The Voices
(2014)
(SPOILERS) Persepolis
director Marjane Satrapi’s first US film is a horror comedy just distinct
enough to overcome the familiarity of its serial killing subject matter. Much of this is down to Satrapi’s playful, vibrant
style, but credit is also due to never-a-box-office-star-no matter-how-hard-he-tries
Ryan Reynolds. His placid schizophrenic Jerry isn’t a showstopper in and off
himself but, in combination with his handful of supporting vocal performances,
most notably those of Jerry’s pets, dog Bosco and cat Mr Whiskers, Reynolds infuses
The Voices with an offbeat energy
that perfectly complements his director’s offbeat tone and visuals.
Screenwriter Michael R Perry’s form is mostly in TV,
including series both quirky (Eerie,
Indiana) and supernatural (American
Gothic, Millennium, The Dead Zone). Not that many of them
suggest the facility for jet-black humour and clarity of voice found here. His
choice to centre on a schizophrenic (off his meds and) entering dangerously
psychotic territory is one commonly plundered in the horror genre. One could
reel of dozens of titles that fit the bill, even just since the turn of the
millennium, where characters’ internal voices and scenarios are physically
manifested (Shutter Island, Black Swan, Bug, and on the more “serious”, as in seriously shitty, end of
things A Beautiful Mind). The Voices fits more into the heightened
territory of Filth or Donnie Darko, where a wicked streak of
humour informs its protagonist’s meltdown.
Jerry is likeable but doofish and doormaish, a bit of a joke
to his fellow workers, upbeat and overeager to help and please; in the early
scenes he comes across as a caricature of earnest vacuity. His world is primary
coloured, although his apartment is hermetic and darkened, inhabited by Scottish
cat Mr Whiskers, who harangues him for his failings and foolishness (he’s “so hopelessly pathetic”) and dog Bosco,
who encourages him to be behave morally and be a good person. Jerry, who also cuts
a mysterious figure, develops feelings for fellow employee Fiona (Gemma
Arterton), but a series of events including her standing him up and hitting a
deer leads to Jerry accidentally killing her (although it was on his mind
anyway). This act precipitates a further descent into a free rein for his
darker impulses (as personified by Mr Whiskers) and ignoring his better ones
(Bosco).
Bosco: I earned the right to be called a good boy.
Mr Whiskers: You earned the right to be hit by a minivan.
This tug of impulses things isn’t such an original device;
historically it was more commonly personified in characters with multiple
personality disorder. And benign Bosco isn’t on his own a particularly
memorable character. Mr Whiskers, however establishes the flippant, knowing attitude
of the picture. A vituperative, bloody-minded and vindictive feline, he is
constantly barracking and berating Jerry (“In
her eyes, you are a ridiculous peasant” he says of Fiona), while presenting
Jerry’s worse impulses as perfectly natural (“The only time I felt alive is when I’m killing”).
Mainly, though Mr
Whiskers is absolutely hilarious, as if Dexter was accompanied by a goading
kitty rather than a beneficent parent. Foul-mouthed (“Where the fuck’s my food, fuck-face?” he demands when Jerry comes
home after being out all night) and devil’s advo-cat, he incites Jerry then
gloats at his failures (“That’s you,
Jerry. Can I have an autograph?” he requests after the murder of Fiona is
described on the news as the work of a serial killer).
If there’s sly, provocative intent here, it’s voiced in
Jerry’s world being an insulated and inviting place when he’s not on his meds.
When he is, it becomes a harsh, cold and miserable environment. He’s pets no
longer communicate. The head in the fridge really is just a head in the fridge, not Fiona willing to converse with
Jerry. The picture has a mirthfully ambivalent approach to prescribed
treatments; on them, Jerry leaves in a dead, empty world. Off them, well he may
be prone to killing a few people, but isn’t he contented?
There’s also the criticism of his mental healthcare
treatment, as signified by his relationship with his psychotherapist Dr Warren.
Jackie Weaver marvellously embodies her as a well-meaning but ineffectual
figure (notably, she pleads with the police not to kill Jerry, but does nothing
on repeated occasions when Jerry admits he’s off his pills). Jerry never gets
any answers in his therapy until he kidnaps and threatens her. As Mr Whiskers notes,
“Great job she’s doing. You’re the
picture of mental health”.
Satrapi’s approach follows in the line of black comedies of
a murderous bent that stretches from Kind
Hearts and Coronets to Danny De Vito’s ‘80s directorial efforts, to Heathers, Serial Mom and American
Psycho. This is a picture suggesting a director (or writer) familiar with both
Sam Raimi and trad horror clichés (a talking deer, a woman in a negligee
running through a woods at night), and keen to emphasise the more colourful,
cartoonish elements (the butterflies Jerry sees, Fiona’s appearances as an
angel) while eschewing any overt gore.
Indeed, there’s a running theme of religious imagery,
extending from Jerry’s flashbacks to childhood and a mother who talks about
angels to Jerry’s own interest (“The
fourth angel is Lucifer” he tells Fiona of The Bible’s named angels besides Raphael – presumably Jerry has
studied The Book of Tobit – Michael
and Gabriel). This culminates in a cheesy end credits scene featuring heavenly
void for a song and dance number with a stoner Jesus driving a forklift truck.
I don’t think it quite delivers. It isn’t especially clever of witty and feels
rather obvious, and a little clumsy given the line treaded before this, but it
certainly underlines the picture’s ambivalent morality; Jerry can kill whoever
he likes and it doesn’t matter once he gets to “heaven”. Even Mr Whiskers
expresses fondness for Bosco in the end.
Reynolds, who has an unfortunately slightly cross-eyed
quality that makes him perfect for a psycho, is undeniably a quick wit but has
been determinedly resistant to audiences warming to him or finding him charming
over the years. He’s good throughout, though obviously really scores as Mr
Whiskers. By comparison, next year’s Deadpool
looks as if it will be pure adolescent one-liners and cheap shots (so probably quite
successful). Arterton is fine, although playing up her Englishness gets a
little tiresome. Anna Kendrick is also decent, although her character Lisa (a
future fridge resident) has little substance.
The Voices is suitably
twisted and flourishes several narrative conceits with distinction, but in the
end it might be a little too recognisable and reliable in form to attain the
status of cult classic. The best of the genre have a readily identifiable
satirical intent (the aforementioned Serial
Mom and Heathers), but Satrapi presents
the markers (Jerry presents the appearance of normality, and that’s enough for
most people) without ever feeling inclined to wrestle the material into
something more potent.
