The Act of Killing

Joel Oppenheimer’s harrowing but indispensable The Act of Killing reminds us that even in a documentary, the particulars of plot and character are as open to expand into metaphors as a fictional work is.

The film presents the Indonesian death squad leaders who in 1965 overthrew the Soekarno government and committed massive genocide to maintain their power. There are two leading figures. Adi Zulkadry remains chillingly proud of his horrific actions. Anwar Congo -- who bears an unsettling resemblance to a younger Nelson Mandala -- shows some signs of a moderate guilt. As if to atone he has himself filmed pretending to be beaten up, then proudly shows the footage to his grandchildren. Despite his claims, of course the powerful killer can have no idea what his powerless victims felt. 

Oppenheimer has the killers restage their crimes for purposes of making a film. Zulkadry in particular relishes reliving the genocidal evil. Even Congo takes pride in demonstrating his efficient use of a wire to strangle his victims. What’s most moving is the effect of the staging on the citizens cast as victims. Though they weren’t party to the original crimes, just their staging moves them into uncontrollable pain and weeping. The “act” reminds them how vulnerable they still are to the killers now governing the country. They fathom their country's unspeakable suffering while its perpetrators don't.

That’s what makes this film speak beyond its putative subject matter. The particular case of 1965 Indonesia comes to signify the callousness and amorality of any government drunk on its own power. It would be a mistake to leave this movie feeling comfortable in our political system’s supposed superiority. North Americans may not be subject to their government’s committing genocide but the power gap remains. The Indonesian killers‘ impunity recurs in a more civilized manner in America's financial structure that remains intact, uncorrected, unpunished, for the self-service and havoc it wreaked upon the economy and the citizens. Here as there power corrupts. Here as there a government bent -- and I mean bent -- upon its own preservation can not be trusted to protect its citizens‘ lives, living or interests.  

The film’s political thrust is intensified by the film-making within the film and its acknowledgment that the killers were inspired by Hollywood movies. They proudly call themselves gangsters because that denotes “free men.” For them freedom means personal license. Any freedom that extends to the citizens signifies “too much democracy.” That’s like bailouts to the people being vile socialism, but to the banks and hedge funders is fine. The film’s government gangsters highjack the theme from Born Free and work a drag queen and musical numbers into the gore of the film’s history.

Those show biz ironies don’t lessen the film’s political impact, however. Making this film, exposing their present government officials‘ bloody past, amoral pride and freedom from conscience, all that is still very dangerous. The killers show no qualms about luxuriating in -- not just admitting -- their jaw dropping torture and killing. But the ordinary citizens, including a host of production and crew members, are forced to hide behind Anonymous.