We Need to Talk About Kevin

Perhaps not one to watch with Mother

Having awaited this film since first seeing its unnerving trailer, I sped to the Filmhouse earlier this week. We Need to Talk About Kevin marks the return of director Lynne Ramsay after nine years away (I am now encouraged to seek her other films). Tilda Swinton plays Eva, a woman whose son Kevin has committed a high school massacre. It is an intense and sometimes harrowing film, but much of it I greatly enjoyed.

Eva is the lead character, but the pervasive presence is Kevin. Through flashback, the film moves through his early life and we are offered clues as to why the later horror transpired. But these clues, or perhaps Eva’s suppositions, are hinted at rather than confronted; the focus is on Eva’s maternal disconnect. From the beginning, she cannot bond with Kevin, who seems to have a personal dislike of his mother. He is malicious and openly hateful.

In fact, whilst Ezra Miller is disturbingly persuasive as the teenaged Kevin (the final moments are chilling), I found the scenes involving his younger self a little forced. His vindictiveness, even as a toddler, is too black-and-white. It can be darkly comical – he is almost demonic when (not) playing ball – but it slightly undermines the naturalism of the film. What I enjoyed more were Ramsay’s stylistic choices. And Tilda Swinton, obviously.

She once touched my hand.

Visually, the film is impeccable and contains many potent shots. At the start, we see a writhing throng, a mass of bodies smothered in red. They fill the screen. We are at a tomato squashing festival and Eva is crowd-surfing, smiling blissfully. This is her past, but although this scene depicts revelry and joy, the vibrant colour presages what will come.

In fact, bright red invades the entire film. In the film’s present, Eva’s home and car have been vandalized with red paint. She attempts to scrape and wash it away, becoming flecked and marked herself. The colour bleeds out of practically every shot, puncturing the otherwise muted, tender palette. Strawberry jam, a bedside clock, and so on. It is a bold decision, possibly heavy-handed, but it works to unify the scattered pieces of the narrative. It also draws a river of dread through the story as it builds to the horrific climax.

And tomato soup.

Also effective is the use of the soundtrack. Disorientating and fractured, it taunts with over-amplified details and memories. This is especially true of the opening scenes, in which past and present overlap and we are immersed in Eva’s distress. We see one memory, but hear another; songs continue beyond their original context; and Jonny Greenwood’s subtle score adds humming dissonance.

The film is well constructed then, but Tilda Swinton’s performance provides the greatest power. Eva speaks little, but the closed posture and hollow eyes convey a real and broken character. Swinton expertly judges Eva’s varying states of mind between time periods. Frustration turns to desolation, and forced smiles become blank grief. Kevin is a monster, but it is Eva who is most unsettling. She is uncomfortably real.

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