Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013; Directed by Tommy Wirkola)
“Whatever you do, don’t eat the fucking candy,” warns Hansel (Jeremy Renner) as he and an ally approach a witch’s house of definite confectionary construction. The blunt, knowing action-hero one liner reflects the bluff and unpretentious tone of Norwegian genre filmmaker Tommy Wirkola’s bloodstained, distinctly dumb post-modern reimagining of the German folk tale “Hansel and Gretel”, recorded by the Brothers Grimm in the early 19th Century but of a much older medieval vintage. But the line is disingenuous at the same time. In Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters, Wirkola most certainly wants you to eat the candy. Heaping, sickening handfuls of it.
The film opens with a helicopter sweep over a dense forest from deep in the Teutonic gothic collective unconscious (although, considering the setting of Augsburg and its Bavarian countryside surroundings, it couldn’t accurately be called the famous Black Forest further to the west, and most of the forest scenes were filmed outside of Berlin). Wirkola (who writes as well as directs) proceeds to provide a visceral, campy action-horror retelling of the fairy tale as backstory prologue that sets out his tone for the project. The titular siblings, left in the forest by their harrassed father, are lured into a house made of candy, imprisoned by a hideous witch, and force-fed confections until they contrive a way to burn her to death in her own oven. Gruesome stuff, but beat-for-beat out of the Grimm’s text.
Wirkola’s conceptual conceit leaps off from the folkloric narrative: Hansel and Gretel are inculcated with a zealous hatred of witches by this childhood episode, in the midst of which they were also orphaned in mysterious circumstances. They grow into attractive and well-armed badasses who make it their unwavering mission to track down and eradicate practitioners of the black arts of witchcraft wherever they may be found. In two words, witch hunters. A wonderfully-rendered credits sequence chronicles their rise to local renown in this profession in the style of animated Germanic medieval woodcuts. If only the rest of Wirkola’s silly pulpfest was so aesthetically sophisticated.
The now-adult Hansel (Renner) and Gretel (Gemma Arterton) pursue their latest wiccan quarry in the Augsburg area at the invitation of its mayor (Rainer Bock), who is facing a percolating hysteria due to an outbreak of child abductions (printed faces of the missing kinders are strapped onto old-fashioned glass milk bottles in town, one of many droll throwaway gags). The mastermind of these crimes is a grand witch with the singularly unimposing meddling-aunt name of Muriel, who intends to sacrifice the children in a demonic Blood Sabbath ceremony that will make all witches in her extended coven immune to fire and thus basically invincible. Unless, of course, Hansel and Gretel can stop her. Famke Janssen plays Muriel and does not so much chew the scenery as blend it into smoothie form and chug it back by the gallon. In addition to Muriel and several other creatively nasty witches, the bounty-hunting sibling team is opposed by Augsburg’s antagonistic martinet of a sheriff (Peter Stormare, the Brando of B-movie Eurotrash bad guys) and aided by a boyish superfan of their work (Thomas Mann), a good witch who is Hansel’s love interest (Pihla Viitala), and an empathetic troll straining against the witches’ yoke of enslavement (performed by Derek Mears and voiced by Robin Atkin Downes).
If the dialogue, plotting, and characterization of Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters can be clumsy and superficial, Wirkola still erects sufficient foundation to support and sustain his delirious, gory, stylish action sequences. Mostly taking place in European forests and wooden village structures, these enervating scenes are very clearly the whole point of the exercise and demonstrate an enthusiastic admiration of the energetic gore of the early splatter comedies of Sam Raimi and Peter Jackson. Hansel and Gretel have access to a travelling arsenal of fancifully-designed anachronistic firearms which they use to entertainingly messy effect on their many foes. The design and look in general is quite strong, evoking along with the setting, source material, and opening title design a gnarled, clockwork German steampunk (the German word for which is “wildwestwelt”, once again proving that everything is better in the original German) that has a certain aesthetic continuity.
Some credit/blame ought to be given to Wirkola for his awareness of the thorny historical implications of witch hunts as well as his disavowal of any responsibility to address it. In the first post-credits scene, Hansel and Gretel make their Augsburg debut by defusing a burning mob fomented by Stormare’s sheriff that threatens the life of Viitala’s white witch Mina. Hansel tells the crowd that it’s possible to tell black witches just by looking at them; the evil they embrace afflicts them with any number of imaginative deformities, and Mina has none of them. Therefore, no witch is she, and no need to burn her at the stake.
Unlike Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, a similar quasi-historical pulp-horror mash-up which offered both intentional and unintentional commentary on the cultural memory of the institution of American slavery, Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters makes no effort to consider the brutal conformism and ugly misogyny that underscored the superstitious European witch hysteria of the Early Modern era. Wirkola acknowledges those implications and puts them purposely aside without overt judgment, steadily aware that his lurid popcorn genre movie has no capacity to properly address and critique the violent discrimination of this particularly dark chapter in social history. He signals that he knows what witch hunts really were but labours under no illusions concerning the ability of his wacky blood-spurting actionfest to explore the issues they present with necessary breadth. Wirkola’s witches have a Manichean dimension but nothing more; they are either good or (more frequently) bad, but it isn’t hard at all to tell the difference.
Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters loses something with this choice, as reasonable as it is. But as a frothy, paint-the-burg-red sugar-blast, it’s a fine enough time. Like Hansel, however, whose candy-gorging torture at the hands of that witch in his youth has left him with diabetes and in need of insulin boosts, audiences may need a re-energizing injection of stiff medicine after enduring Wirkola’s rich but queasy genre confection.
That small hiccup of lag you might register on the internet today is not due to fugitive llamas or a roaring debate over the indistinct colours of a fuzzily-photographed dress. No, if you notice the slightest of bandwidth slowdowns today, it may well be traced back to the millions of science fiction fans the world over watching and linking to their favourite YouTube clips of the death and funeral of Spock from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. The actor who first and most memorably played Spock on the original Star Trek television series in the late 1960s and in the subsequent franchise movies in the 1980s passed away much more quietly today. Leonard Nimoy, actor, director, writer, singer, and larger-than-life icon, was 83.
This last term will be applied most gratuitously in reports and eulogies of Nimoy in the popular media discourse over the next few hours and days. And yet it applies in this case not only as a conventionally-circulated term of praise and endearment for a prominent cultural figure but in strict definitional terms as well. “Icon”, the Greek word for “image”, was first and most commonly applied to the flat images of Christ, the Virgin Mary, or saints venerated in Orthodox Christian faiths. The implications the word acquired from these practices, however, became much deeper and more significant. The icon was a familiar, quotidian object, a focus of identification and aspiration that made the distant, mysterious, unknowable realm of the divine personal and identifiable to the common faithful. Through icons, the unintelligible became not only intelligible but close-by, intimate, relatable.
Cultural icons of our modern age function similarly, and performers in the mass media make very fine examples. We do not know them but feel like we do, conceive of these icons in familiar and intimate terms, weaving not only their performances but also their apparent personalities and characteristics into our visions of our own identities. In the 20th Century and into the 21st, speculative and imaginative narratives are the defining texts of the discourse, and the icons that features within these texts are among our most popular icons, figures that stand for far more than the sum of their textually-contained parts: James Bond, Luke Skywalker, Frodo Baggins, Big Brother, the Wizard of Oz, and, yes, Spock.
Many observers will point to Leonard Nimoy’s other non-Trek work – “The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins”, 3 Men and a Baby, his striking photography – to demonstrate that he was more than a pair of pointy ears, blue shirt, and upraised eyebrow. But as Nimoy himself came around to admitting in his book title progression from denial to acceptance, he was Spock. But millions of others were Spock, too. Nerds, creative types, thoughtful children, and logical devotees across the globe venerated Nimoy’s iconic character as an ideal whose example of cool-headed steadiness and unwavering consistency of morality, honour and intellect they could aspire and strive towards in a world of overheated passions and emotional decision-making. One of their number is currently President of the United States.
Nimoy seeded Spock with pieces of his own identity, certainly. His Jewish heritage loomed particularly large: Spock’s famous Vulcan salute and accompanying motto “Live Long and Prosper” were both lifted from childhood reminiscences of priestly blessings from the synagogue. The isolated primacy of logic and intellect in Spock’s worldview when compared to the lusty passion and physical bravery that underlay Captain Kirk’s embodiment of power and heroism was in some ways a textualized metaphor for the Jewish social and cultural experience as an internal Other in gentile societies for centuries. The Jewish people survived in commonly challenging and often hostile milieus by their mental and practical skills, maintaining a stubborn dignity in the face of inborn bigotry, as did Spock on the Enterprise, where he had influence and vital importance but was also a minority, facing prejudices both subtle and blatant.
But icons are icons because those who are devoted to them see their own identities – be they actual or imagined, current or future – projected onto these idealized images. Star Trek owes much of its continued cultural relevance to its image of a hopeful future, a vision of space travel and exploratory cooperation that was not quite utopian but certainly not dystopian either. Spock, a man of science and logic and curiosity (“Fascinating” was nearly as well-known a catchphrase as “Live long and prosper”), was the key to this vision in the original Trek (although the cultured Captain Picard and his antiseptic neoliberal space-borne condo complex in The Next Generation is perhaps a purer distillation of this vision from franchise doyen Gene Rodenberry’s twilight years). It was Spock who wanted to document, investigate, and understand the universe, an inquisitive, interstellar, alien Joseph Banks to Kirk’s sex-crazed, ready-to-fight mutation of Captain James Cook‘s imperial vanguard.
In a popular culture increasingly conquered not by Kirks but by Spocks, Leonard Nimoy’s iconic creation has gained a greater cultural currency. Although Spock is a super-strong, super-smart, usually emotionless extraterrestrial space traveller from the (ever-less) distant future who sometimes regarded his human counterparts as something resembling living laboratory experiments, many of those same features made him an icon to millions. His alterity was subsumed by his proximity, his unintelligibility rendered intelligible by recognizable and relatable traits that people hoped to intuit in themselves as well. The passing of Leonard Nimoy does not mean the end of Spock; Zachary Quinto has crafted a flattering if sharper-edged tribute to Nimoy’s unforgettable performances in J.J. Abrams’ rebooted Star Trek films, and those original performances are only a DVD or YouTube link away too, after all. But the loss of the original model indelibly fades the icon’s glowing inner light.
Game of Thrones (HBO; 2011-Present)
HBO’s Sunday night ratings phenomenon, which has brought serial fantasy fiction to the small screen in spectacular and widely-debated fashion, is fundamentally a primetime soap for fantasy geeks and amateur medievalists. The lavish television adaptation of The Song of Ice and Fire book series by George R.R. Martin (the affectation of that pair of Rs will never not grate) has its devotees and its detractors, and you’ll forgive me if I indulge the detractor side first and in greater detail.
Game of Thrones takes place in a detailed but oddly superficial medieval world. The realms of Westeros and Essos and the peoples and important figures that inhabit it are rife with complication but rarely achieve true depth. Martin’s narrative (adapted for the screen by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss) thrills in the intrigues of dynastic power politics but lacks cultural breadth or any hint of social concern or artistic heritage. The tug of war for the Iron Throne is intricately but bluntly constructed, but the daily life of the wider society is barely scratched, hardly considered. In Martin’s bloody-minded perspective, the basic stuff of life is shitting, fucking, and killing and there’s no need to depict anything else to craft a convincing simulacrum of a quasi-medieval milieu. HBO is the perfect setting for such content, ever-willing as the network seems to be to utilize gratituitous sex and violence as sensationalist fodder and debased evidence of unfettered creative freedom.
Furthermore, the characters that populate this narrative are one-dimensional almost to the last. Some, like the sadistic boy king Joffrey Baratheon (Jack Gleeson), are endowned with barely a quarter-dimension. With the arguable exception of the cunning dwarf Tyrion Lannister (the wonderful Peter Dinklage), the sprawling cast of characters does not boast multiple, contradictory facets or character arcs. They are mostly complete pricks of one order or another, and continue being pricks until Martin kills them off (which happens pretty often and without much warning). Game of Thrones is full of bad people of many kinds, and the conscientious viewer does not particularly wish to see any of them sit on the Iron Throne.
And yet, we watch. Despite the gratuitous “hard” content, the stock characters, the complicated but thematically anemic plot, the leaden absence of transcendence or even heartening suggestions of a bruised beauty. Benioff and Weiss do not tell this story like, say, Matthew Weiner tells the story of Mad Men or Vince Gilligan tells the story of Breaking Bad, with each episode intelligently constructed, interweaving particular themes and sketched meanings with the larger arc of the series’ plot. Their show is a classic serial, and relies on the flow of Martin’s books rather than TV-centric purposeful framing. It’s an ideal program for the age of DVD and streaming services. You can pause watching through it in the middle of episodes rather than at their conclusion and little of the experience is lost.
This is quite the flood of negative opinion without much positive, but there must be some of the latter in Game of Thrones if we keep watching. Certainly there are plenty of interesting actors who do their darndest to squeeze interest out of their limited characters. Besides Dinklage, Charles Dance does well with Tywin Lannister (in his first appearance, he lectures about the necessities of power while skinning and dressing a deer), The Wire‘s Aiden Gillen makes a slimy Lord Baelish, Sean Bean is solid (if inevitably doomed, as his characters always are) as Eddard Stark, and Emilia Clarke’s Daenerys Targaryen is always more interesting than she is written to be, somehow. The high level of the design work – sets, costumes, weapons, props, heraldry – is worthy of praise, as is the maps-and-clockwork title sequence. Set to the memorable theme composed by Ramin Djawadi, the changing locations that feature in the show are established on the map at the beginning of each episode and greatly aid in geographical orientation.
Game of Thrones is essentially pulp entertainment whose hard content, self-serious tone, and historical borrowings lend it an air of artistic integrity that it doesn’t really earn the old-fashioned way (a useful distinction: Martin writes fiction, not literature). But it’s also addictive and absorbing viewing, a fully realized (if basically shallow) world that devoted fans delight in diving into over multiple seasons.
Moneyball (2011; Directed by Bennett Miller)
Underdog tale, generation gap narrative, star vehicle, neo-romanticist sports film: Bennett Miller’s Moneyball is all of these things, sometimes practically at the same time. It narrativizes (and often fictionalizes) Michael Lewis’s book about the embrace of sabermetrics and other mathematical analytic models by the front office of Major League Baseball’s Oakland Athletics under General Manager Billy Beane in 2002. Well-acted and well-shot, Moneyball nonetheless incongruously commits the very sin that Beane sees the greying keepers of the conventional baseball wisdom committing on the regular and which he comes to believe he can no longer afford to rely on if he wishes to compete on an uneven playing field. It reduces complexity to simplicity, boiling down logical cogitation and rigorous data crunching to gut feelings and emotional motivations.
Given that Aaron Sorkin claims half of the screenwriting credit (with Steven Zaillian), this should not be unexpected. Sorkin framed the founding of Facebook in similar terms in The Social Network, a world-connecting platform whose creator alienated his best friend and was basely motivated by sexual/status-based rejection by both the opposite sex and the same sex. Therefore Beane (Brad Pitt) is driven not by the glory of winning or the promise of prestige or riches or even the personal satisfaction of success on his own terms, but by the sting of his own once-promising but failed playing career and by his love for his daughter (Kerris Dorsey).
Moneyball opens in 2001 with the A’s losing to the New York Yankees in the first round of the playoffs. It’s the have-nots vanquished by the haves, respectively, as onscreen statements of the glaring discrepancy in total team salaries lay bare. Beane’s frustration (repeatedly expressed in the film through the jock-ish outlet of throwing and breaking inanimate objects) in defeat deepens in the off-season, with his star players plucked by richer teams and the A’s owner refusing to expand the comparatively paltry payroll. It all comes to a head when Beane meets with his scouting staff, a roomful of old, mostly white men prattling on interminably about the shape of a favoured player’s jaw or how the ball sounds off the bat of a top prospect. Beane is blunt: his team cannot compete on the basis of the old rules of the game, and that’s all that these experienced but blinkered scouts or his stubborn manager Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman) can offer him.
He’s offered the fresh approach he’s looking for by a 20-something Yale economics graduate named Peter Brand (Jonah Hill, Hollywood’s premiere lumpy sidekick to presupposing alpha males at the moment). Beane comes across Brand in the offices of the Cleveland Indians, is impressed by his contrarian analysis on the basis of the complex mathematical algorithms devised and championed by Bill James, and basically bullies him into being his new assistant GM. A few unorthodox transactions and heated meetings with scouts and Howe later, Beane fields a baseball team that struggles to find its way but finally puts together an American League record 20 wins in a row before another first-round playoff exit.
“The Streak” (it even gets its own Tarantino-esque onscreen title to herald it) is the narrative climax of Moneyball, and the dramatic tension and unlikely hero element of the record-setting game is ripped straight from the inspirational sports movies whose emotional methodology Moneyball‘s core ethos seems poised to refute. But it never does, portraying the use of data to improve performance and results as a mere backdrop to the intangible magic of America’s hallowed pastime. Perhaps, ultimately it is, and neither Beane (who doesn’t even watch his team’s games live) nor the boyish Brand deny their enthusiasm for the game despite their willingness to reduce it to a torrent of numbers. Still, the record-clinching home run might as well have Randy Newman’s musical cue from The Natural playing under it, so staged is it in hands-aloft sporting glory terms.
Pitt plays his trademarked casually masculine A-type with straining thoughts on his mind to the hilt, and it got him an Oscar nomination to boot (as did Hill’s dialed-down work). Hoffman is subtly, inobtrusively convincing as the bluff, good-old-boy sort that invariably becomes a baseball manager (or maybe that baseball managers inevitable become; chicken or egg?). But what kind of movie, exactly, are they starring in?
It’s not an honest portrayal of a full-on Freakonomics-style overturning of conventional thinking, but then Beane’s revolution wasn’t exactly that in real life either (some of the risky signings of misfits portrayed in the film happened before the loss to the Yankees rather than after, and Howe was not as reluctant to go along with Beane’s philosophy as he is shown to be onscreen). It’s firmly couched in the language of the underdog sports narrative (the trailer below makes it look like a post-millenial major league Bad News Bears only with more long division), but that label only applies in the highly relative terms of the multi-million-dollar professional sports world and therefore loses much of its aspirational impact.
What Moneyball finally settles into becoming is a basically conventional sports drama, with conflict, adversity, and ultimately on-field triumph vindicating bold, non-conformist thinking and self-belief. Miller’s direction is controlled and calculated, like a fully-compiled spreadsheet, so it’s a particularly well-crafted example of such a film. But Moneyball aims for the heart and the gut when its subject moved away from such unreliable, non-rational calculi to gain an advantage over resource-rich rivals. A movie, of course, is not a data set. But like baseball, there’s useful information it can glean from one.
Bully (2011; Directed by Lee Hirsch)
On its surface, Bully is a document of social dysfunction and a weapon for awareness and advocacy. Lee Hirsch’s documentary focuses on five students from across America’s so-called “Heartland” (more on that hoary, misleading concept in a minute) who face bullying from their peers at school and react to it in different ways. Some try with awkwardness to either fit in or avoid torment or both in fluctuating uncertainty, others demonstrate extraordinary strength of will and moral character in the face of prejudice but ultimately seek out a more accepting milieu, and still others are driven to self-harm and even suicide by the rejection and abuse of their peers. In some cases, parents are highly supportive, in others oblivious or wrong-headed, and in the most extreme and tragic have become public crusaders for anti-bullying action.
Bully is about all of these people, their struggles with a harsh world and their hopes for a better one. But on another deeper and more fundamental level, Bully is about the tyranny of “tight-knit” small communities and the deadening indifference and willful blindness of the institutions that define them. It’s about the failure of social systems as assuredly as (if more microcosmically than) The Wire, with the primary failed system being the schools.
This is not a failure of education, of intellectual and practical preparation for the rigours of a competitive capitalist economy like the standard school-focused liberal social documentary film tends to be (or like The Wire‘s own treatment of schools). It’s a failure of social structure that goes beyond small-town American schools but is magnified terribly in them: the instinctive ostracism of difference, no matter how insignificant, and the punitive measures marshalled against disobedience to that assumed norm. Documentaries like Waiting For “Superman” focus on schools in urban areas because education levels are the primary issue there. Bully finds its resonant case studies in smaller communities because exclusion and enforcement of homogeneity are rife in such places.
A document like Bully exposes the conservative myth of the “Heartland”, a morally upright and common-sensical belt of friendly small towns where everyone gets along (as long as they’re white and straight) and modern anxieties are kept at bay, as the craven and pernicious lie that it is. Everyone gets along in these communities only to the extent that they admit no variation from their rigid set of shared values. Perish the thought that, like one strong-spirited young girl in Oklahoma, you happen to be gay or otherwise marked out from True American microculture.
Bullying is the weapon of school-age socialization in such places, the blunt instrument of conformity to the local order. The most incredible subjects in Bully are the passive (and even active) enablers of the bullying culture in positions of authority in the schools. They shame and blame the victims of regular abuse, gloss over parents’ complaints with plastered-on smiles, and generally protect not the bullied but the bullies from any meaningful consequences for the deep psychological damage that can be inflicted by acts of bullying at such an impressionable age. There are scenes shot at rallies and marches against bullying with large crowds turning out in support, but very few of sympathetic and effective school administrators meaningfully addressing the problem head-on.
Hirsch does not come straight at the reason for this dissembling and avoidance by authorities, but it becomes fairly evident to the initiated and knowledgeable. Confronting bullying does not simply involve punishing bullies, nor does it extend to the uncomfortable position of informing parents that they have raised little people who prey on the weak, the isolated, the divergent (a failure in nurture in social inclusiveness terms, but a measure of success in far too many segments of American life). Confronting bullying means facing up to the unsettling social truths at the core of Middle American life. It means admitting that the close-knit conservative community model encodes certain exclusions and prejudices and basic unfairness by design, that it surveys out social fissures that cannot but open and divide in good time. It means that adhering to this social model will always leave some children behind (as its larger economic model leaves some adults behind) and that, contrary to jingoistic propaganda, these youthful abandonments will not be on the basis of value or merit but upon value-judgements considerably more arbitrary and unjust (also as it is with adults).
Schools and other small-town institutions cannot confront bullying because then they would have to confront the whole panoply of cloaked pathologies that underlie conservative American life. The society they hold dear could not bear up against such scrutiny. The psychological suffering and identity scars of the minority who do not conform to the enforced socialization of small-town American schools are necessary sacrifices to maintain a comforting illusion for the majority of these communities. Bully presses its message into placard-carrying protesting solidarity, but the image of American society that it presents is not one whose pathologies can be meaningfully addressed by a few rallies. It is a cancer that goes far deeper and cannot easily be cut out.
The Fall – Seasons 1 & 2 (BBC; 2013-2014)
For whatever reason, on television in Britain, the murder mystery and police/crimes procedural genres are able to encompass and express a greater variety of meanings, themes, and sociopolitical implications than their American TV equivalents. U.S. entries into the genre – especially from the endemic, formulaic glut of CSIs and NCISs and Law and Orders – are generally prisms for a fevered nightmare vision of crime and unreserved enthusiasm for morally unambiguous punishment (often of an extra-legal, state-mandated vigilantist sort) redolent of right-wing American fantasies.
But British television, especially the BBC (although also its more conservative private competitor ITV), can often employ the genre’s conventions to explore and comment upon a wider range of ideas. Perhaps the historical overlap between British playwriting and teleplays has opened a conduit of greater literary depth that is tapped by the best (and even some of the less-best) TV dramas, which tend to be more tightly-structured and on shorter runs than their American equivalents (a prestige cable narrative like True Detective is an obvious exception). Or perhaps the genre itself simply has a different profile in Britain, where it has a deeper and richer literary tradition (although, ironically, its key early texts followed the example of an American, Edgar Allen Poe).
Whatever the sources of this breadth, you can see it across notable British genre television: the sashaying wit of Sherlock, the bruised local whodunit of Broadchurch, and the historical recreation/commentary on social dynamics of period shows like Ripper Street, The Bletchley Circle, or, heck, even Downton Abbey (though procedural it is not). But evoking a wide range of ideas need not hamper the entertainment value or even the sensationalist frisson of the murder mystery genre. All of this very much self-evident in The Fall, one of the best iterations of the form in recent broadcast history.
Set in contemporary Belfast, Northern Ireland, The Fall focuses on the contest of minds and wills between a focused and self-assured female inspector (Gillian Anderson) and a meticulous, double-life-maintaining serial killer of women (Jamie Dornan). The series, written by Allan Cubitt and directed by Cubitt and Jakob Verbruggen, builds towards the two opposing characters’ final confrontation as nemeses but also presents their fascination with each other as supra-professional, with a quality of romantic interest if not intense psychological desire. This latter suggestion unsettles (if not undermines) the dominant feminist overtones of the series in its closing movement.
Anderson’s Stella Gibson, a visiting Detective Superintendent from London’s Metropolitan Police, is in Belfast to conduct a review of the local force’s investigation into the high-profile murder of the wife of a local business scion. Her mission soon expands to leading a larger inquest into the case when she connects it with other similar murders of professional women, as well as to battling against the patriarchal assumptions of this provincial locale’s policing which hound her at every turn.
Stella Gibson knows what she wants and what is required to do her job right, and treats bull-headed males that stand chauvinistically in her way with the cool contempt that they richly merit. Soon after arriving, she has a one-night stand with a hunky, younger Detective Sergeant (Ben Peel). When he is later killed and revealed to be married with kids, her male colleague investigating the case makes sexist insinuations that she efficiently bats away; why shouldn’t she have pleasure on her off-time (besides the obvious thorny professional questions, which are ignored)? She also negotiates her interactions with the PSNI’s Assistant Chief Constable (and her former lover) Jim Burns (John Lynch) with skill and subtle condescension. She’s on his turf and must tread lightly to obtain his cooperation, but he’s an unimaginative and weak-willed bureaucrat and glad-hander more concerned with public image and the politics of department funding than with shepherding along effective investigative policing.
More than any other outlet, Stella’s feminism is expressed in her moral position vis-à-vis the predatory crimes of her nemesis, the serial strangler, sociopath, married father of two, and grief counselor Paul Spector. Dornan, soon to have his career either blown up huge, ruined, or both by a lead role in 50 Shades of Grey, makes a strong, fiercely creepy impression as Spector, with his inscrutable gaze, nighttime stalking habits, and semi-simian strolling walk. He loves his young daughter Olivia (Sarah Beattie) with a fondness that mirrors the intensity of the perversion that drives him to strangle women and then meticulously arrange them in poses of pacified idealization.
What Stella (and therefore The Fall) refuses to lose sight of when it comes to Paul Spector is the smug, self-important misogynistic assumptions that underscore his litany of crimes. This type of generic narrative has a tendency (especially when told in an American context, but not exclusively then) to underplay the social and behavioural implications of violence against women even while exploiting that violence for sensationalist shock effect or to establish a given text’s artistic “seriousness”. The manner in which the arbitrary application of patriarchal force and sexualized violence by men against female victims terrorizes women everywhere and proscribes their agency and security is buried from the get-go (the common feminist truism is quoted in one episode: “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them; women are afraid that men will kill them”). The resolution of this essential tension is customarily subsumed by the protective male application of justice on behalf of “damsels in distress”, frequently through the use of violence that is coded as righteous in opposition to the violation of the killer’s acts.
The Fall constructs Stella’s efforts to identify Spector as the killer and bring him to justice as a struggle against patriarchy, but it’s hardly that simple or unproblematic. To expound upon precisly why requires a discussion of the series’ “ending”, and so an uncharacteristic spoiler alert is in order at this point.
The second season finale features a showcase conversation between Stella and Spector in custody in which the latter confesses to his crimes in full but stubbornly resists and challenges the former’s position of power and authority; both actors look into the camera (and therefore at us) while offering clear-cut diagnoses of each other’s behaviour and motivations, and what might have been the climactic resolution of a lesser story merely heightens the tension of this one. Following this scene, Stella has some pillow talk with her latest Detective Sergeant lover, Anderson (Colin Morgan). Having already acknowledged Anderson’s general physical resemblance to Spector in the course of interrogations, the DS wonders if she thought he resembled Spector in other ways. Anderson admits that Spector is a fascinating figure, for all of his inhuman monstrosity, but Stella, who in an earlier episode contradicted a stark labelling of Spector as a monster by Burns, offers a blunt feminist assessment of Spector as a horrid being unworthy of “fascination”.
Spector is taken to the woods outside Belfast in the closing sequence to lead police to his final victim, a former lover that he abducted and imprisoned for suggesting him to the police as a suspect. There, cuffed to Anderson as a minder at Stella’s insistence, he and Anderson are both shot by a Shankill Road thug who Spector made an enemy of in his predatory activities (it happens moments after Spector mentions to Anderson that something is clearly going on between him and Stella). Stella rushes to the cuffed, injured pair, and chooses to cradle the head of her enemy Spector, not her lover Anderson. It’s a final image of corporeal intimacy between The Fall‘s two contending leads, and it suggests not so subtly that behind Stella Gibson’s overt identity as a righteous feminist avenger lies a deep and disavowed desire and attraction for a figure that represents everything that repulses her and drives her sense of justice. It’s a problematic twist to the feminist politics of the show that ends the narrative (we assume; Dornan at least has hinted at future seasons) on a note of contradictory, complexity, and uncertainty that demonstrates how the murder mystery police procedural genre can malleably expand its boundaries of signification.
The Woman in Black (2012; Directed by James Watkins)
Focused more on sustained creepy atmosphere and anticipatory dread than cheap jump-in-your-seat thrills, The Woman in Black brings updated Hammer Horror Edwardian-era-set spectral chills to the contemporary multiplex. Magnificently shot, exquisitely paced, and making full use of the particular strengths of its famous lead actor, James Watkins’ notable, artful B-movie genre piece delivers delightful scares consistently and even rises to a rambling baroque crescendo in its showpiece sequence of accruing fear.
Daniel Radcliffe stars as Arthur Kipps, a London-based widower with a young son who thinks him dour and a tenuous position at a law firm whose thin thread may be cut if he fails in his latest assignment. An old woman has died in her isolated house in the tidal marshes of the North, and Kipps is dispatched to get the deceased’s legal papers in order and hopefully to sell her home, the Eel Marsh House. The village of Crythin Gifford (wonderfully Welsh-sounding, the name seems to crawl out of characters’ mouths like a worm) is a distinctly unfriendly place to him, however, wishing him to head back where he came from and certainly to stay the heck away from the Eel Marsh House.
The locals have also practically all lost children in mysterious circumstances, including the innkeepers whose three daughters simultaneously leap from their bedroom windows in the haunting opening scene. Among the bereaved is a wealthy local landed gentleman, Samuel Daily (Ciaran Hinds, a fellow Harry Potter castmate and ever a reliable screen presence), who befriends Kipps and helps him in his task as well as he can.
Kipps certainly could use some help or maybe just a few more candles, because as soon as he’s alone in the Eel Marsh House (the only road in is swamped by the rising tide every day), odd sounds, apparitions, and a ghostly woman bedecked in the clothes of mourning begin to hound him. Children start to die in the town whenever he stops in on breaks from the manse, and the villagers blame him for stirring up malevolent supernatural forces in his attempts to shed light on the life and the resentments of the woman who died there.
Daily brushes all of this aside as so much superstition; he’s a man of reason in his gleaming automobile, but Kipps, curious about seances and fashionable spiritualism, is less certain, especially as his observation of the house’s spectral forces accrues alarming examples. The creaking doors and furniture, winding discarded children’s toys, and recurrent appearances by a white-visaged, black-clad crone culminate in a drawn-out sequence of ghostly horror tricks and frights. Kipps overnights at Eel Marsh House, and is driven half out of his skin by one bizarre, unexplainable freak-out after another. The execution is masterful, but the relentless protraction of the sequence raises it to the level of genre brilliance.
Radcliffe, a seasoned thespian of fine motor control but less-developed vocal gravitas, is used well by Watkins, observing and reacting and becoming gradually, almost imperceptibly unsettled and undone by what he witnesses. His relationship with his son, it should be noted, is a touch too fond for its historical context; Victorian and Edwardian fathers remained at a cold, studious distance from their offspring almost as a matter of course. The gothic atmosphere of everpresent death and deep mourning at lost children does strike a contextual nerve, however; in a period in which middle class prosperity was greatly expanding but disease and other factors still preyed on the young, the social construct of protection of children (as opposed to their employment in labour from a young age) was formed, and the profundity of parental mourning at their untimely death was unprecedented. Susan Hill’s novel draws upon these endemic social elements, and Watkins’ film of that novel does as well.
The Woman in Black was a successful commercial and critical comeback for Hammer Films, the venerable British production studio whose gothic horror films in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s lent a prestige and sophistication to B-level genre releases and made icons of the likes of later blockbuster supporting figures Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing. It may not engage with the tropes and expectations of the horror genre like meta-horror flicks like Scream, The Cabin in the Woods, or The Ring, although it does share the latter’s teasing faux-resolution of the proper Judeo-Christian burial dispelling the haunting spirit, which will not be so easily placated. It’s a revived old-school creepy ghost story executed to maximum effect, and that can be enjoyed on a completely guilt-free level of its own.