Phantom Thread

The title points three ways.

        (i) To the brilliant, eccentric dressmaker Reynolds Woodcock, the phantom thread alludes to the little secrets he hides inside his creations: his mother’s portrait under the canvas of his jacket, little messages, a talisman like the “never cursed” he plants in the Belgium princess’s wedding gown. These are ghostly presences. 

(ii) More broadly, it suggests the magic of his craft, his famous “touch” that pulls the superior materials together into an even more brilliant whole. It’s the genius he brings to the “trade” his mother taught him, the genius that makes him the dominant figure in 1950s London fashion (before the working class eruption of the Beatles, Carnaby Street, etc.). 

(iii) Then there’s the love story — the core of this lush drama. This phantom thread is the mysterious element that draws together the handsome rich designer and the awkward country inn waitress. Trying to define this explains the opening (and returned to) scene of Alma being interviewed by a reporter about their relationship.

In fact, the reporter is an intriguing ambiguity. Why is he interviewing her? Is he a fashion feature writer or a crime reporter” Is he sniffing out a new style trend or a mushroom snuff? Either explanation, i.e., either thread, is a phantom we need not pursue.

Suffice it that the film chronicles a fascinating, unusual and therefore probably quite representative anatomy of a love affair. 

It’s especially quirky in its general exclusion of sex. It avoids the obvious. Woodcock (the name admits a retreat from fleshy sex stuff) has a ravenous appetite — but it’s exclusively for food, as his breakfasts demonstrate. Alma’s first note to him addresses “the hungry boy,” an affectionate reduction. 

Alma’s initial appeal is to his designer aesthetic: he likes a model with no breasts and a bit of a belly. But when she moves in he gives her a separate room, next to his but not with him.

For he also has a ravenous hunger for complete control over his life. He doesn’t want his work or meals or emotional balance ever disturbed. Hence he’s a confirmed bachelor, though he explains that as his attempt to avoid the inevitable deceits of marriage. 

Alma loses him when — against his sister Cyril’s strong advice — she springs a surprise romantic dinner on him. Woodcock can’t abide surprises. Oddly, he handles having a sister named Cyril! But this is a story of irregular sexuality. 

Alma’s entrance ends his apparent career of serial mistresses, with whom he is early infatuated before he finds them irritating enough to let Cyril get rid of them. Alma brings new life: “Who is this lovely creature making the house smell so nice?”

Their romance traces the shift of power from the totally self-absorbed man to the plain woman who struggles to sustain her own identity. He doesn’t respect her taste, personality, her desires, preferring to treat her as if she were just another material from which he fashions his work. The model is a tool of the dress. If anything, he cedes her less respect than he does his antique lace. 

“Alma” of course means “soul.” Paradoxically, the woman who brings soul and warmth to the cold Woodcock can only do it by shattering his independence — here, through poisoned mushrooms. She makes him physically sick to heal him emotionally. 

The dressmaker becomes human, properly appreciative of his woman, only after she forces him into some dependence upon her. Then her tending him supplants his earlier exclusive commitment to his dead mother: “It's comforting to think the dead are watching over the living. I don't find that spooky at all.”  In his delirium her entrance drives out his vision of his dead mother.

The first poisoning has him fall and ruin the wedding gown he’s finishing. But his seamstress crew solves the problem without him. Here he achieves an identity and success outside his work. He marries Alma. So much for his “I’m a confirmed bachelor. Incurable.” Alma cures him of isolated bachelorhood as well as the poisoning. One poison drives out the other. 

But he lapses from their healthy independence, prompting him to want Cyril to despatch her as well. When Alma’s second dose confirms their union, she tells him what she is doing: 

"I want you flat on your back. Helpless, tender, open with only me to help. And then I want you strong again. You're not going to die. You might wish you're going to die, but you're not going to. You need to settle down a little.”

Even without knowing what she has done to him, he accepts it: “Kiss me, my girl, before I'm sick.” In context, that’s as romantic as the opening sonnet of Romeo and Juliet. As Alma tells Dr. Hardy, “Reynolds has made my dreams come true. And I had given him what he desires most in return…. Every piece of me.”
     The park idyll, with Woodcock and Alma playful of a workday afternoon, sister Cyril happily tending the infant in its carriage, may give the film a conventional happy ending. Love conquers all, etc. Or it may be just another projection of Alma’s fantasy. Which it is may depend on what that journalist is writing. 

The Darkest Hour

British Director Joe Wright has admitted his replay of Churchill is relevant to current America: The director claims to be heartened by the growing resistance to the president’s increasing tyranny. 

But the connection is deeper and more troublesome. Wright’s Churchill is specifically inflected into a figure of Trump populism. The film is a defence of Trump. As no responsible person could say Trump is Churchillian, Gary Oldman’s — however brilliant — performance serves to reduce Churchill to Trump. 

The most serious malfeasance is the PM’s visit to the London Underground. On the brief trip to the next station, Westminster, Churchill meets a carload of Ordinary Citizens, overcomes their awe, learns their names, cracks a few jokes, finds out about them, and hears their full-throated rejection of any peace over war against Hitler. He learns the voiceless citizenry happen to agree with him!

The encounter reverses Churchill’s decision to join the freedom-sacrificing pacifiers. Instead he stands firm, rallies the government and — spoiler alert— five years later defeats the Nazis. 

The underground scene is not based in Churchill’s real life at all. Instead it derives from Shakespeare’s Henry V, when on the eve of Agincourt Hal walks incognito among his motley army connecting to his roots and drawing strength from them. 

Wright’s version is stilted and dangerous. Instead of poetry and sincerity it seems like an animated Communist poster, all the faces radiant and of one heart and mind to risk a nations’ population in an uncertain war. Indeed in this idealistic vision the one black man on the train — indeed, in the film, and possibly in the England of that time — can complete Churchill’s classic poetic quotation. This truly “fake” scene portrays Churchill as a populist, just like our Donnie! He alone knows what The People want, hears their needs and resolutely serves their purpose in the face of conventional politics and against the elite (the class he of course enjoys). 

Even the Churchill traits here that have historic basis are by that fake scene mobilized to present Churchill as the Trump kind of leader. As a serial flip-flopper, he’s rejected by his own party. He’s bullying, impatient and insulting to his staff. His career is pocked with spectacular failures, with Gallipoli standing in for Trump’s many — of course, personally profitable — bankruptcies.  He takes corrective advice from his First Lady, the fashionably done-up Clementine evoking the combo Melanka. Where others operate by knowledge and principle, he goes by his — here prosthetic — gut.

His daily 4 p.m. nap evokes Trump’s sliver of a work-day that punctuate his golf breaks. In fact, Churchill worked two full days every day by taking an extra sleep, shower and breakfast within each 24-hour period. This Churchill’s explanation — “I work late” — doesn’t cover that. It instead shows Churchill Trump-like in seeming to be lazy by grabbing an extra break.

In short, this Churchill serves to valourize a leader who in these surface particulars is like Trump: quirky, disliked, a political outsider, unpredictable (to the point of frightening the king), but with a preternatural dedication to and insight into The People. 

What’s omitted is the very essence of Churchill, everything that distinguishes him from Trump: his massive education and scholarship, his brilliant research, his idealistic, humane eloquence, his long and varied political experience and his rock-solid moral character. Sure, if you set aside all the ways Churchill was the antithesis to Trump, then you can make Trump seem like another Churchill, an outsider populist unfairly maligned by everyone with sense and responsibility, who are here played as treasonous cowards. 

Wright’s Churchill goes wrong in another scene. Churchill knew his Shakespeare. Churchill would NEVER say “Lead on, Macduff.” The verb is “lay on,” as in hand to hand (not Trump’s foot in mouth) combat.

This undercurrent may explain the film’s weird opening shots: the Nazi army and military equipment in massive uniform array. In bringing us into the action, the element Wright chooses to characterize the time is not landscape, city or characters, but the threat of a war. The images connote Little Rocket Man. 

The first reference to Churchill is the shot of his empty seat in parliament. Under the threat of war, the leadership is a vacancy into which the people’s saviour will by our good fortune slip. However unpopular, unconventional, unattractive, he will prove the right man at the right time and place. Really.

As the film opens on the Nazi threat, it closes on the Churchillian resolution. And of course it’s another distortion. “He mobilized the English language and sent it off to war” was not the wisdom of Lord Halifax but of Edward Murrow, later quoted by John Kennedy. But why quibble at misrepresentation and more egregious lies when it’s in service of a larger (or in this case, “fake”) truth?            Perhaps in one specific the film’s parallel offers hope: Five months after the war the public voted Churchill out of office.

The Shape of Water

So what is the shape of water anyway? 

  Water is a malleable element that assumes the shape of its container. It is a life-force, an  inner quality that can’t be read from its surface. It has no exclusive shape but is a sustaining presence.

The same can be said for humanity. Humanity is an essential quality that can be found in any number of forms. Here it propels the mute Eliza, the lost gay artist Giles and reluctant help Delilah, and it is embodied in the mysterious amphibian monster. But that natural humanity has been trapped by the US army which intends either his live dissection or his murder to serve the government’s political interests and paranoia. 

That merman seems godlike in his healing powers. That’s because he is a creature of nature, not the species man so long removed from it. He restores Giles’ hair, disappears his wound, cures his own bullet-holes — and ultimately brings eternal life via love to Eliza. 

As an orphan Eliza Esposito is cut off from any earthly roots, but she has an instinctual connection to the source of life, water. Hence her immediate attraction to and sympathy for the merman. She persuades Giles to help save him because of their common humanity, theirs and the merman’s.  

Her job reduces her to cleaning the masters’ piss, blood and excrement. But her humanity has profounder roots than anyone else here. In the opening scene she is asleep and so freed into her natural state — floating in an ocean that fills her room, all the furniture bobbing about, until she eases back down to her fish-shaped sofa and awakens into her lesser world, mundane reality. While her egg-timer ticks off her breakfast, she masturbates in her tub, exulting in her freedom, fullness and immersion.  

The film does have a fish out of water, but it’s not the merman. It’s the pie-clerk, a bigot from Ottawa who fakes the chain’s “Southern Hospitality.” The positive variation on this is the Russian spy who has been educated in America and is now to be reluctantly “extracted” back to Russia — and death.

The film also has a monster but it’s not the merman. It’s the obscene director Strickland. As he grinds his candies and scarfs painkillers he pretends to civilized order, discipline, virtue, righteous citizenship, potency, but he’s the film’s biggest loser. He tortures the merman monstrously, sexually threatens Eliza, demeans her and her partner Zelda, and so provokes the audience’s proper revulsion that we cheer when his new Cadillac gets crunched.  

Like water and humanity, manhood cannot be characterized by its outer appearance or shape. Zelda has bigger balls than husband Brewster. Despite his failure as an illustrator, the gay and lonely Giles proves manlier than Strickland when he helps free the merman. He drives the rescue laundry van, then knocks down Strickland to enable the escape. 

So, too, the merman’s flat groin unfurls a sexual potency that fulfills Eliza and brings them eternal love. This while macho Strickland loses his fingers, which even after reattachment turn black and putrid. He may have saved his “pussy finger” but he’s ultimately emasculated.

Guillermo del Toro pointedly sets the film in late 1950s America. That’s the America that the current Republican government aims to restore. Hence the pie-clerk’s racism and homophobia, and Strickland’s racism, sexism, classism and smug materialism. Strickland is sure “The Lord’s image” is his, not black Zelda’s and certainly not the merman’s. Indeed, he loses the trail when he snaps “What am I doing, interviewing the shit cleaners?” Strickland is so alienated from nature that his Caddy is pointedly “teal, not green.” This sterile military-industrial complex admits no green beyond the Stricklands’ gelatine dessert, the sickly key lime pies, and Giles’s ad drawing that loses out to a photograph. 

As the five-star General Hoyt admonishes him, “Decency is what we export. We don’t use it ourselves.”  Their attack on the merman evokes Trump’s evisceration of the EPA, his revival of the murderous coal industry and then plotting to pillage the national parks and to mine the entire seacoast with oil drilling. To Strickland the mysterious captive natural power is only “the asset” — as negative a positive as one could assign a living creature.  

Though the Russians are as murderous as the American’s, the Russian scientist spy Hofstetler sustains the human value: “I don't want an intricate, beautiful thing destroyed!” We don’t have to be restricted to our government’s inhumanity. 

Though the film is framed with shots of Eliza floating in a watery world, first during her dream, then liberated with her merman, the film has another frame, Giles’s narration. He tells the story. As he admits its mystery and his incomprehension it represents his blossoming into a fuller self as well as Eliza’s. 
     Initially he’s an ex-alcoholic failure struggling to get work drawing ad designs. That’s a very ‘50s profession, sustaining a false dream-life for American consumerism as false as the fantasies screened in the Orpheum under Giles’ and Eliza’s flats. “Make them happier,” he’s advised on his cartoon family. Encountering the merman liberates him too. Giles starts drawing emotional representations of the strange creature and his connection to our humanity. Giles switches his hand and his imagination from selling a false image of happiness to probing our wilder possibilities.   

Wonder Wheel

Having visited Tennessee Williams territory in Blue Jasmine now Woody Allen takes on Eugene O’Neill, with a harsh vision of self-destructive characters doomed by fate and their own tragic flaw. Both tragedies show Allen at the peak of his craft, restoring his title of America’s most significant film director.

The titular Wonder Wheel is the gigantic, dramatically lit Ferris wheel that we don’t see until the end. The characters are rather emblematized by the earthbound merry go round, as they live locked in their sordid painful lives, unable to see any larger hopes. Humpty fixes and runs the merry go round, a losing proposition like his parenthood, marriage, current affair and battle with alcoholism. His name stamps him as the fallen, even beyond the wagon.

This Coney Island is a shrinking, garish fantasy that distracts its denizens from their tragic destiny. Ginny’s arsonist son has no specific explanation but seems a tragic version of little Alvy Singer, living under the Coney Island roller coaster and worrying about the end of the universe, over his bowl of quivering tomato soup. Without the knowledge and philosophy the kid is merely destructive. He’s the innocent as nihilist.

Allen pitches this drama as a piece of theatre rather than as life or naturalistic cinema. The garish brightness of the Coney Island exteriors, the painstakingly recreated atmosphere of the signs and period songs, the turgid shadows and gloom of the interiors, and the eruptive emotions especially of Ginny and Humpty all evoke the artifice and heightening of theatre. 

Jim Belushi plays the bathetic Humpty as an even coarser Stanley Kowalski. Ginny retreats to Blanche when, broken, her hopes dashed, she retreats to the fantasy of her old white gown. Both characters live theatrically, Humpty in the force of his rage and Ginny in pretending she is only playing the role of a waitress, not really being one. The real her is something else, a wispy memory of an alternative life she might have lived. Like Blanche, she bears the guilt of having driven a devoted lover to suicide.

In a brilliant piece of meta theatrical casting, the two mafiosi on Carolina’s trail are prominent survivors of Tony Soprano’s crew, Steve Schirripa and Tony Sorico, very much in character.

Hence the main character, Mickey, is an aspiring playwright who speaks to us in confidential asides. He is also a lifeguard, whose elevated perspective gives him an advantage over the merry go round lot but falls short of the Wonder Wheel’s sweeping perspective. 

Mickey may know his O’Neill but he doesn’t know life or how to navigate it responsibly. He leaves Ginny with unrealistic hopes he might save her, then delays his intended dismissal of her. Immediately upon resolving to keep her instead of young Carolina, he asks the latter out for her fatal pizza date. When he informs Carolina of his affair with her stepmother, his assumption of purity and honesty pales beside its unintended cruelty and her doom. His sending her off to walk home alone is as responsible for her demise as Ginny’s decision not to warn her.

Humpty, Carolina and Ginny suffer the consequences of their earlier decisions. Mickey has the book larnin’ but lacks the grit of their experience. The two women win him by their hard won experience and pain, but his writerly detachment leaves him hollow. 

This film is so rich and challenging that it’s silly to hang Allen’s old scandal on it, basing that narrow reading on the line “The heart has its own hieroglyph”—loosely, Allen’s early defence of his initially problematic relationship with his current wife. This modern exercise.of the classical tragic vision is a deliberate attempt to confront man’s largest predicament, far beyond our mundane news scandals. Early Allen would have been eviscerating Trump in a gleeful high dudgeon. Here Allen follows the great tragic writers into a far more sweeping examination of how we humanly fail in our lives.

Ex Libris: New York Public Library

At over three hours, this is an epic film. It has to be because it’s about an epic institution: the New York Public Library, its history, its management, its multiple branches, its global city mission, its changing nature. 

As usual, director Frederick Wiseman moves silently, invisibly, unobtrusively, through his subject institution. He doesn’t intrude, but lets what he finds in sound and image reveal his message. Of course, a documentary is still as calculated an arrangement of materials designed to make the director’s point as any fiction is. 

But Wiseman doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t even make cuts within a scene or a speech. He lets the material reveal itself — though he has chosen what material to show, what message will be revealed.

The frequent committee meetings make this film equally about the richness of the Library’s offerings and the challenges of its governance. The Board has to work for the public’s support, convince both its public and private funders to meet its needs, and balance the demands of the traditional needs with the new. 

Indeed, in this Library, a massive institute with responsibility for a dramatically diverse community, Wiseman finds a microcosm of America itself. Hardly any of the speakers are identified because the film is not really about them but about the institution they serve — and the national culture it represents. 

For the federal government has the same responsibilities of meeting the citizens’ needs and generating the income to do so. But where Trump “loves the poorly educated” — to the point of trying to convert all Americans to that — the Library loves all its citizens — to the point of wanting to improve all their lives. 

As the studies of the users’ faces reveals, the Library serves America’s diversity in culture, economic class, education level, and needs. The Chinatown branch provides materials in Chinese to serve that culture and English materials to ease their assimilation. The Braille branch tapes books and teaches the blind to read. 

In all the branches the Library works to bring the citizens into the computer age. The Westchester branch teach kids robotics. 

The Bronx audience at a modern wind quartet is largely working class or unemployed, street people. The programming is not what we’d expect. Some sleep, some are simply staying warm, one woman mimes a singalong, but for each person there the music is doing some service. 

  In the Harlem branch an impassioned poet’s recital is punctuated by a baby’s cries in the audience. That’s life, which the artist must accommodate. So does the Library; so should the government.

But the Republican government isn’t. Time and again the speakers express a tacit resistance to the Trump administration. At a job fair, a border guard reads a statement about his job and its importance. He lacks the sincerity and warmth of the others who speak from their heart. 

As one speaker asserts, the library is no longer about books; it’s about people. That’s what the government has forgotten: it thinks it’s about things, about securing personal profits, not about the citizens it is supposed to be serving.

In an implicit forceful correction to Trump's racism, the Muslim director of the Schomberg Centre cites the line, “The library is the pillar of democracy.” In fact Muslims appear throughout the film as helpful Library stuff or as citizens with the same earnest needs and care as the paler citizens. A Jewish author celebrates the Jewish immigrants and their deli tradition. This is melting pot America not our current racist paranoia.

Wiseman’s Library reminds us where America’s greatness lies — in welcoming citizens from around the world and enabling them to make the best lives for themselves that they can. Among the most powerful correctives to current America are the speeches about the African American experience, the revival of racism, and the failure of modern capitalism to provide a fair and equal distribution of wealth. 
     There’s a lot of talk here, but it’s important talk, the kind of thoughtful, articulate and constructive debate that’s beyond the skill and ethics of current politics. That the Library provides the arena and the thinkers and the audience for such discussion makes it of epic importance to our future. If this New York can’t save America what will?  

My Happy Family

Apart from the filth she has to clean up, Manana’s new apartment is characterized by its two balconies. Several shots observe the strong winds blowing outside the open doors. Some don’t show anyone, just the open space and the gusts. It’s a climb to get there but she finds her freedom and fresh air.

For that she has fled her marriage and her parents’ cramped apartment. There she lived with her two elderly parents, her husband Soso, their layabout computer nerd son Lasho, their daughter Nino and her unfaithful husband Vakho. Manana’s mother still rules that roost. The flat is so cramped two generations keep their clothes in a wardrobe in Lasho’s room, into which he now moves his pregnant new wife. 

Then there’s the music. Several scenes overflow with the beautiful harmonies, emotions and community of the family and friends singing. I guess that’s Georgia: a warm people always ready to burst into polished song. The men sing, the women work. 

These scenes warm us with the characters’ intense bonds — whether family or just friends — but to Manana that warmth is smothering. Like the intensity of her family’s dynamic, it only increases her need to escape, to live on her own, to be free, to enjoy her preferred ritual of the same classical music. And here she works for herself. 

Most of the film follows the mature teacher’s resolve to live her own life apart from her family and their demands upon her. The patriarchal culture — as expressed by her husband, her older brother, her son-in-law — can’t bend its mind to understand, leave alone to accept that. Her brother’s friends threaten Soso when they think he’s a stranger courting her. 

Manana’s escape takes new significance when she learns Soso had a long affair with another woman, who bore him a son. Soso loved her passionately but couldn’t bring himself to leave Manana for her. 

After learning of this betrayal, at her class reunion, the reluctant Manana is coaxed into singing. She chooses a ballad rueing a false love, so even here she’s expressing herself not submitting to the male coaxer. As in the solo she sings in her new home, she sings through her grief, now in a community but not bound by it. Her tremulous, poignant, personal solos contrast to the men’s chorales. 

The last shot is of Soso approaching her at her open window. He has inferred she knows of his compromised past. “Who are you?” she has asked. The film stops short of revealing their conversation, their future relationship. It’s enough that she is at her open window and he now has to come to her. Now he moves without the swagger or self-dramatizing with which he earlier responded to her escape. 

Despite the tensions in this drama of dysfunction, this actually is a happy family. The title seems ironic, but, ironically, it’s true. Everyone cares and is concerned for each other — to the point of intrusion. They also come to accept each other’s differences, as we see when the family embraces Lasho’s bride, Kitsi,. She spurned the name her family gave her but now accepts her new family and function. 

   

The Square

The Square is a piece of very contemporary art that is about very contemporary art and its ambivalent relationship to our social reality and responsibilities. “Relational aesthetics” is the interviewed artist’s term, i.e., exploring the relationship between art and our social reality. 

Does or should art confront our pressing issues of poverty, oppression, suppression, a heartless economic system, etc., or does it provide a comforting escape? Hence the very old, wealthy, white society that supports the contemporary art museum here but is discomfited by its challenges.

So this film is an artifact about itself. That’s why we can ignore such narrative gaps as what Anne is and why she has a pet ape in her flat, who is Christian’s ex, what did Christian’s assistant drive into, what happened to the little boy left helpless on the stairs and why we get the Tourette’s heckler and the little girls’ acrobatic competition. We note these enigmas but don’t need them explained because this is not a story of humdrum reality. 

We take them on trust, as the clear majority of the museum goers declare themselves trusting at the entrance poll. But of course the film reveals a human order not worthy of trust. Too much is selfish and false.

The film itself is a work of art called “The Square.” It situates itself in the events around the opening of a new exhibition called “The Square.” As Christian cites the artist, “The Square is a sanctuary of trust and caring. Within it we all share equal rights and obligations.” This art proffers what our real world should be -- but what's lacking in the film’s real world, as in ours.

Squares abound outside that show. Christian is walking through a square when he becomes involved in a piece of street theatre that results in (i) his engagement with a screaming woman’s ostensible assailant, and (ii) the theft of his wallet and cell phone. 

The most dynamic square in the film is the shots down the apartment building stairwells, a spiral of squares within squares, both in Christian’s and in his boy victim’s buildings. That stairwell was a popular motif in Hitchcock, where — as here — it serves as an image of the layered consciousness, spiralling vertiginously into danger. 

In another square within the square, the Museum’s advertising agency releases a video in which a poverty-stricken little blonde beggar girl is exploded in that square. That depicts the opposite of the artist’s declared values. This commercial "art" animates what the original artist opposed. This square is released under Christian’s authority but without his input or approval. He's too distracted with his robbery and revenge to pay attention. The ad properly ends his sanctuary — his job and his power. 

In contrast to these dangerous squares in life, we get the squares framed and tamed in the Albers-like painting on Christian’s hallway wall. These squares within squares are totally abstract, firmly apart from the flesh, from nature, from “relational aesthetics.” They are pure form without outside reference beyond their own harmonies.   

Metaphorically, Christian tries to “square” himself when he and his aide seek “justice.” They track down the thief by leaving accusations in every mailbox in the tenement. That “justice” causes his own injustice towards the falsely accused little boy who pursues an apology, further exposing the ostensibly civilized hero’s cruelty and arrogance. As it happens, the boy's indignant demand for an apology, his perseverance and even his threat of "chaos" make him arguably the film's most substantial character. All the more poignant, then, his evaporation.  

As abundant as the square are the instances of performance, whether in art or in life. Christian’s first scene with his daughters show both sides “acting out.” This contrasts to the regimentation and discipline of the girls’ acrobatic show and to the gravitas of the little boy's just anger. 

Several scenes show interviews, which is a performance by artist and by questioner.  The Tourette’s Syndrome heckler violates the scene’s normal decorum — and exposes its irrelevance to the real problems of the time. Here the mental disturbance is in the audience not in the maker of the art. The performance of the event barely survives the impulsive intrusion of reality. The debate over whether the man should be allowed to speak anticipates Christian's firing over the embarrassing video -- and at his press conference one reporter's charge of suppressing free speech and the woman's allegation of silencing the voiceless.

The two ad-men (played by real Swedish ad-men) do a performance to pitch their ideas. This as the Museum staff perform an act of confused encouragement. One staff member performs his duties as dad there, too, bringing his whining infant to the meeting. 

The street robbery is an act of performance, with the two principles possibly partnered by the citizen who protects the “threatened” girl and draws in the mark, Christian. Indeed, the thief’s return of the wallet, money and cell phone suggests the robbery may itself have been a theatrical act, playing at being criminal. Christian’s “justice” is another performance, as he dons gloves and another’s jacket to play the avenger.

Christian’s presentation as a flat, closed figure, with little emotional or psychological rounding, makes him a figure of constant performance. He’s making speeches, whether to the public or to an aide. He “performs” charity when he begrudgingly buys the beggar woman  a sandwich -- but callously ignores her request of "no onions." His stolen money surprisingly returned, he rewards her again, but again “performs” as he peels off one bill after another. 

In bed with Anne, there is no connection or exchange between them. Christian fumbles alone to don the condom. Their intimacy segues into the tension of a literal tug-of-war over who gets to dump the safe. Neither seems to trust the other with it, for its possibly antagonistic use later. 

Christian performs his white male adult authority when he pushes away the insulted little boy. His video message to the lad is pure performance. His fear that he may have hurt or even killed the kid pushes Christian into an apology — which itself moves from personal admission into a practiced tract about our unjust society and our need for collective action. As if that excuses the lapse of the individual will.  

In short, this film seems the latest replay of Freud’s seminal Civilization and its Discontents. The ultra sophistication of the most advanced and theoretical contemporary art may represent the peak of our civilization, but it’s still just a hair away from man’s essential savagery. The disciplined acrobatics are a fragile attempt to rein in the wildness and selfishness of the child — and their parents. An art project theoretically intended to address our highest social conscience exploits the sensation of blowing up a little girl.

The theme is clearest at the Museum’s formal banquet for the wealthy (white) donors, where the evening’s entertainment is supposed to be the titillation of a performance artist, a muscular man playing ape. The audience clearly doesn’t know how to deal with the artistic license they fund and purport to understand. They support the life energy of art — but only in its most controlled, antiseptic and safe forms. 

So they smile and titter away the actor’s initial animalism. Breaking a glass shows him a threat to their fragile order. Then at his first direct aggression, the men run away. When he ignores Christian’s closing of his act, they all retreat into staring into their laps, as if discreetly ignoring the threat will make it disappear. Decorum uber alles. 
     But then the actor assails a pretty young woman, first poising above her in admiration, then caressing her, then dragging her off by the hair to rape her. This rouses the white old men into action. They erupt in her defence and proceed to beat and kick the actor into submission. The ape man actor has exposed the tribal savagery still alive in this ultra-civilized gathering. Mercifully.