The Face Knife

Night Watch plays like an entire season of Angel condensed into less than two hours and minus all the great characters of Joss Whedon’s series, or maybe a grim retelling of Ghostbusters. Even still, it’s pretty entertaining, although a bit lacking in hot vampire on vampire action for my taste. It’s a bit far-fetched to compare it to Bulgakov, as Hoberman does in the the Voice, or to Stalker, as I’ve seen somewhere (there’s one scene reminiscent of the deserted buildings of the Zone, but then the Vampire with the terrifying alias “The Hairdresser” and his girlfriend pop up).

Probably the most interesting thing about the film is the way it pre-empts the inevitable cross-over with the video game world by offering a scene in which the head baddie (whose power is apparently to remove his spine and use it as a sword. FATALITY.) hones his reflexes for the final conflict by gaming it out on a PS2. Maybe the whole film was story-boarded as a Machinima, which might explain the odd use of props (flashlights?). Hopefully, the remaining episodes in the series will take a bit more advantage of the Moscow location, particularly the “Stalin Gothic” skyscrapers that would look great being destroyed by the Sta-Puffed marshmallow man.

Maybe it’s just because as of late my business card happens to read both “Whitey” and “The Man” , but I’m finding it harder and harder to get properly exercised about the supposedly criminal lifestyle choices of the international Bourgeoisie. The effort of filmmakers like Lars Von Trier and Michael Haneke to expose the plush, tasteful underbelly of mainstream Liberals may actually be a decent and essential goal in the service of international liberation, and sometimes they come close to convincing me (like, I really hated that Paul Bettany character in Dogville) but I’m far too out of shape to become a street-fighting man without spending a fortune on pilates lessons, which requires a decent paying job, you know?

Georges (Daniel Auteuil) and Anne (Juliette Binoche) are a prosperous middle class couple who begin receiving anonymous, affectless (though as beautifully composed as a Mondrian painting, though that may be the result of the eminently tasteful architecture of their flat) surveillance videotapes of their house, seemingly taken at all hours from the alley directly facing it. Sometimes, the tapes are accompanied by a sanguineous crayon drawing. Naturally, this state of affairs leads to escalating paranoia and the facade of the life they’ve built for themselves begins to crumble as events from the past surface and frayed nerves are rubbed.

While it’s tempting to add Caché (Hidden) to my long list of films from 2005 that concern the ultimately futile attempt of a solipsist to come to a communion with the “Other”, what’s really been hidden about the film is the total lack of critical comparison to another formally daring expos? on the French Bourgeoisie, Godard’s Week-end. The big difference, aside from the fact that one of these films is far better than the other, is the static set-up of the “surveillance” shots of Caché as compared to Godard’s berzerk and breathtaking use of tracking shots. I would almost say that Caché has to be an ‘answer’ film to Week-end, if one that totally dispenses with the savage humor of the 60s film.

The difference between the “despicable” protagonists of the films is that the couple on the run in Godard’s film has nothing in the way of self-reflection or self-consciousness, whereas the “hunted” couple of Caché has nothing but that. Both films are the wish fulfillment fantasies of their protagonists. Caché is the ultimate Liberal guilt-trip fantasy film. It is the dark fantasy of the politically “responsible” (though not actually engage? ) that they will somehow, sometime, be taken to account for their failings, even if their deepest, darkest, evilest acts occurred when they were perhaps six years old, or more to the point, what they would consider their evilest acts.

Indeed, the narcissism -the infantilism- of Georges’s persecution fantasy is made clear in the drawings that accompany the videotapes. The most pathetic scene occurs when Georges watches the videotape that apparently was filmed right after his initial confrontation with Majid - the extended tape of the old Algerian crying. Naturally, Georges feels awful. Poor Frenchman! He made the sub-altern weep! Look how evil and powerful he must be, even in his most unconsidered moments!

Georges’s construction of the Other becomes even more absurd in the fantasy of Majid slicing his own throat as some sort of penance. (and I maintain it was probably a fantasy, given the lack of police response, etc. ) Only a true narcissist would think that his actions could cause another to take his own life in such a way.

The attribution of the tapes is a total act of projection - Georges tries to generalize from his own experience and from pieces of media he consumes (it’s not for nothing that his job is on TV, or that his home is virtually filled with media) the inner lives of the Other, what their motivations and drives might be, and succeeds only in exposing the loathing he feels for himself and his lifestyle, and a metaphysical need to somehow be held responsible for his situation.

Ultimately, there is no one attempting to hold Georges responsible for anything - just as there is no one who will hold us responsible for our failings. Georges wishes there were someone who would either punish him or reassure him for leading an okay life, like the power he has over his child, Pierrot. When Pierrot starts to rebel, Georges is faced with an uncomfortable mirror that does not reflect, a reminder of his own place as a radically free and radically alone agent in a world without a hidden order.