Friday, December 23, 2011

A Dangerous Method

Image courtesy of Sony Pictures Classic


With director David Cronenberg’s affinity for examining the human psyche throughout his body of work, it’s no surprise that his latest film, A Dangerous Method, delves into the roots of psychoanalysis by examining the relationship between Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and the woman who ultimately inspired both men, Sabina Spielrein. Cronenberg’s film is based on Christopher Hampton’s play, The Talking Cure, which in turn, is based on John Kerr’s non-fiction book, The Most Dangerous Method.

The term “psychoanalysis” and the name “Sigmund Freud” have gone hand-in-hand since its inception. Everyone’s heard of Freud. Many people have even heard of Carl Jung. But who was Sabina Spielrein? According to Kerr’s book, Spielrein was “one of the first woman psychoanalysts,” and “wrote 30 professional papers,” some of which were even cited by Jung and Freud.[1] In Method, Cronenberg brings Kerr’s examination of the influence Spielrein had on Freud and Jung via excerpts from Spielrein’s diaries and written correspondence with both men to the big screen.

The movie opens in 1904 with a young, hysterical 18 year-old Russian woman by the name of Sabina Spielrein (Keira Knightly) being institutionalized at the Burghölzli Clinic in Zurich and placed under the care of Dr. Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender). At first, Spielrein has nothing to offer except her extremely overacted fits (wherein Knightly comes dangerously close to jutting her bottom jaw out of her head). Eventually, the hysterical body distortions stop, and Jung decides to employ a experimental therapy technique recently developed by Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) called psychoanalysis, or “talk therapy.”

After only a few talk therapy sessions, Jung discovers that Spielrein is sexually aroused by the humiliation and pain of physical punishment. With Spielrein’s hysterical fits no longer an issue, Spielrein (still a patient) begins assisting Jung with his research, and Jung contacts Freud to share the news of his success with Spielrein’s psychotherapy treatment. The two men finally meet in person and begin a six year collaboration period with Freud mentoring Jung as his intellectual heir.

The real theme of the movie doesn’t become apparent until everyone’s repressed issues start surfacing. Spielrein struggles with repressing her socially unconventional sexual arousal. Jung tries to repress his sexual attraction to Spielrein as well as the Oedipal Complex he feels towards his substitute father-figure, Freud. And Freud sublimates his repressed obsession with sexual desires into all of his academic theories. Yet, the oddest thing about all these repressed sexual desires is how Cronenberg represses his own desire to make them visually scintillating on screen.

The only person not trying to repress anything is the immoral drug addict and fellow psychiatrist Otto Gross (Vincent Cassel), whom Freud asks Jung to take on as a patient in the clinic. After a few talk therapy sessions in which Jung listens to Gross rationalize an anti-monogamy standpoint, Jung finally caves into his own Id desires and violates his doctor/patient relationship with Spielrein. Ironically, their sexual tryst turned out to be a double-edged sword. For Jung, it transgressed his ethical responsibilities and led to the dissolution of his professional relationship with Freud; yet, it also “healed” Spielrein by allowing her to “normalize” taboo sexual desires.

For the most part, Cronenberg’s film is an interesting look at an overlooked historical figure in the history of psychoanalysis. Though, at times, it seems to come across as more of a stage play than it should. Part of that could be due to the fact that the film was adapted from a screenplay originally written for a theatre production which heavily relies upon dialogue. It could also have something to do with the subject matter itself – talk therapy. However, the biggest issue lies with Cronenberg’s failure to fully utilize the visual medium of cinema.

Because he keeps his camera and characters visually distant and reserved like the trio of psychiatrists he’s examining, Cronenberg never really pulls the audience into the angst of the character’s conflicting emotions. Instead, he allows them to spend so much time talking about sex they end up repressing everything but the clinical aspect of the Id’s favorite pastime. Better utilization of a cinematic ability to get up close and personal with the characters would also help in the scenes where it seems as if there’s more sexual tension between Freud & Jung than there is between Jung & Spielrein.

As for the story itself, it’s a fascinating one, but the subtext of its ideology is slightly bothersome. On one hand, it’s nice to see a film bring light to a woman who was written out of our male-dominated history, especially one who influenced two of the most important people in all of psychology. On the other hand, she’s portrayed as a hysterical, immoral mess who enters into a sexual relationship with Jung knowing full well that he is married with a pregnant wife.

Yet, the real irony of the situation lies in the treatment of Spielrein’s hysteria, specifically in regards to the history of the disorder. The ancient Greeks believed hysteria was strictly a female disorder in which the uterus would become dislodged and “wander” throughout the body causing various physical symptoms and ailments (hystera = Greek for “uterus”). In the 2nd Century, hysteria was thought to be caused by sexual deprivation and/or dissatisfaction, and the standard treatment for “hysterical” women was either sexual intercourse or manual vaginal stimulation (i.e. masturbation).[2] It wasn’t until 1895 that Freud expounded upon Josef Breuer’s study of “Anna O” and determined that hysteria is caused by psychological factors rather than biological ones.

Here’s the rub: Freud’s famous Anna O case is the first documented instance where the treatment of psychoanalysis – ferreting out the psychological roots of a physical problem by merely talking to the patient – cured a woman of female hysteria. It happened in 1895. Sabina Spielrein was admitted to the Burghölzli Clinic in 1904 (9 years later) with a diagnosis of hysteria. Jung treated Spielrein with psychoanalysis, which somewhat cured her, but not enough for Spielrein to leave the clinic as a patient. Only after repeated sexual encounters full of titillating spankings, courtesy of Dr. Jung, does Spielrein become fully “cured.” How’s that for a mixed message?

Of course, none of this will have any bearing on those who haven’t studied psychology. Those audience members will see what the filmmakers want them to see – the woman who influenced Jung’s theories on transcendence and Freud’s thanatos theories – which is indeed an interesting story. However, for those of us who are a little more up to speed on the subject matter at hand, A Dangerous Method will probably leave you questioning more than it should.

© Left From Hollywood


WORKS CITED

1 Kerr, John. A Most Dangerous Method. New York: Alfred Al. Knoph, Inc., 1993.
2 Maines, Rachel P. (1998). The Technology of Orgasm: "Hysteria", the Vibrator, and Women's Sexual Satisfaction. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.

Friday, October 28, 2011

The Skin I Live In

Image courtesy of Sony Pictures Classic


Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar first introduced the world to actor Antonio Banderas in his 1982 film, Labyrinth of Passion. They continued to work together throughout the 80s, the last of which was Almodóvar’s critically acclaimed 1990 release, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Twenty-one years later, the two cinematic icons are once again reuniting in the cult auteur’s latest film, The Skin I Live In (El Piel Que Habito) wherein Banderas portrays an updated version of a mad scientist who likes to play God.

Twelve years after his wife was horribly burned in a car accident, Dr. Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) successfully develops a new type of human skin that is sensitive to touch, yet cannot burn. The doctor achieved this medical breakthrough by using the controversial means of “transgenesis,” combining human DNA with animal DNA. He continues down the road of non-ethical behavior and acquires his own human guinea pig, Vera (Elena Anaya) to test his new fire-resistant skin.

Assisting Robert with these twisted experimentations at his lavish Toledo estate is Robert’s faithful accomplice Marilia (Marisa Paredes), the woman who has taken care of the Robert his entire life. Before long, Marilia own secrets come back to haunt her via her criminal son Zeca (Roberto Álamo), a criminal on the lam whose sudden reappearance starts a series of flashbacks involving Robert’s daughter Norma (Blanca Suárez) and her fateful encounter with Vicente (Jan Cornet), a young man she met at a party.

To reveal any more of the plot would give too much of it away. Once the flashbacks kick in, critical elements of the story slowly fall into place, cumulating in a shocking realization of misplaced identity. Until then, however, the film keeps the viewer at a cold, calculated distance, never really drawing you fully into the diegesis of this mad scientist playing God. By the time it’s over, Skin almost plays out like an extended version of Nip/Tuck written by a slow moving, watered-down Alfred Hitchcock.

Even though Skin is based on the Kafkaesque novel Mygale (Tarantula in English) by French author Thierry Jonquet, and is more than slightly reminiscent of Franju’s 1960 film, Eyes Without a Face, Almodóvar’s standard motifs of anxiety, betrayal, sexual identity, and death are still present. Unfortunately, Almodóvar has sterilized Jonquet’s novel to the point where very little emotion is left for the audience to evoke. Every major decision Robert makes in Skin is emotionally based; yet, because we’re kept visually distant, it’s difficult to discern.

Another issue is the slow pacing of the film’s narrative, especially the first act. From the beginning, we can tell that something’s off about Robert and his relationship with Vera by the way he keeps her locked up like a prisoner. The information necessary for the audience’s ability to piece together the real horror lies within revelations made within the flashback sequences. Unfortunately, the first flashback doesn’t even occur until Skin is well into its second act.

Overall, Pedro Almodóvar has brought to life onscreen one hell of a twisted story with his latest film, The Skin I Live In. Cinematographer José Luis Alcaine’s visually stunning bird’s eye shots only add to the stark beauty of this horror story. Granted, the story may be a little slow-moving at the start, but as long as you’re willing to stick with this sterilized examination of a mad scientist at work, the climactic revelation of learning what happened to Vicente is worth it.


© Left From Hollywood

Friday, September 23, 2011

Detective Dee and the Mystery of the Phantom Flame

Image courtesy of Indomina Group


Chinese filmmaker Tsui Hark has been making a career out of resurrecting and revising classic Chinese films and genres since receiving his film school diploma from the University of Texas at Austin in 1976. Shortly after graduation, Hark returned to his native Hong Kong, quickly became part of the Hong Kong New Wave film movement, created some of China’s biggest blockbuster movies (including the Once Upon a Time in China film series), and even managed to help launch the careers of such talents as John Woo, Jet Li, & Chow Yun-fat.

Hark’s latest film, Detective Dee and the Mystery of the Phantom Flame, is an adaptation of Lin Qianyu’s book of the same name. Hark’s period epic mystery (filmed for a measly $20 million) has already won several awards in China and received a Golden Lion nomination for best picture at last year’s Hong Kong Film Awards. Now, Hark’s fictitious tale about one of China’s most beloved folk heroes is gearing up for its American release.

Dutch author Robert van Gulik first introduced the Western literary world to the real Detective Dee (AKA “Judge Dee”) by writing 25 fictionalized novels about Dee’s early career as a district magistrate. Hark’s film picks up where Gulik’s book series draws to a close, taking place approximately 8 years later in 690 A.D., wherein Dee has been imprisoned for helping lead a rebellion against the ruthless political maneuvering of China’s first female emperor, Wu Zetian.

The film begins with the rush to finish the colossal Buddha statue Empress Wu (Carina Lau) has commissioned in her own image for the pending ceremony. Unfortunately for the Empress, two government officials spontaneously combust inside the statue before its completion. Ignoring the popular belief that supernatural elements are at play, Empress Wu pardons Detective Dee (Andy Lau), and commands him to find out who is using the strange deaths as part of a plot to overthrow her.

Wu assigns one of her own assistants, Shangguan Jing’er (Li Bingbing) to keep an eye on Dee as he begins his investigation, and the two grudgingly team up with Pei Donglai (Chao Deng). The trio then travels to the underground Ghost Market where they meet up with Dr. Donkey Wang (Richard Ng!) and discover the real cause of the spontaneous combustion. From there, our hero and his sidekicks battle their way through several assassination attempts, mystical creatures, and a slew of shady characters to find out who was doing it and why.

To call Detective Dee a “Chinese Sherlock Holmes” wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Like its Americanized British Gumshoe counterpart, Dee is a period piece about a master sleuth who speaks in expository dialogue, solves a baffling mystery, and looks cool doing it thanks to an overabundance of action sequences and CGI effects. The only difference is that Dee also incorporates the exaggerated martial arts skills (choreographed by Sammo Hung) of its wuxia hero. There’s even a vampire motif hidden in the subtext for those who look hard enough.

Because both the plot and the action move along at such a rapid pace, Hark barely gives his characters enough time to stop and breathe, let alone develop any real nuance or depth. At times, it’s hard to discern the visual difference between day/night, interiors/exteriors, and CGI/actual photography. Ironically, Pei wasn’t just referring to the Ghost Market when he called it a “spooky pandemonium.” He was referring to the visual aesthetics of the entire film.

Yet, in spite of all its decorative snow flurries, talking animals, makeshift plastic surgery via acupuncture, long-winded subtitles, magic weapons, and sleeping powder that creates more of a visual disturbance for the audience than a cognitive one for the characters, Detective Dee and the Mystery of the Phantom Flame is still an enjoyable film. Preposterous at times, but enjoyably so.

© Left From Hollywood