violence on film

What do A History of Violence and Hostel have in common?

First and foremost, my impression of both films was shaped by the fact that I had just attended Michigan Pax Christi’s (a Catholic organization devoted to peace education and activism) statewide conference. Conference keynote speaker John Dear, a Jesuit priest, suggested in his address that no matter how counter-intuitive peace action may seem, we must continue to resist the culture of violence in which we live. Dear described a morning at his rural New Mexico home (he pastors several poor, rural churches there) several months ago when a local Army unit was preparing to deploy to Iraq by marching through the village chanting various military mantras (“sound off…one, two”—that kind of thing) all touting their ability to kill. Dear reported that he quickly threw on clothes, ran outside, stood in front of the unit, and asked them to refuse to kill. Later in his address, Dear discussed several versions of the Beatitudes (“Blessed are the meek…”) that translate the repeated line as “Stand up” instead of “Blessed are,” suggesting the pro-active nature of peace-making.

This was my personal context for viewing these two very, very different films and probably had everything to do with how I responded to them. History of Violence tells the story of a small-town diner owner who defends his café from two brutal thugs intent on robbing and brutalizing his customers. The protagonist, played by Viggo Mortensen, becomes a local hero and gains attention from the press and also from shadowy figures who may or may not be from his past. Mortensen offers a disturbing embodiment of how violence changes him—and how violence may or may not have shaped him. His performance is amazing, moving in and out of his shifting identities: small-town good guy, justified vigilante, ruthless tough guy. Ashton Holmes gives an equally multi-faceted turn as the protagonist’s teen-aged son, bullied at school until his father’s actions inspire him to fight back. David Cronenberg (Dead Ringers, Dead Zone, Scanners) directs, so black humor provides something other than levity or comic relief—the jokes instead offer wry commentary on American attitudes toward justice, community, and crime.

I’ve written before about my life-long love affair with horror movies, so I won’t go into any apologies for dropping two bucks on a piece of pulp like Hostel. Let’s just say the movie takes its aesthetic cues from ultra-violent Asian horror films. Two college kids backpack through Europe, engaging in raucous behavior that goes beyond teen-slasher-film sex and moves headlong into the realm of the exploitative. They end up in Slovakia, for example, because they hear that many of the men there died in “the war” (don’t ask—nobody claimed the film was a history lesson) and that the women are poor. That equoation adds up to "great place to score." Charming guys. The NYTimes review accurately pointed out that, once the carnage begins, it’s hard to feel sorry for these dudes. Anyway, they end up at a horrific dungeon-of-sorts where rich men from the western world can pay to commit murder in any way they see fit. Part “Most Dangerous Game,” part Dateline NBC special on atrocities that go on every day in Eastern Europe and southeast Asia. As an Asia-ultraviolent-wannabe, Hostel suffers the limits of its own genre: weak acting and predictable plot trajectory. But, on another level, the film meditates on what happens when capitalism comes to town overnight—not to mention what happens when the violent, the depraved, are given a playground.

Two meditations on violence. One, a great film. One, a poor film. But both in their own way confront the culture in which we find ourselves living. Stand up, peace-makers.