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Eastern Promises
What’s mesmerizing about David Cronenberg’s Eastern Promises is how so much of its world we seem to inhabit despite how little of it we actually see. The film concerns the Russian mob in contemporary London, the influence of which is presented as lingering residue from the KGB’s glory days. We’re given godfathers and hitmen, backstabbers and double-crosses, and for as much as the movie seems to be about all of these things, hardly any scene is dedicated to developing these threads. Cronenberg assumes that we already know what we need to know about the mob from other films, and he allows us to fill in the gaps as he unfolds a character-driven story that happens quietly inside this fully-realized environment. If you’ve read my essay on The Dead Zone, you’ll know that this bizarre approach is what I expect from a Cronenberg film, and it is what I love about his unique style. He’s one of the most invigorating directors working today for the way that he assumes that his audience is already familiar with the language and devices of cinema. He simply has that much confidence in us—dialogue informs us of webs and flows going on in this world, and so he doesn’t show what we are told. If a character says that someone must die, we’re not necessarily granted the image of his death. If we are notified that a powerful crime lord’s power is being usurped, Cronenberg believes that we’ve already seen The Godfather and can predict how it will happen. The film takes place in London, but how much of the city do we actually see? That’s because we are already familiar London; it is enough to know that the film takes place within its borders to understand the dynamics of the Russian mob doing its best to occupy a foreign system. Not to say that Cronenberg tells without showing. He just lets the mob exist comfortably unspoken around the characters we follow; their knowledge of its inner-workings is so vast already that we recognize it as soon as the key players step onto the center stage. I’m hesitant to reveal too much about what goes on in the film because of the nature of its twists and turns; Cronenberg sets us up at least two surprises with such obvious foreshadowing that I could kick myself for missing them, but I was so drawn into what was happening in the immediate interactions of the characters that I forgot to pay close attention. This speaks well of Cronenberg’s ability to tell a good story well. I will say that there are three intersecting arches, seemingly unrelated until veils are allowed to lift. The first concerns an unidentified teenager who collapses in a drugstore; she is pregnant and has gone into premature labor. She’s rushed to the hospital and tended by Anna (Naomi Watts), a midwife who sizes the girl up instantly and knows that she is a victim of a very troubled past. The young girl doesn’t survive the night; the baby does. Soon after, Anna finds a Russian-language journal in the girl’s possessions and decides to track down her history. The second story concerns a throat-slashing that takes place in the first shot (I’m reminded of A History of Violence, which Cronenberg begins with instant, unspeakable brutality). I will leave this thread at that, because I do not want to reveal crucial details that could give away any surprises. The third arch features the developing relationship between “driver” Nikolai and his employer Kirill, son and heir to the throne of his kingpin father Semyon (Armin Mueller-Stahl). Nikolai and Kirill are played respectively by Viggo Mortensen and Vincent Cassel in the two best performances that I’m seen thus far this year. Nikolai is an ice-cube of professionalism—the kind of man who does not flinch as he chops the fingers off of a murdered corpse, and he hesitates only when he isn’t sure whether or not he is going to get paid. Kirill is a drunk who tries to suppress a conscience that occasionally explodes from within him in a burst of sorrowful regret; he prefers to drink himself to numbness in order to avoid such moments of vulnerability. Cronenberg thus provides a desolate single portrait of two men whose souls have long ago pitched sails and disappeared down the Thames. Or have they? Nikolai eventually crosses Anna; tenderness toward each other inevitably begins to reveal itself, especially as their individual threads intersect and increasingly entwine. I leave it to you to find out how, but I’ll note that the developing relationship between Nikolai and Anna, which I would surely call an attraction but hesitate to label romantic, is probably my least favorite aspect of Eastern Promises. Cronenberg has to tread very carefully in these scenes, because he has previously established Nikolai as such a coldhearted killing machine that it seems implausible that Anna’s pure-hearted words and deeds could move him on any conceivable level. Besides that, what could she possibly see in him? He has already lost his soul, after all. Surprises and revelations eventually absolve this seeming contradiction, and while they don’t cheat, they don’t make it any easier to accept the two’s threadbare connection before we reach the enlightening turning-point. Frankly, Anna does not seem like a risk that Nikolai would want to take, no matter what her investigation represents to him. As interesting as his defense for his job might be—“I’m only a driver; I go left, right, and forward”—can we really accept that Nikolai would feel compelled to convince Anne of anything? But the rest of the film is spot-on. Cronenberg limits most of Eastern Promises to the simple interactions of these characters and allows the plot to weave itself together mainly behind the scenes. These relations are written and acted with such extreme care that they barely seem cinematic. A drunken confrontation between Kirill and his father contains particular power, because Cronenberg shoots it from Nikolai’s point of view and allows his reserved detachment to react perpendicularly to his feelings of awkwardness for being a witness to this intimate resentment. And a scene in a Russian-styled brothel begins with brutal dehumanization that somehow transforms into sincere tenderness and, in a twisted way, honest kindness from Nikolai. It’s telling that his response to a prostitute packs more power than his developing relationship with Anna; I think it’s because Nikolai sees in the poor woman a kindred spirit of someone who also merely has a job to do. I was reminded of a scene in Jean-Pierre Roux’s The Target (2003) in which a sullen-faced bodyguard tries to make a case to his crooked employer that his services are entirely different than that of a prostitute… and quietly fails to convince. I also thought of Martin Scorsese’s underappreciated Bringing out the Dead (1999), which concerned a New York paramedic haunted by the ghost of a young girl whose life he failed to save. Cronenberg links the three plot threads of Eastern Promises together with narration from the journal of the dead teenage girl; her presence lingers throughout and provides the soul that most of the other characters lack. Cronenberg does not sentimentalize—the journal contains simple words that detail heartbreaking cruelty, and their very presence informs us of unspeakable crimes that create an atmosphere of dread and depravity that might have actually been cheapened had they been shown. Cronenberg doesn’t expect the involved parties to feel remorse or guilt for what happened to this girl, but he does allow the shame of possible repercussions to linger on the appropriate brows: We watch the characters react to the journal though the director’s observant eyes, which softly informs us of all their secret sins. Indeed, the only instances in which Cronenberg leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination are the gory moments of mafia justice, of which there are plenty. But he is not being exploitive as some will suggest (and, certainly, as some have always suggested): In a world of organized crime, the characters are so dedicated to their job that they will personally invest more time in efficiently killing people than they will speculating on the morality of their lifestyle. An extended sequence in the third act is unquestionably the most intense scene of escalating, unpleasant violence that I’ve seen in years (at least since Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers, and that’s saying something), and that Eastern Promises allows us all the details of its viciousness informs us of just how vital violence is to how these characters interpret their world. It’s an effective storytelling strategy from a director who otherwise asks us to interpret the little-seen narrative based on what the characters say to each other. For all of his stylized and elaborate plots, it’s really quite interesting to watch the straightforward method in which Cronenberg directs his films. He allows reaction shots to go a long way, and he frequently utilizes long takes ending with intentional abruptness that seem to distractingly cut away at mid-sentences. It is all part of his tactic to only reveal so much about the actual story and expecting the viewer to assume all the necessary information. Watch the reactions on Nikolai and Anna’s faces as they both try to start a motorcycle: Most other filmmakers would have allowed some kind of poignant pause between them to indicate their growing interest in each other, but Cronenberg keeps their expressions fleeting and superficially polite; this allows their attraction to expose itself merely through simple dialogue and what they don’t do—like refuse a ride home. And the last shot, as abrupt and frustrating as it might seem, is absolutely right: It places one of the characters in the exact position that they should be in; we now see everything we need to know about their current status, and we are not asked to sentimentalize the steps that were required to get there or the next steps now essential to maintain. The crucial shot, combined with all the information that Cronenberg has provided throughout, is sufficient. Cronenberg as storyteller has fulfilled his end of the bargain, and now he leaves the film in our hands. Cast: Focus Features presents a BBC Films production. Directed by David Cronenberg. Written by Steven Knight. Rated R, for extreme violence, graphic sexuality, nudity, and language. Running time: 100 minutes. Original United States theatrical release date: September 21, 2007. Questions? Comments? E-mail me: danel_the_tinman@hotmail.com |
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