitman becomes a protector of deeper social values and an exterminator of unfair leaders. He is the ruthless thug with a conscience that we would all love to be, and a classic archetype of genre cinema. His slick clothes and sharp wit are those of such classic anti-heroes such as Rick Blaine while his proficiency as a gunman would equal any of Clint Eastwood's characters'. Watching him evolve throughout the narrative is a treat in itself. Shifting from the Casablanca-inspired café held by his brother, the posh jazz bar held by his former partner and the various gambling dens which he vies to control, he remains a classic figure in all aspects, one that commands immediate respect from the audience.
But then there is the ambiguous relationship he entertains toward his many brothers, most important of which is the young boxer, whose lack of direction could be said to derive directly from Ryuichi's bad influence. Although bound by the classic rules of tragedy, the two fratricidal conflicts at the heart of the narrative are also strong elements pertaining to the jingi code, and especially the Confucian virtue of filial piety. As such, they impregnate the film with a fortified dramatic power arising from the heated personal conflicts which oppose the characters. By deciding to embark his two brothers, one of which is a harmless musician, into his nefarious enterprise, Ryuichi puts both their lives in jeopardy, and especially that of his younger brother, for whom the image of the gangster is like a drug. But on top of this three way struggle between the protagonists, there is the personal battle of Ryuichi against his former partner, with whom he shares a reciprocal respect, and yet another brother-to-brother relationship. This provides a crucial narrative twist when the current mob boss is gunned down by Ryuichi during an exciting hostage situation because it puts that very ex-partner in charge of the concerted effort directed at the protagonist. This leads to an insane gun fight set in a empty highway stretch where the film's title finally takes all of its sense.
Wild action at the end of Massacre Gun,
the epitome of reflexive genre cinema.
While great dramatically, and a successful transposition of the gangster archetype into the world of Japanese yakuza, the film is primordially a visual treat, if not for the gorgeously dignified black-and-white photography or elaborate sets, complete with erotic dancers and endless gunshot sounds, then for the actors' presence onscreen. With their slick classical look and nearly natural nobility, they make for a great trio of modern Robin Hood. As such, they become timeless genre archetypes, immovable heroes of urban mythologies and eternal staples of cinema itself. Their very presence in this attempt at rejuvenating the classic images of old is proof that they still belong, and probably always will belong to the silver screen.
**** A perfect example of the New Wave's reverence and dedication to the Hollywoodian excellence of old with a distinct Japanese flavor provided by local gangster etiquette and the importance of filial piety.
.........................
Possession
At once a very personal and universal story of separation, this hysterical exercise in over-acting is the pinnacle of raging modern expression. Involving highly intricate camerawork and a heavy dose of surrealistic imagery, it is a surprisingly sharp, passion-driven account of a couple's descent into madness on the back of a heated separation. But it is not a clean separation, and that is precisely where the shoe pinches, as there results a constantly hurtful brushing that gets progressively worst until the narrative goes completely overboard and into the realm of symbolism, slimy or otherwise. The end result is unique precisely because it reflects the director's very own experience in a very emotional way. It's like experiencing madness firsthand, as if being personally affected by the scourge of love and its necessary outcome, abandonment. Very powerful stuff.
Sam Neill plays a well-read, but emotionally weak protagonist here, opposite gorgeous French actress Isabelle Adjani, both of whom are engaged in a maddening tug of war over the custody of their young son following a violent trial separation. Momentarily returning home from a mysterious business trip, Neill's Mark finds proof of his wife's infidelity on a postcard she has received from a mysterious suitor named Heinrich. After confronting his wife Anna with the dire truth, he finds out that she has been with him a few times before and, most importantly, that sex with Heinrich is far better. That is what truly pushes the protagonist over the edge, this sort of overwhelming helplessness that comes over a man when his sexual proficiency is put into question. Now, you'd think that Mark would simply plot to kill Anna, hence removing her once and for all from Heinrich's grasp. But that's not what happens. It would be far too simple for a film of such symbolic and emotional magnitude. What happens instead is that Mark and Anna continue to take care of their kid alternately, with Mark retaining their repulsively modern Berlin apartment and Anna living on her own in a undisclosed location. Such arrangements quickly cause friction, and from that friction emerges the fire of madness, which quickly consumes the two protagonists until death becomes involved. Throw in a few peripheral eccentrics (paramount of which is Heinrich, the self-styled German lover) and you've got a film that's absolutely unique, a rare and very intense experience in madness.
Aside from the humbling beauty of Isabelle Adjani's face (which is featured prominently in screen-wide close-ups), Possession's most salient, and most expressive feature is the brilliant camerawork by Andrzej Jaroszewicz, a frequent collaborator to director Zulawski*. His camera is so incredibly volatile here that it manages to fully immerse the viewer in a world that is constantly shifting and constantly menaced by the lingering presence of madness. Using hovering or cyclical tracking shots, as well as canted angles to create a warped sense of space, we are quick to share the protagonists' sense of emotional disorientation throughout their ordeal. But then, the camera also exists as a lingering, one could even say tormenting presence in both their lives. Its groundless incarnation and constant intrusion into their intimacy makes it akin to madness itself, which menaces to violently intrude into the narrative from any given offscreen space. The camera becomes especially abrasive in its unflinching, often lengthy scrutiny of the characters' worst episodes. During the famous subway scene, in which Adjani is framed with painful proximity during a particularly violent psychotic episode, duration takes a particular significance as it allows us to probe deeper into her pain and more cinematographically into her character. In the end, the film could've eschewed dialogues altogether based solely on the camera's expressive power as a crucial vector in the depiction of madness.
* Jaroszewicz and Zulawski won the Camerimage award for best Polish duo in 2002.
But then there is overacting, which flamboyantly manages to convey both Mark and Anna's hysteria over their separation. There is such passion in that overacting that it soon becomes akin to an infectious disease. Those wall-shattering screams, those endless "AAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAA!!", these are the true expressions of desperate people, people who are literally inflamed by their emotions to the point of insanity. And it gets increasingly worse, until the whole film sinks in a surreal maelstrom made of horny tentacles and casual murder. The two main actors are pushed to such extremes that the film manages to achieve a somewhat miraculous authenticity in its depiction of traumatic love stories. People cut themselves here, they brutally slaughter opponents and casually indulge in the most animalistic behavior that one could expect either Neill or Adjani to. The emotional level of the performances, and hence, of the whole narrative, is elevated to unnatural heights by those performances, heights where only abandonment can seemingly push you.
The sharpness of the screenplay and its crunchy dialogue is another worthy feature here and it evolves quite organically from an early scene in which Mark shares a meeting with his shady employers. In this scene, he is seen as perfectly in control, with James Bond's uncanny quickness at repartee. He remains absolutely unflinching while being challenged with tough questions regarding a mysterious new assignment. The reason he dryly invokes in order to elude said assignment is: "family", which turns out to be an harsher assignment still. Momentarily returning home to Berlin, Mark is stripped of his professional mystique and uncomfortably contorted in the mold of married life. As such, he constantly comes at odds with an ice-cold wife who seems increasingly estranged from him. The slow tracking shot over their still bodies lying in bed is quite informative in that regard. Although they are framed side by side, there is a strong sense of distance which manages to seep into the diegesis. The stillness of both bodies, their lack of passion while in bed is absolutely shocking, especially in light of Mark's long absence and the couple's would-be happy reunion.
That is how the archetype of the cold professional à la James Bond is deconstructed along the lines of sexual potency. In the 1960s, Bond was created as a phallic remedy to man's increasing apathy and growing distaste for war. Thus his sexual potency and ruthless womanizing were key to making him the man that he is. His relationship with Ursula Andress' character from Dr. No is perhaps the first test of this "fortified" manhood that Fleming's character soon came to embody. To paraphrase Jonny Lee Miller's Sick Boy from Trainspotting, "Andress [is] the quintessential Bond girl. [...] The embodiment of his superiority over us. Beautiful, exotic, highly sexual and totally unavailable to anyone apart from him (emphasis added)." In this regard, Isabelle Adjani's character could thus be understood as the Bond girl who is slowly slipping away from the protagonist's grasp, a "prize" with a will of her own, and a desire to get out of it. While she first exists as a mere crutch for Mark's flinching ego, a prize made to prove his manhood, she subsequently becomes a crotch as the whole narrative eventually becomes solely interested in her sexual antics. Simultaneously, Mark's stature is quickly deflated until no semblance of control is left and his manly grasp has all but vanished. And from that confusion, a new modern definition of gender starts to emerge.
Evolving from a slightly impressionistic depiction of separation, with the lingering presence of madness expressed by the volatile camera, the film eventually sinks into a world of unrestrained symbolism and damaging imagery. Both protagonists end up being doubled and replaced by their better halves. First, Mark creates a docile version of his wife in the person of blonde school attendant Helen. The young woman is eager to help him out with the kid and to provide kind words. She shares all the beauty of his former wife, but without Anna's sharp edge. She would be an ideal partner if only we knew for sure that she was true. As for Anna's own fantasy lover, he seems to have emerged out of her primordial lust and uncontrolled passion. He is a dark version of Mark, with a sharp penetrating look. He seems to have all the sexual resolve which his counterpart lacks. Like Heinrich before him, he is a bothersome reminder of the protagonist's impotence.
But then, the film also draws from Japanese imagery to better depict the sexual angst at the center of the narrative. Isolated in a dilapidated apartment in the sketchier parts of the city, one that stands squarely for her own decaying state of mind, Anna indulges in casual sex with a viscous tentacled creature. At the height of its power, once it has been fully formed and thoroughly wrapped around Adjani's porcelain-white limbs, it becomes the epitome of the Japanese rapist, an entity oozing sexual power and putting the surrounding males at shame. It is Zulawski's contribution to Hokusai's woodcut depicting the dream of the fisherman's wife. The uncanny sexual potency of the creature takes all of its sense here, as a fearsome challenge to Mark's own impotence. And the phallic confusion permeating the film remains whole, a powerful testimony to what men fear deep inside of their hearts. The whole weight of the world, the culture of performance, the unbridled expression of manhood and the very expression of passion all limited to sexual proficiency. All within the confines of one author's nightmare, who uses the screen as a means of exorcizing his demons.
Possession is a film like no other precisely because it is made to depict one very specific separation. All narrative threads are but spiderweb strands fastened around the protagonist and author's limbs, a testimony to his flickering resolve. But above all, Possession is a visceral cinematic experience and it is full of unforgettable imagery. If not for the horny octopi, nasty knife wounds, incongruous karate chops, symbolic doubles and decaying city apartments riddled with litter, then you should see it for Isabelle Adjani, an actress whose captivating beauty is a powerful dramatic engine and a narrative goal in itself. At 26, Adjani's features were striking. The refinement of her face perfect. She is the ultimate object of desire. Yet, she is so much more, a fully-fledged dramatic character driven to madness by her ex-husband's own insecurity and overwhelming desire to get her back. Adjani's onscreen presence is actually unforgettable. And that subway scene... a classic cinematic moment that screams to be rediscovered. And if Adjani doesn't do the trick for you, then you can still watch Possession as a simple expression of the madness that is love. Not unlike Tokyo Fist, which I previously reviewed on this blog, the present film is a stellar experience in couple therapy, at once a powerful cinematic experience and a cathartic reflection on passion. If you haven't heard about Possession, then seek it out immediately. It will provide you with many unforgettable memories and an uncontrollable urge to scream: "AAAAAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
****1/2 Intricate camerawork, hysterical acting and shocking imagery all contribute to this very personal, yet universal depiction of love and passion. A stellar example of an auteur's take on genre cinema and a full-fledged cult classic with international potential.
Couple therapy at its best: Zulawski frames
a super nasty separation to exorcize his own.
Sam Neill plays a well-read, but emotionally weak protagonist here, opposite gorgeous French actress Isabelle Adjani, both of whom are engaged in a maddening tug of war over the custody of their young son following a violent trial separation. Momentarily returning home from a mysterious business trip, Neill's Mark finds proof of his wife's infidelity on a postcard she has received from a mysterious suitor named Heinrich. After confronting his wife Anna with the dire truth, he finds out that she has been with him a few times before and, most importantly, that sex with Heinrich is far better. That is what truly pushes the protagonist over the edge, this sort of overwhelming helplessness that comes over a man when his sexual proficiency is put into question. Now, you'd think that Mark would simply plot to kill Anna, hence removing her once and for all from Heinrich's grasp. But that's not what happens. It would be far too simple for a film of such symbolic and emotional magnitude. What happens instead is that Mark and Anna continue to take care of their kid alternately, with Mark retaining their repulsively modern Berlin apartment and Anna living on her own in a undisclosed location. Such arrangements quickly cause friction, and from that friction emerges the fire of madness, which quickly consumes the two protagonists until death becomes involved. Throw in a few peripheral eccentrics (paramount of which is Heinrich, the self-styled German lover) and you've got a film that's absolutely unique, a rare and very intense experience in madness.
Aside from the humbling beauty of Isabelle Adjani's face (which is featured prominently in screen-wide close-ups), Possession's most salient, and most expressive feature is the brilliant camerawork by Andrzej Jaroszewicz, a frequent collaborator to director Zulawski*. His camera is so incredibly volatile here that it manages to fully immerse the viewer in a world that is constantly shifting and constantly menaced by the lingering presence of madness. Using hovering or cyclical tracking shots, as well as canted angles to create a warped sense of space, we are quick to share the protagonists' sense of emotional disorientation throughout their ordeal. But then, the camera also exists as a lingering, one could even say tormenting presence in both their lives. Its groundless incarnation and constant intrusion into their intimacy makes it akin to madness itself, which menaces to violently intrude into the narrative from any given offscreen space. The camera becomes especially abrasive in its unflinching, often lengthy scrutiny of the characters' worst episodes. During the famous subway scene, in which Adjani is framed with painful proximity during a particularly violent psychotic episode, duration takes a particular significance as it allows us to probe deeper into her pain and more cinematographically into her character. In the end, the film could've eschewed dialogues altogether based solely on the camera's expressive power as a crucial vector in the depiction of madness.
* Jaroszewicz and Zulawski won the Camerimage award for best Polish duo in 2002.
But then there is overacting, which flamboyantly manages to convey both Mark and Anna's hysteria over their separation. There is such passion in that overacting that it soon becomes akin to an infectious disease. Those wall-shattering screams, those endless "AAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAA!!", these are the true expressions of desperate people, people who are literally inflamed by their emotions to the point of insanity. And it gets increasingly worse, until the whole film sinks in a surreal maelstrom made of horny tentacles and casual murder. The two main actors are pushed to such extremes that the film manages to achieve a somewhat miraculous authenticity in its depiction of traumatic love stories. People cut themselves here, they brutally slaughter opponents and casually indulge in the most animalistic behavior that one could expect either Neill or Adjani to. The emotional level of the performances, and hence, of the whole narrative, is elevated to unnatural heights by those performances, heights where only abandonment can seemingly push you.
An actress' worst nightmare: Isabelle Adjani is
pushed to weird extremes in the famous subway scene.
The sharpness of the screenplay and its crunchy dialogue is another worthy feature here and it evolves quite organically from an early scene in which Mark shares a meeting with his shady employers. In this scene, he is seen as perfectly in control, with James Bond's uncanny quickness at repartee. He remains absolutely unflinching while being challenged with tough questions regarding a mysterious new assignment. The reason he dryly invokes in order to elude said assignment is: "family", which turns out to be an harsher assignment still. Momentarily returning home to Berlin, Mark is stripped of his professional mystique and uncomfortably contorted in the mold of married life. As such, he constantly comes at odds with an ice-cold wife who seems increasingly estranged from him. The slow tracking shot over their still bodies lying in bed is quite informative in that regard. Although they are framed side by side, there is a strong sense of distance which manages to seep into the diegesis. The stillness of both bodies, their lack of passion while in bed is absolutely shocking, especially in light of Mark's long absence and the couple's would-be happy reunion.
That is how the archetype of the cold professional à la James Bond is deconstructed along the lines of sexual potency. In the 1960s, Bond was created as a phallic remedy to man's increasing apathy and growing distaste for war. Thus his sexual potency and ruthless womanizing were key to making him the man that he is. His relationship with Ursula Andress' character from Dr. No is perhaps the first test of this "fortified" manhood that Fleming's character soon came to embody. To paraphrase Jonny Lee Miller's Sick Boy from Trainspotting, "Andress [is] the quintessential Bond girl. [...] The embodiment of his superiority over us. Beautiful, exotic, highly sexual and totally unavailable to anyone apart from him (emphasis added)." In this regard, Isabelle Adjani's character could thus be understood as the Bond girl who is slowly slipping away from the protagonist's grasp, a "prize" with a will of her own, and a desire to get out of it. While she first exists as a mere crutch for Mark's flinching ego, a prize made to prove his manhood, she subsequently becomes a crotch as the whole narrative eventually becomes solely interested in her sexual antics. Simultaneously, Mark's stature is quickly deflated until no semblance of control is left and his manly grasp has all but vanished. And from that confusion, a new modern definition of gender starts to emerge.
Evolving from a slightly impressionistic depiction of separation, with the lingering presence of madness expressed by the volatile camera, the film eventually sinks into a world of unrestrained symbolism and damaging imagery. Both protagonists end up being doubled and replaced by their better halves. First, Mark creates a docile version of his wife in the person of blonde school attendant Helen. The young woman is eager to help him out with the kid and to provide kind words. She shares all the beauty of his former wife, but without Anna's sharp edge. She would be an ideal partner if only we knew for sure that she was true. As for Anna's own fantasy lover, he seems to have emerged out of her primordial lust and uncontrolled passion. He is a dark version of Mark, with a sharp penetrating look. He seems to have all the sexual resolve which his counterpart lacks. Like Heinrich before him, he is a bothersome reminder of the protagonist's impotence.
But then, the film also draws from Japanese imagery to better depict the sexual angst at the center of the narrative. Isolated in a dilapidated apartment in the sketchier parts of the city, one that stands squarely for her own decaying state of mind, Anna indulges in casual sex with a viscous tentacled creature. At the height of its power, once it has been fully formed and thoroughly wrapped around Adjani's porcelain-white limbs, it becomes the epitome of the Japanese rapist, an entity oozing sexual power and putting the surrounding males at shame. It is Zulawski's contribution to Hokusai's woodcut depicting the dream of the fisherman's wife. The uncanny sexual potency of the creature takes all of its sense here, as a fearsome challenge to Mark's own impotence. And the phallic confusion permeating the film remains whole, a powerful testimony to what men fear deep inside of their hearts. The whole weight of the world, the culture of performance, the unbridled expression of manhood and the very expression of passion all limited to sexual proficiency. All within the confines of one author's nightmare, who uses the screen as a means of exorcizing his demons.
Hentai imagery helps us understand the protagonist's
obsession with phallic power.
Possession is a film like no other precisely because it is made to depict one very specific separation. All narrative threads are but spiderweb strands fastened around the protagonist and author's limbs, a testimony to his flickering resolve. But above all, Possession is a visceral cinematic experience and it is full of unforgettable imagery. If not for the horny octopi, nasty knife wounds, incongruous karate chops, symbolic doubles and decaying city apartments riddled with litter, then you should see it for Isabelle Adjani, an actress whose captivating beauty is a powerful dramatic engine and a narrative goal in itself. At 26, Adjani's features were striking. The refinement of her face perfect. She is the ultimate object of desire. Yet, she is so much more, a fully-fledged dramatic character driven to madness by her ex-husband's own insecurity and overwhelming desire to get her back. Adjani's onscreen presence is actually unforgettable. And that subway scene... a classic cinematic moment that screams to be rediscovered. And if Adjani doesn't do the trick for you, then you can still watch Possession as a simple expression of the madness that is love. Not unlike Tokyo Fist, which I previously reviewed on this blog, the present film is a stellar experience in couple therapy, at once a powerful cinematic experience and a cathartic reflection on passion. If you haven't heard about Possession, then seek it out immediately. It will provide you with many unforgettable memories and an uncontrollable urge to scream: "AAAAAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
****1/2 Intricate camerawork, hysterical acting and shocking imagery all contribute to this very personal, yet universal depiction of love and passion. A stellar example of an auteur's take on genre cinema and a full-fledged cult classic with international potential.
