Chile

The Club (2015)

André Crous

The Club is an unapologetic indictment of the sick structures that allow paedophile priests to continue their lives without facing justice

El ClubChile
4*

Director:
Pablo Larraín
Screenwriters:
Guillermo Calderón
Pablo Larraín
Daniel Villalobos
Director of Photography:
Sergio Armstrong

Running time: 95 minutes

Original title: El club

If there was ever a film to put the final coffin in the Catholic Church’s case for credibility after decades of allegations about sexual abuse, paedophilia and cover-ups that involved the rotation of sex offenders from one parish to the next, it is Chilean director Pablo Larraín’s The Club (El club). With a plot set in a coastal town in the very recent past, it examines the activities of a group of four former priests who have been banished to an isolated house, along with a former nun, where they are expected to repent for their sins, which all relate to child abuse.

One of the opening scenes is a stunner and sets the stage for an hour and a half of tension that ultimately ends with an act so monstrous the fury quickly boils over from within the viewer because these supposed messengers of God reveal themselves to be nothing more than self-centred criminals who destroy innocent people and animals in order to keep their skeletons intact. In this particular scene, a victim of one of the former priests arrives at the home and proceeds to publicly castigate the priest at the top of his voice by going into detail about the sex acts the priest committed with him when he was an altar boy.

Paedophiles are mentally ill, and they should be treated, but if they commit sexual acts with a minor, such behaviour ought to be looked upon the same way one regards the acts of a murderer – with disgust and abhorrence – because the two acts are very closely aligned. It might seem like charitable (what some might label “Christian”) behaviour to love and support these people, but when they refuse to change and demand forgiveness, either because they don’t know what they are doing or because they are sinners and Jesus died for their sins, too, we need to stand up and refuse to grant them forgiveness, because they insist on destroying others in the quest for (temporary) self-gratification.

The majority of the five people comprising the titular “club” in Larraín’s film, his first since the beautiful true-to-life No, which depicted Chile’s landmark referendum in 1988, cannot even bring themselves to admit they are gay, much less that they sexually abused the minors in their parishes, and the same goes for the nun, who was sent to the house after her mother had accused her of beating her adopted daughter, an act of which she still proclaims her innocence.

When a prisoner is seeking parole, the board has to examine whether the individual in question shows any remorse. If there is no contrition, the person remains a menace to society and should be kept isolated. On a side note, this was the major problem with another film shown at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival in the same year: the Czech documentary Daniel’s World (Danielův svět), whose main character never elicits any empathy from us because he revels in being sick and seeks acceptance and understanding from society instead of help.

Early in the film, Father García (Marcelo Alonso), a young adviser with a background in psychology, arrives on the scene with the goal of steering the priests onto the right path, but he is of little help, and the four men and one woman have a great deal of experience in manipulation, to which he eventually succumbs. This film is a tragic indictment of the human evils harboured, sometimes with pride, by the very priests who are meant to protect their flocks from the wolves, and when cold calculation is carried out with a smile, as is the case with Mother Monica (Antonia Zegers), we feel a collective chill running down our spine because we know how prevalent these people are across the world and how much damage they have caused to people everywhere.

The Club is unapologetic in its treatment of its characters, and that is as it should be, because any hesitation on the part of the filmmaker would have weakened the impact of the film. This is a serious topic that requires a blunt approach, and Larraín does not back down, even when it comes to showing the more graphic consequences of the former fathers’ decision to stay in the house rather than integrate back into society.

There are moments of hope for the characters, especially Father Vidal (Alfredo Castro), who calls himself the King of Repression and comes to closest to admitting his urges have persisted despite (or perhaps because of) the prohibition on receiving pleasure – masturbation is forbidden, of course, but so is taking long showers. Eventually, little matters because the evil these men (and woman) are capable of when push comes to shove will be shocking to even those who have followed the scandals of the Church through documentaries and fiction films over the past decade.

On the whole, this film suggests that the structures that kept in place these places of refuge for sex offenders should be burnt to the ground and take their culture of moral authority, divine entitlement and protection of one’s own with them on their way to Hell, which is without a doubt where these people belong.

Viewers who have problems with animal cruelty – especially inflicted on domesticated animals – would be well advised to steer clear of this film. The ghastly acts committed in the final act will hit you hard.

Viewed at the 2015 Karlovy Vary International Film Festival

No (2012)

André Crous

No 2012Chile
4*

Director:
Pablo Larraín
Screenwriter:
Pedro Peirano
Director of Photography:
Sergio Armstrong

Running time: 118 minutes

“Pinochet could win this vote without cheating, if he wants — that’s what is so terrible”, says José Tomás Urrutia, a socialist who is spearheading the “No” campaign against Chile’s military dictator Augusto Pinochet in 1988.

His line is the first of many details that push the young advertising executive René Saavedra (played by the enormously gifted Gael García Bernal, here taking on the Chilean accent with as much success as he had with Che’s Argentinean in The Motorcycle Diaries), who had no real desire for political involvement, especially in a system rigged against its own people.

No opens with an example of an ad Saavedra has conceived. It is lively and recalls many Coca-Cola commercials in its use of different genres all tied together with one song, but the postmodernism of the exercise frighten the clients, who can’t understand why there is miming in the commercial.

The scene has two important reasons for being included in the film. Firstly, it bookends the production by anticipating an almost identical scene at the end, in which it is made clear what change has occurred in the minds of Chileans in such a short period of time, thanks to Saavedra’s eventual participation in the “No” campaign. Secondly, the more immediate reason is the name of the product: a soft drink called “Free”.

This kind of advertising has obviously affected Saavedra’s way of thinking, and he proclaims it is “in line with the current social context”. Whether or not that is true, it certainly influenced the “No” campaign, and the result is a spot full of feeling, although the people in the advertisement are nameless and without identity, save for being Chileans, or rather virtual Chileans inhabiting a better future. The resulting video, naïvely optimistic but brimming with energy, accompanied by the campaign song “¡ Chile, la alegría ya viene !” (Chile, happiness is coming!), can be viewed on YouTube. 

Each campaign has 15 minutes on television to make its pitch to Chileans, but the “No” organizers have to contend with an interesting dilemma: They want their commercial to be about a better, brighter future full of people smiling and not fearing the regime in power (which, by the way, uses fear in its own ad campaign), but they want to convey this by using the negative “no”. The way they choose to attack this problem is to view the no as the opposite of complicity, in other words, a deliberate decision to break with the past (and the present).

This break with the past is very well depicted by the film’s fragmented visuals. Often, scenes would start in one location (usually inside) before suddenly continuing in another (usually outside). At first, this seems like an odd directorial decision, as a question may be asked in one place and answered in another, but the many lens flares caused by the sunshine outside do suggest brightness ready to envelop our protagonists.

The film itself was also shot on U-matic film stock, which reminds us of the small budget the characters’ real-life counterparts were working with but also allows the seamless integration of archive footage, especially of the mass protests and the government’s ruthless response. The richest colours are onscreen when the commercial is aired, and although it makes a stunning contrast with the relatively “realistic”, drab colours of the rest of the film, it is not of a different world, just one that is hyperreal, its palette boosted and the action either sped up or slowed down according to the need for emphasis. The success of the film’s own combination of reality vs. idealism in its visuals mirrors the tension the “No” campaign has to mitigate.

They do this by their choice of an idealistic symbol for their effort to fight a very real threat: They choose a rainbow. Saavedra urges his fellow organisers to use happiness instead of fear or hate, although the facts are often presented in smaller spots, and with great effectiveness on the viewers, especially those who are angry at the government and don’t want the happiness to silence or ignore the pain.

The “No” campaign doesn’t really have a leader, although the leader of the Christian Democrats, Patricio Aylwin, who would eventually replace Pinochet as president, does appear from time and time. And it is important to notice that these important political figures, central to Chilean life, are not played by actors but instead presented by means of footage recorded at the time, like George Clooney did with Joe McCarthy in Good Night, and Good Luck.

The future is constantly in our heads because Saavedra has a young son, Simón, on whose life the imminent referendum will have a very visible impact. In one very powerful shot, Saavedra and Simón walk hand-in-hand down the road, our view of them only slightly obstructed by blurred figures in the foreground. We realise these are riot police, but we don’t see them until a wider shot, quite unnecessary, showing them lined up on one side of the street. 

The single take in the first 15 minutes of Billy Elliot, in which a conversation between a young boy and girl takes place while the girl walks past riot police in Newcastle, seemingly oblivious to their presence as she drags a stick across their shields, was done much better, as it made a much bigger impact because it was so much simpler.

No is about small moments almost hidden in everyday life. We realise the importance of events in shaping the characters’ view of their situation without the film dwelling on any of it. When Saavedra’s middle-aged housekeeper, Carmen, who had considered her life to be quite good and was going to vote “Yes” in the referendum, is confronted by police late at night who call her a “bitch”, the film doesn’t go in for a close-up, it doesn’t stretch the moment, and it doesn’t refer to it again, but we know this has probably changed her relationship to the government.

In another very brief moment, the “No” logo can be seen scraped out on the outside of a house, and we realise the movement is quietly gaining momentum, and yet our focus could or should be on the characters in the shot. Director Pablo Larraín creates a world that doesn’t need us to stop and think; his film creates a world rich with detail and behaviour and asks us to put some of the pieces together ourselves and provide a more engaging experience of the material.

Bernal’s emotional range is noteworthy; in particular, by the end of the film, he has gone through threats, betrayal, physical violence and elation, and his face can change from anxious to childlike glee in a second. And the film uses him in this historical setting very well to highlight the human dimension of the struggle for freedom combined with a display of the power of people, not to change things, but to make more people change, until the regime crumbles from the inside.