When I described Michael Haneke’s Benny’s Video on the site’s blog as “a whore dressed up for the society ball—you know she’s going to lift up her skirt and show you her cooch at some point,” I didn’t realize how much this notion also applied to 1997’s Funny Games, the film Haneke used to mark his territory on the Euro-art film map, and now, the director’s pointlessly lazy shot-for-shot American remake. In the opening scene, an upper-middle-class family drives to their house in the country, heavy metal music sarcastically blasting on the soundtrack (not the family’s car stereo, which plays bourgeois-appropriate classical), and even before the whore has gotten a chance to flash her jewels, Haneke is already slapping her on the wrist. The filmmaker understands how audiences respond to terror on screen, thwarting our pleasure by toying with and condescending to our expectations—like a Catholic school nun sticking a pin into a voodoo doll of Regina Hall’s loud-mouthed character from the first Scary Movie. When Peter (Brady Corbet), one of two preppy psycho killers who invade the family’s home, asks a bleeding George (Tim Roth) for food, the man sends his son, Georgie (Devon Gearhart), into the kitchen and Peter tells the kid not to go searching for a knife—or else. Later, when the mother, Anna (Naomi Watts), makes it onto the road outside her house, she allows her defenses to drop, letting an ostensibly friendly passerby to, well, pass by, before—as implied by the next scene—hailing the car of the returning killers. These sequences are straight out of any rote thriller, but they’re meant to be profound—critical of the conventions of the genre—because Paul (Michael Pitt) breaks the fourth wall a number of times; this is Scream for art-house aficionados, with Haneke at one point curbing the audience’s euphoria by rewinding the film immediately after Anna shoots Peter in the chest. Buñuel died before video killed the radio star but Haneke, a great architect of sustained movie tension, shares with the late master an obsession with disrupting bourgeois complacency. What separates them is that Buñuel’s funny games were actually funny and whenever he pointed his finger, it pointed everywhere, including at himself. Haneke’s admonishments are disturbing only in the sense that they’re never self-critical, and while watching one of his films, there’s always a sense that he thinks he’s above his characters, his audience, and scrutiny.
The image is clean but on the drab side and the audio is clear but not exactly muscular, even when the heavy metal on the soundtrack takes over.
Previews for The Orphanage, Lost Boys: The Tribe and Otis.
Funny Games is the theme park ride for anyone wanting to experience what it must have been like for Catherine Martin to put the fucking lotion in the basket.