Skip to main content

Anatomy of a Fall

 The true crime stories that really fascinate me are all unsolved: Did Michael Peterson push his wife down a set of stairs? In the DC townhouse murders, did all three roommates participate (or was Victor unaware of what occurred)? Where is the American medical student Brian Shaffer?


It's the phenomenon of lying that captivates me. Seeing two eyes on camera, when the eyes seem to say, I have additional facts, and I won't disclose them. Are you correct in this interpretation of the eyes? Are you correct *sometimes* and not all the time? If you believe the person is lying, is your suspicion-about-actual-events somewhat close to the truth? Or is the truth a *third* scenario, different from the lie, and also different from the story you, the viewer, have constructed in your head?

I know the true crime genre is under fire right now, but I will always, always have an appetite for a real-world, unsolved mystery.

By contrast, I have very little tolerance for ambiguity in a work of fiction. I am old-fashioned. I believe that the writer of fiction is playing God, and she should always try to be as clear as possible. Lay your cards on the table. When there is a gimmick ("I won't share all that I know!"), I immediately suspect that the writer doesn't have faith in her own story, and she is hoping that the gimmick will be a kind of distraction, a way of manipulating the viewer.

So I find "Doubt" irritating, and I find "Anatomy of a Fall" irritating. Writers, don't dick around with your viewers. Just try to be straightforward; tell the story.

All that said, I loved the two central characters in "Anatomy of a Fall." Sandra is a modestly successful writer (a less celebrated kind of Annie Ernaux), and she has made a bad marital choice. She tries to compensate with affairs, but her husband digs deep and finds out, and even if he seems to "move on," he can't help but resurrect the memory by playing loud steel-drum recordings of a song called "PIMP." (The noise is a way of antagonizing the spouse, and also a way of evoking thoughts of the word "whore.") Sandra should escape, but she doesn't, and the casualty of her weakness is her own child. This kid is clearly suffering a form of abuse, every day, but what can he do? In an unforgettable scene, he acts out, by poisoning his own dog. He is performing a type of experiment, which has a certain little-kid logic. (You could imagine your own child making this mistake.) At the same time, he is sending a message to his mother: "I'm your little dog, and you have poisoned me."

I was haunted by both performers, even if I had problems with the script. For Sandra Huller: two thumbs up.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more