funny games
Delivering on its promises, a recent trip to the movies leaves me with an unpleasant taste in my eyeballs.
I’ve been sitting around for a week or so, unwilling to head back to the movies because of the self-inflicted trauma incurred from a trip Er and I took last week to see the American version of Funny Games. This version, apparently being different from the original only in that it has actors recognizable to our eyes and told using language that doesn’t require us to read. On the poster for the film, the tagline announces, “You must admit, you brought this on yourself.” And it’s true, even before seeing the film, I had known that we were in for an ordeal, and wondered aloud mere moments from sitting down whether we’d correctly measured the mood for a mid-afternoon jaunt to the cinema. But I was curious and desperate to be affected in one way or another, because I was having yet another of my crises where I can’t feel a Goddamn thing.
Essentially, the movie spends a couple hours telling you that it knows what you want to see, whether it’s the glorification of violence and/or sassy villainy, the eventual triumph of the victimized or Naomi Watts‘ boobs, and spectacularly denying you these things outright. I can’t assume to know for certain what the director gets out of this exercise, but I’m more than willing to hazard a guess: I think that he’s trying to make a case for cinema as art rather than simple entertainment. The movie strikes me as a retort to Hollywood popcorn blockbusters and the like, and the kind of thing people need to see instead of Doomsday and its ilk. I imagine Mr. Haneke to be sitting on his uncomfortable furniture at home and gazing at a painting or photo on his wall and thinking that art is best when it is provocative and disquieting.
It’s not that I disagree, even. I like discomfort. In fact, I seek it out more often than not lately. But something about the delivery of this particular message didn’t sit well with me. Still, I can’t help but try to give the filmmakers the benefit of the doubt and say that this was all intentional. Perhaps I’m uncomfortable in the realization that I’m as predictable as the film seems to imply by saying that it knows what I want. Maybe it’s not the patronization that bothers me so much as feeling like I ask to be patronized. As Beez reminded me, it feels reminiscent Mezzo Forte, where powerfully disquieting sex scenes are excused when the curtain of fiction is draped back over everything, leaving a hollow, guilty feeling. It irks me to know that, whether I’m contemplating this type of analysis or dismissing the film as a piece of crap and the filmmaker as an asshat, he’s covered his bases enough that I’ll feel like I’m playing right into his hands. Usually, when I watch movies that make me feel like crap like Shallow Grave or 28 Days Later…, I’m allowed a moment to hate everyone else and feel superior.
I also can’t help but think that the reason Haneke went through the trouble of remaking his own movie ten years later was to bring this criticism of the privileged masses with nothing more than entertainment on their minds, who engage in mindless wanton cinematic consumerism because they can’t be bothered to worry about greater issues, to American eyes and minds. Not that there isn’t class division and ignorance across Europe, but our national attitude provides a juicier, riper target. Also, I don’t think he finds Nascar nearly as amusing as the greater American populace. Then again, if this version feels like an Austrian guy yelling at an entire country, maybe the original would feel like a more intimate scolding. This is yet another time when I’m desperate to hear a sampling of reactions in order to develop my own opinions, whether in agreement or opposition, and I’m especially curious to know what Regan would think, because she seems to have a greater affection for dudes from across the Atlantic who make movies with a palpable contempt for their audience and humanity at large.