Melancholia (2011)

Lars Von Trier is the fucking mack-daddy of misanthropes, especially when it comes to filmmakers. This is an idea he, more or less, admits to in interviews and explores in full depth with the bulk of his movies. Plastered like rancid, gummy flesh across the conceptual walls of his mind is Lars' obsession with the dark impulses of humanity. He seems to find fear and delight equally in all the corruption and stupidity that people have wrought in our time on the Earth. And so his films are all about punishment, consequence and inevitability - I feel he wishes to see humans suffer for their hypocrisy, their ignorance, their malice, and what better way to exercise those demons than through the medium of film?

Von Trier's latest turn, Melancholia, may largely follow suit with the rest of his filmography but this time he puts his deep-seated frustration, fear and humility on the grandest scale possible - the end of the world. Melancholia takes places at a remote golf course/mansion, where two sisters attempt to keep their lives together amidst the impending collision between Earth and a traveling planet. The film is broken up arbitrarily into two parts, one focuses on the younger sister, Justine, and the second focuses on the older sister, Claire. I say it's arbitrary because the story merely continues chronologically and each sister plays an equally important part in the others storyline.

Kirsten Dunst pulls off an excellent performance as the deeply troubled, inconsolable Justine. Yes, you read that sentence right, Kirsten Dunst actually has some chops. It's proof that there are many actors out there (just think of Mark Ruffalo in Zodiac as another example) waiting to unleash themselves but are relegated into generic and listless movie roles for the bulk of their careers. Dunst's Justine is the dour, black heart of the movie. Dunst highlights a mixture of extreme anxiety and desperation during the wedding party sequence, in which Justine is bombarded by the expectations of her family and her employer. In the second part of the film, Justine gradually transforms into a sort of doomsayer sage. She's calm, collected and ready for the end, traits which Claire, who is normally composed and rational, is forced to take shelter in as Melancholia approaches.

Von Trier uses the two sisters as sort of yin-and-yang harbingers of imminent doom. They both know it's coming, but they each deal with it in different ways, at different times. They each interact with Claire's son, Leo, in different ways, as well. At times, you get the sense that Claire and Justine are just one personality trapped in a perpetual somersault of schizophrenic opposites. There's many scenes of Claire coddling and caring for Justine, bathing her, feeding her, but the dynamic changes. In a scene where both sisters are sitting at the table, Claire speaks to Justine with deep uncertainty, saying how it'd be nice to have wine and play music before the end comes. Justine snarls back at her that none of that matters, it's the end. The stability has shifted to Justine, who is seen as a pillar of support when the void is embraced.

It's not to say Von Trier's end of things is all doom and gloom, though. The film is at first a mix of sharp black and yellow contrast, then a dream-cloud of gorgeous light blue and green - haunting colors that permeate the scenes leading to Melancholia's arrival. Music from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde bellows in on sparse occasions, hinting at and eventually heralding the end of days. The film also takes place on a golf course. It's an unlikely setting which has to be the director's ultimate tongue-in-cheek slight at a sport that literally defines the corruption and complacency of the privileged. Perhaps it is the upper class that Von Trier seeks to punish in the film. Maybe Melancholia is an answer to their collective sins.

Even with that idea in mind, I have to admit that Melancholia plays it too close to the chin at times, especially when Justine flat out says the line "The Earth is evil", when Claire asks her why this is all happening. Alright, Lars, thanks. Because that gargantuan cataclysm in space wasn't an obvious enough metaphor. There's also the question of the necessity of the wedding party to the story. It's an interesting sequence of events, but some of the subplots, such as Justine's relationship with her husband, father and mother are never recalled or spoken about after they fade out of the story. It's as if Lars couldn't figure out how to successfully marry the social observations in a world denying it's fate and the eventual solidarity of the apocalypse.

It took me a good two weeks to figure out if I actually liked Melancholia, and I think on the whole I really do like it. There's a specific seepage and gravity that Von Trier tends to achieve with his films, usually making you like (or hate) his work only after a due period of reflection. This happened to me after I watched some of his other films like Europa and The Element of Crime. The best thing I can say about Melancholia is that, in true Lars fashion, it's a movie that doesn't pull any punches. There's nothing to soften the blows and no places to turn for comfort. It's a genuine lightening bolt to the gut, and although it isn't my favorite Von Trier film, I'm glad he made it.

The Future (2011)

There's a high a degree of artificiality running through Miranda July's The Future, that makes the movie almost obnoxious to watch. It's ironic because you'd think a movie that paints an intimate portrait of a couple on the verge of an emotional and existential crisis would be anything but artificial. However, July takes the long way around, turning what could have been a genuine emotional catharsis into a dog and pony show for hipsters. I don't use the term "hipsters" as a vague generality, either. Certain movies, like The Future, are moving in this very specific direction - the way characters talk, the way the movie transitions from scene to scene, the way music is implemented. This kind of understated, enigmatic visage is speaking directly to a range of personas that have been forged in the fires of superficial culture and taste.

That is, ultimately, what a "hipster" amounts to in my experience. Someone who latches on to the surface level of trendy or purposefully obscure philosophical, historical, political and scientific ideas, music, movies, technology, books, language, sex, visual art, fashion, nature, etcetera, in an attempt to create a particular image for themselves, to join an "exclusive" community of the like-minded and to garner a shallow sense of self-expansion. It's not a matter of, "does this interest me?", it's more like, "does this interest me enough that I can use it to appear cultured/intelligent/cynical/compassionate/mysterious/ambitious/forthright?". Yes, that means even you're grandma, who votes democrat every time just because they're vaguely considered the "liberal" party and doesn't really care to conduct a full examination into what the party stands for, is something of a hipster.  

The Future seems to cater to the interests of book hipsters in particular - the kind you'd find in any self-respecting college fiction writing program. It plays out very much like a magical realist short story, written by a junior at said college, with all the speaks-for-itself drama, dips into surrealism and esoteric dialogue that you can stomach. The couple, Sophie and Jason, seem to have a relationship built on breezy minutiae and fanciful extrapolations. They sit in their apartment, speaking about stopping time with their hands and picking out a song that reminds them of their relationship, one that would shake them out of a proposed amnesia. They talk about their mild dissatisfaction with their jobs, they touch on the pervasiveness of the internet in our lives.

These are topics that can be presented in an intriguing fashion without the feeling of put-upon curiosity that July rams down your throat. While obviously a very personal film, the writer/director assumes that her audience is on board for all the theatrics she has to offer. That presumption leads to the artificiality I spoke of before. Like a play by Tennessee Williams, the dialogue and character motivations are so stilted that you end up feeling nothing for them. Several times throughout the film, I was yelling in my brain, "NO ONE TALKS LIKE THIS UNLESS THEY'RE TRYING REAL HARD TO DO SO".

I found Sophie to be a particularly insufferable character, and it wasn't love-hate, trust me. July portrays Sophie as a mousey, impulsive 30-something who ends up cheating on Jason with an older man. She's clearly dissatisfied with their relationship, but it wasn't enough motivation to randomly jump off the deep end and into bed with a total stranger. There's a scene in the film which Sophie highlights the lack of accountability found in certain women. Laying in bed with Jason one night after she has cheated on him, sleep does not come. She is wide awake and eventually Jason wakes, feeling her heart beating faster and faster. He asks her what's wrong and she struggles to answer. She manages to say, "I'm wild", to which Jason says, "that's ok", and she replies, "no, it isn't".

This could have been a very poignant scene, but there is no gravity or sinew attached to it. Movies aren't required to answer deep sociological questions, such as the nature of a cheating heart, in the midst of their drama, but July was clearly implying negativity toward the reckless nature of some women, perhaps even herself. It definitely wasn't a neutral observation. The problem is that she never provides any results of her musings. She just leaves it at, "women do things that don't necessarily make sense and come to regret it anyway". And I just thought, fuck that. You have the opportunity to change minds or provide some insight to a certain degree and you elect to just shrug your shoulders and pull a shit-eater smile?

That's fundamentally what's wrong with The Future, it doesn't really say anything while attempting to make you feel a whole lot. Essentially, a movie hipsters can be proud to say they watched, enjoyed and thought was quietly profound. Jon Brion's calming ambient guitar score only bolsters the idea that the movie was ready-made for that guy or girl you always see wearing flannel shirts, and they won't shut the fuck up about Bon Iver or Wilco, and they're too proud about riding their bike around, and they make sure all their coffee is Fair Trade. It's a shame, though, because in the past, Miranda July turned her idiosyncrasies into enjoyable little trinkets with Me and You and Everyone We Know. There seems to be a fine line between fashion statement and storytelling, and July must be walking it constantly.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

I still have not read Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but if either film adaptation is a fair judge, it's a messy, convoluted mystery that meanders heavily on the personal lives of the main characters. All of this, in desperate hope of warming up the cold data streams, the dusty record books, the obscure photos and the torn newspaper clippings found therein. While the Swedish version and the American version certainly have major differences, one thing remains consistent - the emphasis on research. For better or worse, that seems to be the core of Mr. Larsson's novel.

David Fincher recently presented to the world his version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and it is an adaptation that is ultimately too reckless to be great, but too tactile to be awful. The film peripherally tracks the recent disgrace of esteemed journalist Mikael Blomkvist and the sexual abuse of the young computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, as the two become involved in a 40-year-old investigation regarding a disappeared member of the wealthy, devious Vanger family.

I will say right out of the gate that Fincher paces the story much more effectively than Niels Oplev did in the Swedish version of the film. Unlike Oplev's indecisive stop-start motion, you can tell Fincher wants to get on with things, and it never stops moving forward. Unfortunately, a hefty portion of the director's trademark gravitas is sacrificed in the process. Unlike the tense build-ups, dark humor and rich characterization of his previous works - Zodiac, Se7en, The Game and even The Social Network - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo feels like it's a new luxury car being pushed out of a manufacturing plant to meet a strict deadline. The pacing may be more effective but the contents framed within don't always meet Fincher's typical standards of quality.

The best example of flawed execution are the research segments, which are littered across the entire movie. Where as in Zodiac you felt like you were an active and engaged participant in the investigation, Fincher forces you outside in Dragon Tattoo. In an effort to streamline the story's chronology, the audience becomes ineffectual bystanders, just nodding along and thinking how cool it looks to see the vague research methods employed by Lisbeth and Mikael as they uncover the truth. There are so many sequences of panning by desks filled with notes and books, shifting laptop programs and wall photo trees with indiscriminate yarn and push-pin strewn across them. You just look at all of it and say to yourself, "yes, they have been doing research". There's no personal satisfaction or epiphany, it's just, "this is the plot, this is how the plot came to be", which would be fine if the story's severity didn't come directly from all that esoteric research.

I thought all the performances in Dragon Tattoo were decent. Nothing necessarily to write home about, but the acting was solid all around. I actually preferred Daniel Craig's Blomkvist to Michael Nyqvist's in the Swedish version. Nyqvist's portrayal seemed to be more of an ineffectual buffoon, where as Craig presented some slapdash (but affecting) passion into the character. Of course, the real draw is the black leather punk, Lisbeth Salander. Rooney Mara plays her with a mousey defiance, never really raising her voice or acting out of turn, instead taking on the role of deadpan harbinger. Naturally, as a damaged 23-year-old waif with tattoos, piercings and partially buzzed hair, she embodies the assertive goth/punk/emo fantasy expertly. She certainly doesn't shy away from sex, even turning rape to her advantage at one point.

Perhaps that says something about the preferences of Stieg Larsson? All I know is that I would have rather had Noomi Rapace back in the role of Lisbeth. I feel like Rapace's more intense and volatile rendition of Lisbeth was more affecting. She still had her apathetic drawl but it always met with a fiery passion burning underneath.

So, add to all that a disappointing and misplaced music score (a big step down from The Social Network) filled with generic bells on top of wavering ambience, and you have a sloppy, sloppy film. Sloppy in its material, concise in it's form. The question really is, was this version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo even necessary? It doesn't improve enough upon the Swedish version (which is already Hollywood-ified) to justify its existence. Is the idea of not having to deal with subtitles an excuse to blow $100 million dollars?

X-Men: First Class (2011)

Sometimes Hollywood manages to misstep into a modest level of quality. Considering the ratio of garbage comic book adaptations they've been putting out for a decade, one can only assume that happy accidents (such as the director, writer or producer actually wanting to do a good thing) are the only cause for such rare occurrences. While it was never destined to be an amazing or life-affirming adventure, X-Men: First Class retains a competence and, dare I say, intelligence that breathes modest new life into the superhero genre.

The film is made by Matthew Vaughan, which, at this point in his career, doesn't really tell you much. The man has only directed three other movies, two of them terrible (Kick-Ass, Stardust) and one of them quite good (Layer Cake). Kick-Ass is the only other comic book adaptation Vaughan has done and, hoooo boy, is that a god awful train wreck of a movie. Not only is it blatantly sexist, junior high school hip and unfunny, it's also weirdly paced and the action sequences, save for one, are so dull you'll want to pluck your eyes out of your head and pour hydrochloric acid into the sockets.

So, First Class is a bit of a new thing for Vaughan. The director does what he can to fairly represent all the origins and back-stories of the major players in the X-Men chronology by providing insight as to how the team of super mutants was first formed. Before Professor X became a stuffy Right Said Fred paraplegic, he was Charles Xavier, a tussel-haired ladies man at Oxford University, obsessed with genetic mutations. Before Magneto was a taciturn silver fox in fashionable red and purple, he was Erik Lehnsherr, a Polish refugee, experimented on by a rogue doctor (later to be Sebastian Shaw) working for the Nazis during the Holocaust. It's this paradigm that the movie revolves around - the forming of a mutant division in the C.I.A., the rising hostilities of Cuban Missile Crisis-era Cold War, the desire to see a mutant dominant or mutant co-existent world - it all hinges on the dueling philosophies of Xavier and Lehnsherr.

Vaughan does an admirable job of giving his main actors some breathing room. James McAvoy plays Xavier at first with a breezy confidence, but he soon turns into a compassionate "fun dad" as he takes on the responsibility of teaching students how to control their powers. Michael Fassbender plays Lehnsherr as a brooding revolutionary, using his station within the C.I.A. mutant division to hunt down the man who killed his mother. The character development is about as well-paced as it may get in terms of the Hollywood blockbuster. Xavier and Lehnsherr share many tender moments and contentious debates. You feel like these two have become actual friends, rather than the relationship just being a device to set future-flung plots into motion.

That said, First Class does still feel ultimately forgettable. The time taken to foster a relationship between the two leads forces others to the wayside - Beast and Mystique, White Queen and Shaw, Lehnsherr and Mystique, Xavier and McTaggert - all end up feeling empty and unnecessary. On the other hand, the action and special effects look decent. The scene where Lehnsherr lifts an entire submarine out of the ocean and when he forces missiles back at the ships that originally fired them are definitely fun to watch. But ultimately, it's transitory. You don't feel that exacting satisfaction because such scenes have not been effectively built up to. It's more of a revolving door carnival, "LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT THESE CRAZY POWERS I HAVE, I MATTER IN THIS FILM", especially from background characters we only kind of care about (Banshee, Azazel, Havok, Angel and Darwin).

Like I talked about in my Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part II review, many Hollywood franchises are subject to the double cheeseburger effect - the idea that too much, too fast will keep the audience blindly intrigued and force them to accept the thin characters and story arcs present with a stifled, conciliatory satisfaction. First Class suffers from the double cheeseburger effect but, unlike Deathly Hallows, Part II, manages to cut the burger in half and eat it just a little more moderately. The best thing that Vaughan does here, is show that superhero films can be smart AND entertaining. Proving the importance of effective pacing is an entirely different (and much more difficult) battle to fight.

Perfect Blue (1997)

You can liken the odds of finding good anime to the art of dumpster diving. Most of the time you're going to find used condoms, diapers, half-eaten pasta, a Big Wheels that's missing both back tires, bandaids, rain-rusted patio furniture and a denim button-up shirt with crusty ketchup stains. There are rare occasions, however, when you'll make a great discovery, like a unopened set of decorative Lion King mugs or a pair of hot teal leather pants. For all the overblown contrivances of the form, there are still directors out there, such as Satoshi Kon, who put forth the message that, yes, anime can be serious, and, yes, it can tell an engaging story that is unique to it's craft.

Kon's Perfect Blue is considered to be a prime example of serious, adult-oriented anime - an assessment I definitely agree with. It still has the stylistic hallmarks of being strange, scatter-shot and epileptic, but it uses these elements in a very effective and mature fashion. Following Mima, a beloved Japanese pop idol that trashes her career in favor of becoming an actress, the film details the pitfalls of zealous fans and disassociation from one persona to another. The narrative is squeezed into a carousel of surreal transitions and abrupt visual U-turns, so at any moment you're feeling confident and caught up on what's happening, the next you're completely thrown for a loop. This movie probably set the world-record for most "randomly waking up after a traumatic experience that may or may not have really happened" scenes in the history of cinema.

I'll admit that I wasn't initially impressed with the quality of the animation. Especially at the beginning of the film, there seemed to be a lot of heavy lines and blocky colors, the characters would move and speak in that herky-jerk Pokemon fashion, where it's essentially just to two of the same frames repeated over and over. Luckily, Kon must have gotten a boost to his budget during production, because Perfect Blue develops into an expressive and fluid psychological nightmare. The rich gradient tones of Mima's merging realities and fantasies provide a kind of layer-cake effect, sitting heavy on top of the film's totally bizarre structure and the grotesque situations that Mima finds herself in.

That's the other great thing about Perfect Blue. It doesn't pull any punches. Kon is sending a bright, shiny laser beam of criticism (and a bit of cheek, too) against the lack of control in fame. Mima constantly finds herself in situations where she lacks control over her life and career - her most devoted fan posing as Mima on a fake blog, her agents casting her in increasingly degrading roles - Mima is living her life vicariously through the decisions of those around her.

The particularly effective rape sequence, in which Mima is being fake-raped in a strip club scene for a movie, Kon likens the intrusive spectacle to a facsimile of the emotional deterioration and powerlessness involved in actual rape. Mima finds herself surrounded by unknown men, strobes lights beating red down upon her. Her clothes are torn off and then suddenly, the director yells, "cut!" and the man on top of her, leans down and says, "I'm really sorry about this, miss". Kon also suggests a kind of sadistic pleasure from all the attention Mima is given, as the shooting continues, she fantasizes about the audiences at her pop concerts.

It's that kind of tempered perception that makes Perfect Blue both engaging and insane. Since the story elements feed so directly into the wild editing and visual ephemera, Kon is free to slather all kinds of meta-fiction in our faces and have it feel satisfying each and every time. This should not be a surprise, considering the man's other esteemed credentials, such as Tokyo Godfathers and Paprika. So, all in all, if you're looking for a surreal and stylish thriller with a clear-headed, cautionary message about the ravages of fame, you can't go wrong with Perfect Blue.

Fish Tank (2009)

I had the initial feeling that Fish Tank was going to be another soupy  "mumblecore" film, soon to be buried alongside legions of other Sundance Film Festival entries in the mega-graveyard of movies. Suburban kitsch, slacker wisdom and reflective acoustic guitar scores certainly have their right time and place, but it's the kind of style where any cream-filled goodness is rare to find. But Fish Tank really surprised me. Not only was it expressively paced and shot through with gorgeous cinematography, it contained a spot-on performance by a young, unknown female lead.

The film tells the story of Mia Williams, a 15-year-old living in a rundown apartment complex in Essex. Constantly at odds with her lush of a mother and bratty little sister, Mia spends her time wandering around looking for shit to stir and secretly practicing hip-hop dancing. I know, it sounds like the plot for Step Up 3D, but bare with me. One day, her mother brings home Connor, a hunky (and much older) guy that instantly draws Mia's attention. Mia reluctantly accepts Connor's presence and the two begin to grow close.

From start to finish, director Andrea Arnold injects the film with handheld tracking shots, executed with just the right amount of shakes and jitters. There's something about the persistence and flow of Arnold's style that speaks to Mia's personality. Her simultaneous bulldog defiance and gentle naivety feel all the more genuine thanks to the loose and almost impulsive camera. At the opening of the movie, the camera, like a clumsy but curious child, tracks Mia as she walks around the courtyards of decrepit apartments, calling a friend who won't answer, head-butting the nose of a neighborhood girl who thinks she can dance, attempting to save a captured old horse, home to snatch up her CD player and finally out again to engage in some phat dance-nastics in private.

Katie Jarvis' performance as Mia is pretty remarkable considering she's credited with little to no acting experience, aside from Fish Tank. I was expecting a melodramatic archetype, the kind of teenage daughter you would see in an after-school special about drug abuse - snotty, unreasonable, apathetic. But Jarvis threw a total curve and made Mia into a realistic young woman with altered moods and motivations - at times she is selfish and reckless, while at others she is compassionate and cautious. This multifaceted approach shines in her interactions with Michael Fassbender's Connor.

As Connor's support of Mia's dancing aspirations morph into serious flirting, you'd expect the experienced, fun-loving Connor to take the reigns, but Mia holds her own. There's a scene where Connor is getting dressed in front of Mia, where he leans in, asking her to smell cologne he sprayed on his neck. She takes a big whiff, looking momentarily dazzled, then with her mouth right next to his ear, quietly tells him it smells like "rat piss".

Mia's experience is framed by naturalistic cinematography, letting sunlight gleam through windows and street lamps flood through the camera lens. Add to that a prime selection of block-rockin' beats - the likes of Nas, Ja Rule and Bobby Womack - and you've got a film with a distinctive personality. As a music lover and CD enthusiast, I was glad to see compact discs prominently represented throughout the movie. I'm guessing with all the CDs and the popularity of Ja Rule, Fish Tank takes place somewhere between 1998 and 2002.

I think the most impressive aspect of the film is that it remains tempered and vaguely optimistic throughout. Even at its most harrowing, there's no sink into melodrama. There's no easy sympathy or condemnation. Arnold presents you with Mia's tale and allows you to decide for yourself what you found acceptable or unacceptable about the relationship between Mia and Connor. Overall, Fish Tank is a refreshing portrayal of youth, sexuality, ambition and social taboos, and speaks well to the future of Andrea Arnold. What's she doing next? A provocative new adaptation of Wuthering Heights. I know I'm intrigued.

The Silence (1963)

Ingmar Bergman's The Silence has remained at the forefront of my good graces, despite the constant influx and exposure to new movies. The film is a dark specter, it's presence has never faded. I got cozy with the film for the first time back as a sophomore in college - it was an indirect discovery, as I had purchased the movie as part of Bergman's famed trilogy of the '60s. Although I had gotten the box set for Winter Light (which remains one of my all time favorites), I discovered that The Silence remained true to Bergman's idea of stark minimalism - no music, small sets, few characters - the delivery of which was equivalent to being hit in the stomach with a bag of bricks. Naturally, I mean that in the best way, as these particular bricks are made of acute, tactile observations on the nature of sex, family, death and relationships.

It was very gratifying to revisit the two disparate sisters of The Silence, Ester and Anna. Ester, the older sister, is a terminally ill translator who is traveling home in hopes of dying in a familiar place. She is accompanied by Anna, her anxious, spiteful sister, and Anna's curious child, Johan. The three cut their journey short when Ester gets sick on the train. Laying up in a local hotel for a few days, the fragile relationship between the sisters begins to unravel. Johan is forced to create his own world in Anna's absence, exploring the hotel to distract himself from the isolation.

I often use the The Silence (along with Persona and Cries and Whispers) as an example in my theory that Ingmar Bergman was one of the best horror filmmakers in addition to being one of the best drama filmmakers. Shot in beautiful black and white, with flowing pans and very little angle movement, the film's drama is escalated by simple (but effective) elements of tension and disturbance. Brooding chimes, recurring clock ticks and darkened rooms punctuate the unraveling sanity of Ester and the vindictive sexuality of Anna. Bergman is careful to never fully reveal the source of anxiety between the sisters. Instead, he drips in little sneers and accusations, like Anna falsely confessing to a random act of sex or Ester tripping some sticky guilt on Anna, saying "Go, then. While your conscience lets you", right before Anna heads out to indulge herself.

Gunnel Lindblom does a good job portraying Anna as a devilish and distracted upstart, but it's Ingrid Thulin who steals the show as the desperate, dejected Ester. It's hard not to become enraptured by Thulin's subtle mannerisms - her rueful grins and tortured lip bites make you feel the tumorous regret in her situation. The two sisters always seem to be searching for the best way to tear each others heart out, but in each there is a deep, underlying desire to be loved, acknowledged and approved of. In one of the climatic scenes of the film, Ester confronts Anna during her sex-fest with a complete stranger. Anna barks and lashes out at Ester, telling her that her moral, intellectual lifestyle is a meaningless way to live. At first, Ester is disturbed but she soon realizes that Anna's outburst is a reflection of her insecurity, and perhaps, a cry for help.

One thing I noticed about The Silence this time around, was Bergman's second focus - Johan. Johan provides a bit of comic relief and comfort for Ester, but ultimately the boy is resigned to aimlessly wander the hotel. He interacts with a fumbling old bellhop and a troupe of performers, all of whom are little people. These are interesting diversions and some of it feeds back into the main narrative of the two sisters (Anna watches the little people perform at one point, the bellhop takes care of Ester), however, these sequences slightly dilute the power of the sister's fire and brimstone. I can understand wanting to exemplify the boy's isolation due to his mother's negligence, but the sequences take too long to resolve themselves and you find yourself wondering when you'll see Ester and Anna go at it once again.

I also noticed recurring images of tanks and allusions to a military presence in the small sweaty town where the action takes place. While I believe this was primarily to show the lack of culture and the abundance of repressive government in the town, it's hard not to draw comparisons to the tension and conflict between Ester and Anna. Unfortunately, it just seems a bit too on-the-chin, especially for Bergman in this particular portion of his career. The images are memorable, particularly the silhouettes of the tanks Johan sees on the train, but they don't provide anything that isn't already crystal clear.    

So, even with a bit of extra fat, The Silence is still an intense drama with the audio/visual decorum of a subtle horror film. I prefer the creeping disturbance of a film like this to the shlocky thrills of most "proper" psychological horror films. Bergman's first true love may have been drama, but he realized many times in his career, including The Silence, the greatest horror can manifest itself from fractured relationships.