A History of Violence

It's October..."so maybe I should pay attention to horror films." How cliché.

I have some planned and in the hopper, but I noticed "The Large Association of Movie Blogs" is showcasing director David Cronenberg, so I'm also going to be throwing in a bunch of Cronenberg reviews from the past and the retrospective present. After all, you can't have a Cronenberg movie without a little bit of horror...somewhere.

A History of Violence (David Cronenberg, 2005) Tom Stall (Viggo Mortensen) is an ordinary guy living a quiet life in Millbrook, Indiana. He's married to Edie (Maria Bello), a local attorney and they have two kids—Jack (Ashton Holmes) and Sarah (Heidi Hayes). Millbrook is small enough (population 3,246—but that will change) that everybody knows each other and are on a first name basis and everybody knows everybody's business. As they say in The Last Picture Show "you can't sneeze in this town without somebody offering you a handkerchief." 

Life is good for the Stall's. Edie is the big deal in town—local girl makes good—son Jack is on the baseball team for his high school and Tom contents himself with running the local diner, where there's always a hot pot of coffee and it's nearly as endless as the small talk and gossip. But, something will happen that will set the whole town talking and change the Stall's forever. 

One night, moments before closing, two toughs walk into the diner like they were out of "The Killers" or something. They are Leland Jones (Stephen McHattie) and "Billy" Orser (Greg Bryk) and Leland orders coffee, black for them both and Billy wants some lemon meringue pie. Tom lets them know that the diner is closed. But, Leland doesn't take the hint, his smile dropping. "I said...COFFEE!" he bellows, and Tom relents. "It's not very fresh," he says meekly. His waitress grabs a piece of pie and Tom tells her she can go home. But, that's not enough for Billy, who grabs her, throws her into a chair and fondles her. Tom is repulsed, and gets an expression on his face of uselessness.

Lester pulls out a gun and aims it at Tom, and, coffee pot in hand, he explains that they don't have much cash in the till. But the cook is still there and there's a couple of kids in a booth in the back—potential collateral damage. So, Tom takes action. He swings the hot coffee pot at Lester, hitting him in the face, shattering the glass, the follow-through knocking Lester's gun to the linoleum. Even before the force of the swing is over, Tom is over the counter, makes a grab for Lester's gun, while Lester pulls out a knife and stabs him through the foot, pinning him to the floor. Tom fires four shots, hitting Billy square in the chest, sending him flying through the front door. He then turns the gun on Lester and fires point-blank in the head.

It happens so fast, there's hardly time to react. But, Tom stares at the gun, sweating pouring off his face. It's over. But, it's only just begun.

A History of Violence comes from a Vertigo graphic novel by John Wagner and Vince Locke, but Cronenberg was working from a script adaptation by Josh Olson, not knowing its source. As such, he has his own visual style, starting the film with a long four minute shot as Lester and Billy "check out" of a flea-bag motel without paying the bill. It tells the story of how violence begets violence and can affect everything in its bloody path.

The process begins when word of Tom's action in the diner gets around town. He's a big deal, people stopping him in the street and glad-handing. Good work, Tom. Business at the diner actually picks up (rather than discouraging customers because it's a crime-scene) and Tom down-plays what he's done. 

So, business picks up at the diner, which is good. And bad.

Not long after the diner incident, three guys in suits come in and confront Tom, especially the guy in charge, Carl Fogarty (Ed Harris), who wears sunglasses, even inside, and has a particularly venomous way of calling Tom "Joey." Tom tries to deflect, but Fogarty will have none of it, pressing him, calling him "Joey" and reminding him of Philadelphia. Tom denies everything, but Fogarty isn't buying it, even if he does lay a hundred dollar bill on the counter to pay for his coffee. They leave, but they don't leave town, raising suspicions with Millbrook's sheriff who does some digging and reports to Tom that they're part of an Irish mob out of Philadelphia, led by one Richey Cusack.

Fogarty and company begin to stalk Tom and his family—following Edie and her daughter when they go to the mall (and leaving her with a taunting "ask him why he's so good at killing people"—and an inevitable confrontation takes place at the Stall house. Tom comes out to defend his family with a shotgun, but is persuaded to drop it when Fogarty reveals that he's got the boy, Jack, and implies harm to him unless Tom comes with them back to Philadelphia. Tom complies, but it's just a feint to attack the men, which leads to dire consequences for the family.

A History of Violence keeps you guessing about whether Tom really is a hit-man or this is just a case of mistaken identity, and Cronenberg ups the stakes with brutal depictions of violence not for the squeamish—he is, after all, the Master of Unease and the Viscera. But, he is also a director fascinated by obsession and the communicable. And there is more than a hint that he believes that violence is something that is passed on from example. One can see that in what's called the cycle of abuse where "normal" is fractured by example and passed on, like eye color or male-pattern baldness or a pre-disposition to disease.

But, is it a sickness or a learned behavior? Nature or Nurture? Does the stopping of the threat of violence by violence stop the violence or merely teaches it? Do the ends justify the means? Cronenberg doesn't provide answers, only examples, and keeps the unease palpable as one leaves the theater.

The Company Men

The Economy and how it grinds up people has been on my mind of late. Here are some movies I've written about in that subject matter. 

Written at the time of the film's release.

"The Worst They Can Do..."
or
"Looking Out for No. 1"

John Wells cut his teeth on "China Beach," "ER," and "The West Wing" (his company produced, and had the unenviable task of following Aaron Sorkin and Thomas Schlamme as its shepherds), and excelled at the TV requirements of the easy irony and the clean, unfussy shot. He brings that same sensibility to The Company Men, which at least has the stones to risk box-office disaster addressing the financial meltdown.

While banks are failing and institutions too big to fail do so, Boston's GTX corporation is warding off a possible hostile take-over by fluffing their stock; the most expedient way to do that in an uncertain economy is cut overhead and "redundancies," meaning shoes on the floor. Wall Street looooves a good blood-letting. Bobby Walker (Ben Affleck), a cocky well-to-do sales associate is one of the first to go, getting the pink slip and the complimentary empty boxes on the desk. He's mad. He's angry. He's bitter. 

Life changes. The wife goes back to work (after he insists that she doesn't). The kids worry (though the parents attempt to keep it a secret). The long process of looking for a job is a full-time life-sucking process, while as time drags on, the cockiness fades, the budget tightens, the possessions fade away and the lying starts. Pride goeth before the fall. But, first go the Porsch', the house, the country-club membership, the perks, then goes to the bone—the self-respect...the self-worth. The things you say you'd never do, you do.

GTX rolls on and over. The CEO (Craig T. Nelson) continues to prop up the corporation in grand strokes of hubris. His ship-building division head, Gene McClary (Tommy Lee Jones) tries to protect his assets, like division chief Phil Woodward (Chris Cooper) and head of HR Sally Wilcox (Maria Bello)—who just happens to be his mistress—but those efforts make him look disloyal to his his boss and friend Nelson. It is telegraphed early on that they're at risk, too, and Wells doesn't surprise by following the most likely story path.

Bobby soon ends up working for his wife's brother (Kevin Costner) in construction, just to make what ends he has left meet, but it's too little too late, and he gets lectured on "how things are:" "GTX's President makes 700 times what the average guy on the floor makes; you think he works 700 times as hard?" brother-in-law asks at Thanksgiving dinner. Pass the cranberries, bro.'  Pretty soon the entire film feels like a lecture on the twin (somewhat negating) virtues of self-reliance and helping others, with the inevitable triumphs and tragedies that the script calls for before the final commercial break—even though this is a theatrical presentation and the commercials come at the beginning. 

It's all Wells and good. The writer-director is helped immeasurably by Coen Brothers lenser Roger Deakins, and he's got a great cast doing varying degrees of cagey work—Costner, in particular, plays his part completely, without sentiment, which is unusual for him and it's refreshing. But, its all a little too little too late. As a summing up of the human consequences of down-sizing, it's a noble effort, but its audience—if they can afford to go—already knows all this and may end up feeling like they've been watching a parrot tell them their lives for two hours (Thanks, John, appreciate the sermon—you don't need a sound designer, do you?).* 

One wishes that someone would mention that these economic bubbles aren't restricted to this one time, but to the cycles that come from risky, if not downright criminal, actions that take place every twenty years. That an increasing life in the fast lane runs the risk of losing control of the vehicle. That, even if one takes the safe, conservative approach, you can still lose everything if the timing isn't fortuitous. That life is a crap-shoot, at times, and the guy who does the best may be that crazy guy who doesn't contribute to the economy, but stuffs his mattress with cash.**

But, that's never said. Maybe it will be in the sequel, The Company Men 2: That Ship has Sailed, which will basically be the same thing twenty years later, when the next crash occurs. And when one says that, one realizes that the real message of Oliver Stone's Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps is that a sequel needed to be made at all.

* I watched your movie; and you did.

** I won't even mention that the messenger for all this comes from a tinsel-towned industry known for its waste and excess.  Kudos that everybody on your film got a wage, but at what proportion to the stars and the execs—as long as we're making comparisons? How's that for irony? Heal thyself, Preacher.