The single most absurd element of The Happening , the wellspring from which all other absurdities flow, is its conceit: Across the Northeastern United States, people are succumbing to a toxic airborne agent that makes them commit suicide, often gruesomely. At first it hits major population centers, followed by smaller towns, and on down to groups of even just a handful of people. Initially, it's assumed to be some kind of terrorist attack.
But as we learn pretty early in the film, it's not. It's trees. Yes, the trees and perhaps some bushes and grass, too, the movie's never too clear on this point have tired of humankind's ecological despoilment and are emitting a complicated aerial neurotoxin that makes us kill ourselves en masse. I bet you wish you were the one who came up with this blockbuster idea.
A bad plot can be only so bad without a bad performance at the center of it, and star Mark Wahlberg delivers. As science teacher Elliot Moore, he is not merely unpersuasive, but dim, whiny, indecisive, and self-pitying. Given the amorphous nature of the threat--the villain, after all, is foliage--the movie needed its star to bring some energy, some empathy, some heroism, some something to the proceedings.
Not happening. From the start, Wahlberg looks like he wants to tear off his sweater vest and launch into a Departed -style tirade of obscene invective that never comes. John Leguizamo plays Julian, the Minority Best Friend, so it's easy to guess what will become of him in a high-body-count movie.
Less easy to guess is that, in the midst of this deadly crisis, he will dump his 8-year-old daughter Jess Ashlyn Sanchez on Elliot and his wife, Alma Zooey Deschanel, whose luminous blue orbs are the best thing in the film , in order to drive to another state looking for his own wife.
This is especially odd given that Julian has made it clear that he dislikes Alma and wants to keep Jess away from her, and everyone in the film has made a point of very clearly enunciating that Elliot and Alma have serious problems in their marriage.
The biggest problem, it is ultimately revealed, is that Alma had a dessert date with a male colleague named "Joey," who has since pestered her on her cell phone. At first it seems that "dessert" may be a euphemism, or was perhaps a prelude to a greater indiscretion. But no: This tiramisu was just tiramisu and, as such, a marital misdemeanor by most reckonings.
That does not spare us from the tearful, guilt-ridden apology, however. But enough about the boring interpersonal melodrama: On to the boring arboreal genocide! Each time the airborne toxin strikes, everyone ceases what they were doing and freezes in their tracks for a moment. It took several such episodes before I stopped anticipating that they'd commence tapping their feet in unison, as in the beginning of a big musical ensemble number.
Alas, there's no singing. But the methods of suicide chosen often seem chosen for their entertainment value, in particular: the man who meticulously starts an industrial mower and then lies down in front of it; the woman who wanders around a house methodically smashing her head through windows until she embeds enough glass in her skull to keel over; and, of course, the zoo lion keeper who invites his charges to bite off his arms so he can stand around, Black Knight-like, spraying blood from the stumps.
Elliot, Alma, and Jess flee from Philadelphia to a series of smaller towns and ultimately the rural countryside. This makes sense in the movie's nonsensical context--the nation's trees are somehow "targeting" big cities first and then smaller and smaller populations. But it seems more than a little unhinged that our heroes' response to the revelation that the trees are trying to kill them is to head into the forest. Equally odd is their insistence, even though they've known from the beginning that the deadly nerve agent is airborne, on spending as much time as possible outdoors.
When fleeing by car, they leave the windows rolled down; anytime they want to look at a map or discuss what to do next they get out of the car to do so. It never seems to occur to any of the protagonists that they should get inside somewhere and tape the windows and doors --even though this is the only strategy we've seen work for anyone else.
It was kind of like getting hit in the face with a shovel at first, but after I sat with it for a while and the full weight of what I had seen started to sink in I started feeling different. The more times I watched clips of Mark Whalberg doing, well, literally anything in this film I started laughing.
Deep, belly laughs. It has terrible, terrible, terrible acting. The kind that starts to bleed into performance art. Were they actively aware that the movie they were making was terrible? And, I mean, if you are the guy playing Hot Dog Man how do you read that script and not instantly recognize what kind of movie you are in? But now some revisionist historians would have you believe that Shyamalan was in on it too, and he was actually trying to make an intentionally bad film that called back the campiness of s shlock.
Craven recognized the power that the genre had to tell stories in an entertaining way that could tap into the conscience for social change. It has never bothered me that non-horror fans are critical of the genre. It is perfectly understandable to be repelled by violence and monsters. I find it funny when they are surprised by how well-adjusted, compassionate, and empathetic horror fans tend to be. The value of horror is an age-old argument dating back to debates between Plato and Aristotle.
Plato felt that the violence and horror on display in the amphitheaters of Athens were bad for society, while Aristotle argued for the value of catharsis. My concern now, however, is that all too often the Platonic argument is rising not only from outside the so-called horror community, but from within it.
This is my main reason for writing this article. In it, the Blind Man, the extreme villain from the first film, appeared to be presented as the hero of the sequel. The discourse was savage on both sides. It was instructive, however, in bringing to light an important question: is there a line to be crossed? A huge objection to The Last House on the Left is a scene in which Krug and company are humanized as they stare at themselves in disgust, picking grass from their bloody hands after a particularly brutal and inhuman act.
This is also the sequence that raises the film above others of its kind. When it comes to this tactic, it all depends on how the material is handled. Is it satire? Is it cultural examination? Or is it merely exploitation? The audience will usually be able to tell the difference.
It is also important to remember that just because a film or any artform depicts something does not mean it advocates it. Where that line is drawn is to some extent subjective. Those who are not fans of the genre feel we crossed it a very long time ago. Most fall somewhere between. That is my choice based on my own tolerances, experiences, and capacities. It is important for each of us to know our own limitations and to decide where we personally draw the line. I do believe that snuff films or movies that involve abuse or criminal mistreatment in their making are over the line, and I believe few would disagree with me on those points.
But I do feel that filmmakers should be given the freedom to push us and confront us without facing puritanical outcries that border on censorship. What we decried and scoffed in the era of the Satanic Panic we must not participate in now. Creators must be allowed to create. She felt that Dani had merely traded one form of abuse for another, possibly worse one.
As a lifelong horror fan, I sometimes lose sight of how transgressive the genre is meant to be. I have seen a lot and am bothered by less. When my wife and I watched this movie together, I enjoyed the experience. I felt safe.
0コメント