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The trouble with so much of the psychological horror presently filling the phantasmal shelves of Netflix is that so many of the writers and directors behind them were certain they were dealing with an audience full of drool-sputtering Cro-Magnons. While the new psych horror entry, Heartless, may present a bleak assessment of our world and the inhabitants of it, there is no mistaking writer/director Philip Ridley's anomalous belief that much of his audience is just as brilliant as he is.
He's most likely wrong, of course.
But I appreciate the gesture.... and loved the film.
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Heartless brings to light the story of Jamie (Jim Sturgess). He's a likeable fellow, but falters when it comes to taking his rightful mantle in this world. A dark, purple bruise of a birthmark adorns his left cheek and eye -- despite its heart shape, the marking doesn't exactly roll out a welcome mat for the ladies. When amongst family, the marks show, but don't matter. Out in the world, however, Jamie finds himself deeply marked, deeply ostracized; life and love are what happens to others, seemingly unblemished, people. |
Films can be like paintings, and paintings can be like kaleidoscopes -- strewn bits of color, aligning in such a way a cohesive scene is formed. In that way, Jamie is, himself, strewn bits. Toss in some anguish, years of simmering desperation, a few chance encounters and the points inexplicably align: a purple, knotted question mark of a picture formed. If there is good, then there must be bad -- if the stars are up there, what sort of Hell might exist here?
Jamie doesn't have a perma-twisted face of burned agony. He doesn't have a malformed brother attached at his hip. Only a small section of his face, neck and arm are tagged with oddly pigmented flesh, leaving him almost normal. Perhaps that's worse, in the end -- to be so close, so nearly normal, the anomaly elicits a double-take -- a longer stare - or a gasp from a pretty girl when she realizes her mistake in considering him normal. After spending his life with his nose pressed to the glass, his curiosity to break through isn't surprising.
Photography plays a useful role in Heartless. Jamie fancies photography, as did his deceased father. Looking through a viewfinder is fitting -- as there forever lies a lens between Jamie and the world. A marked man with a camera, photographing the pockmarked alleys and ruins of a city... but why does one pick up a camera, if not for the hopes of finding something special? Desiring to be something special for happening upon that special something. Jamie happens upon just that. Becomes that.
... but what a soul doesn't realize when it's pressed up against the window is not everything is sparkling. Not everything is free. Girlfriends, laughter... wishes... all have a price tag.
| Heartless is, easily, a ship that might not have sailed. The plot line might have easily spun into Lynchland, leaving the viewer with scrolling credits and a tummy grumbling for meat. Thankfully, a master storyteller was at work in every scene -- every shot -- leaping us far, but never over. Peripherals abounded -- demons, night scenes, grit and grime -- too many directors would have forgotten to turn on the lights, yet, never once did I squint in hopes of making out movements against the dark. |
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Possibly trumping all the other obstacles was the role of Jamie. Heartless's success rested as firmly upon Jim Sturgess as The Last Man on Earth relied upon Vincent Price to perform the vital feat of fanning audience sympathy and retaining those sympathies in spite of some decidedly unsympathetic actions. Sturgess is an actor who stands out -- that anyone in 21 was as interesting to watch as Kevin Spacey is proof in itself -- but Ridley provides more than the rudimentary tools of the craft, allowing Sturgess to fan out his feathers, blossoming into something more than just the character life happens to. There is meat here. Hopes and heartbreak, triumphs and tragedy... but the horror Sturgess is able to hand feed to the audience is the startling realization that if it can happen to him, it could happen to any of us. As Jamie, Sturgess embodies the pleasant, vulnerable side of humanity. He's not the sort who is likely to make unsavory decisions, and yet... one domino, two domino, three domino, four... those decisions happen. We wouldn't be any better.
Ridley doesn't get a film out of the gate too often (it's been... eh... fourteen years?), but his penchant for snagging untapped talent remains on point. To put this (and Sturgess) into perspective: Ridley's two early/mid-90's films starred a pre-Mordor Viggo Mortensen.
On the surface, subtlety doesn't seem to be Philip Ridley's style. Thankfully, a surface is just protective coating for the masses -- there's a whole onion to be devoured beneath. Bam - birthmark. BAM - demons. BAM BAM - footage of a butterfly emerging from chrysalis.
... but Jamie's mother has a few portraits of Jesus adorning a small cabinet in her living room. We see them throughout the film, serene golden hues framing a saintly image. I don't believe the camera ever actually settles upon them -- more of a backdrop to the action, a pan to a character's hand, here and there. Later, when a master demon makes himself known, we see those hues again, and sense what they mean. Ridley teaches us his story, as much as telling it to us.
The city is lush, textured. Grit presented with palpable depth, a Van Gogh caked with so much oil one might feel the stars breathing against their palms. When Jamie is alone, or settled in with his mother, the scenes are esoteric -- almost romantic, striking as warmer and bigger than life could be. In the world, white is played up, sometimes nearly blindingly so. In toto, the very sight and feel of the film are as much works of art as the story, itself.
I'm really not certain if "psychological" should preface "horror" on this one, though. Demonic mastication, velociraptor teeth, molotov cocktails (!) and a bare-fisted filming of a hands down, brutal murder... directors weaving tales of serial killers, inbred families and half dressed co-eds lost in the wilderness might well use less of the red stuff on their sets. Jim Sturgess has said after his first read-through of the script, "I remember getting on the night bus soon after I'd read it and just feeling terrified all the way home. It was the city I lived in shown in a way I could never have imagined." The psychology is all in the questions Heartless poses. Among them: What if the chaos splayed across news broadcasts wasn't truly random -- what if the chaos was calculated? What if we just don't happen to be privy to those calculations?
Jim Sturgess is certainly not the only noteworthy cast member. Heaven knows what sort of potions Philip Ridley is feeding to his actors -- but I can only hope there are no dire side effects because the damn things work! Joseph Mawle and Nikita Mistry make up the most deliciously evil duo I can recall, and while Timothy Spall (Peter Pettigrew, to the norms) is always a pleasure to watch, he hits a whole new high here as Jamie's late father. The role is a pivotal one -- but who among us is without a father issue, eh? When he was a boy, Jamie wondered why his skin was marked. For Jamie's tale to work, we have to believe there existed a father who answered, "I'm afraid when I first saw you, I loved you so much, that when I kissed your head, my love marked your flesh with a heart." Spall was spot on.
There's a bit of a heavy hand towards the end -- a few disappointing seconds when Ridley seems unsure if he's left too many dots on the canvas, and so, connects a couple more than he should -- at nearly two hours, though, one can hardly point a finger for a couple of misplaced seconds.
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The film ends with much to digest, and features creatures who will surely come to mind the next time I'm in a city, at night, walking to my car alone. And I'll wonder a littler harder at how much shortcuts are worth... but doubt the answer I give myself will be an honest one.
Watch Heartless now.
Thank me later. |
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