The Strange Color of My Ire

The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears
102 minutes
Written and directed by Helene Cattel and Bruno Forzani
Starring Klaus Tange

At the Stanley Film Festival, an annual horror fest that takes place in the creepy, creaky, byzantine hotel in which Stephen King conjured the concept for The Shining (and where the God-awful mini-series adaptation of said book was filmed), I made the irrevocable decision to skip the closing night party, where there surely would have been gaggles of pretty people in snazzy outfits drinking free champagne and smoking weed (this is Colorado, after all), and instead went to the late-night screening of The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears. Before I decided to see the movie I'd emailed my editor, who shall remain nameless, and asked if I'd like the movie. He said, "It's violent, surreal, and stylishly incoherent. You'll love it." I'd already been told by more than one critic that it was an unholy mess, a clusterfuck of stylistic indulgences pantomiming gialli tropes in lieu of actually saying anything original. Anything that polarizing had to be worth a watch. I was ineffably excited.

Before Strange Color, I saw a 35mm screening of the great cult flick Who Can Kill a Child?, which played sans subtitles (I don't speak Spanish), and I interviewed Elijah Wood, but he ended our interview early to go to the bar; he didn't invite me. (The next morning I shared a 3-hour van ride to the airport with Mr. Wood; when he saw a herd of rams crossing the street he pressed his face to the glass and bellowed euphorically, having never seen a ram before, let alone a whole herd. If he hadn't blown me off the night before I'd have found his childlike awe endearing, but he had, so I didn't.)

I had 20 minutes to get to the film on time, so I ran a mile, in wingtips and a denim jacket, to the theater where Strange Color was playing. I arrived heaving and agitated, my shirt suffused with a day's worth of sweat and my feet riddled with oozing blisters, with five minutes to spare. It took me maybe four of those minutes to find the front door, which wasn't on the front of the building. I got in just as the festival's logo adorned the screen. The room was rife with pretty young things ready to neck in the warm glow of slasher horror. I settled into my seat, alone, beads of sweat rolling down my face, ready for whatever.

I was really into it for the first 20 or so minutes. I was promised David Lynch does Dario Argento (that'd actually be a cute rom-com), and the opening of the film almost fulfills that promise. We meet Dan Kristensen (Klaus Tange, who apparently only has one facial expression) and the strange apartment building he lives in. Dan has a wife, but she's missing. Maybe Dan killed her,or maybe the people from inside the walls came and abducted her, or maybe she never existed at all. It doesn't really matter. Ascertaining this much plot is a mental workout, actually: writers-directors Helene Cattel and Bruno Forzani (whose debut film, Amer, similarly siphoned gialli style, but with a knowing wink and grin) have no interest in setting up a story, or characters; it's all about the gorgeous look and feel of the film, all about style, the cinematic equivalent to a Stepford Wife. There's a great shot of a record slowly rotating, the red-and-white spiral slowly drawing you towards its center, the camera acting like the mind's eye as the spinning vinyl hypnotizes the viewer, lulling you into a tranquil state of ease.

Dan eventually meets a scary old woman, one of his neighbors, who lurks in a shroud of darkness, her face sheathed, her hands desiccated skinny things. She knows something; scary old women always know something. It's a creepy scene, predicated on how we know as little as Dan does, and Cattel-Forzani keep the tension tight by slowly encroaching, teasing us with glimpses of stuff that might have deeper significance. This constant teasing is what drew me in; My mind reeled and racked, trying to extrapolate the pervasive symbolism and apply meaning to the multitudinous cuts and split-screen shots and the bacchanalia of vivid colors. But none of it means anything. The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears is an exercise in redundant style, as subtle as a sludgehammer and as empty as the space between stars.

A surreal expose on the pleasures of '70s Italian slasher flicks should be fun. Gialli are violent and steeped in style, but they're fun. Argento and Bava turn bodily mutilation into poetic entertainment, the marriage of sound and vision searing into your memory. Think of the opening to Suspiria, or the image of Boris Karloff's sallow undead face beaming in the darkness in Black Sabbath. These are creepy moments, but they're entertaining. Argento and Bava reward viewers, especially Bava, who treats his viewers like close friends. It's like, "Hey, thanks for watching my movie. He's a shot of Boris Karloff riding a horse into a thicket of woods. Enjoy!" Now think of David Lynch's best films, which use surrealism to plunge viewers into singular dreamscapes: they tease us as well, give us myriad sights and sounds to contemplate. The severed ear, the mysterious box, the Mystery Man, those rabbits sitting in a typical filial living room, watching television. Even if you can't surmise what they mean, they leave you with a feeling that something important is percolating below the surface. You don't feel cheated or manipulated, Lynch treats his viewers with respect. But, above all, Lynch never lets his penchant for terror usurp his gift for humor. His movies, dark and dour as they may be, are often funny as hell.

The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears isn't fun, or funny, or profound. If it wants its viewers to enjoy its company, it does a pretty shitty job. It's like that non-friend who tries to amuse you by insulting you, or punching you, or poisoning your drink and tying you up in his creepy dungeon basement. I felt like Cattel and Forzani were actively trying to encourage me to kill myself to escape the bombardment of stupidity and varicolored excesses they threw at me. The film is a demagogic harangue without any actual ideas. It's hard to remain engaged with a film that so quickly reveals itself to be empty and continually assaults you with verdigris flashes that sting the eyes long after they've numbed your mind. The munificent display of erect nipples and straight razors and hyperactive jump cuts left an acetic taste in my mouth. Don't get me wrong: I'm all for erect nipples and straight razors. But after the fifth time I was forced to watch the same goddamn razor stroke the same goddamn nipple I was seeing red.

The Strange Color of Your Body's Tears gets one-and-a-half erect nipples out of five