Carnage

Venomous jibes from Roman Polanski

By the time Kate Winslet is thrashing tulips against her hosts' coffee table, she has reached the drunken nadir of a middle class nightmare. Two couples have torn themselves and each other apart, sliding from clipped politeness to sniping to screaming. There has been bickering and insult, there has been projectile vomit. The horrifying descent is the basis of Roman Polanski's enjoyable and uproarious latest, Carnage, and is acted out with zest by Winslet, Christoph Waltz, John C. Reilly and Jodie Foster.

Before the vomit.

The film is based on Yasmina Reza's play, God of Carnage. Alan and Nancy Cowan (Waltz and Winslet) visit Michael and Penelope Longstreet (Reilly and Foster) after their sons have been involved in a playground fight. This apparently satisfies their immaculate, right-on parenting needs. But some ropey cobbler and a few unguarded exchanges are all that is needed to unravel the delicate veils of tolerance and decency. The inevitable decline unfolds entirely within the Longstreet apartment over the course of a brisk eighty minutes.

The film's origins on the stage are evident, and Carnage has received some critical stick as a result. The dialogue can be declamatory and the set-up is a little artificial. It is tempting to see Polanski's work as no more than a filmed play, adding little to a live theatre experience. But the film does work well on its own merits. It appeals visually and has a wonderful quartet of actors at its core. Foster and Reilly are amusing as a couple whose cultured, liberal facade is constructed by one and secretly resented by the other. Meanwhile, Winslet and Waltz are even better and even more miserable: she is uneasy and snappish, he is self-involved and wolfish.

With these four in control, deadly humour is the film's greatest strength. After some drily observed early dialogue, the best moments come in the second half, some of them very funny indeed. The actors relish the broader, wilder comedy here. As inebriation takes hold and accusations pile up (involving livelihoods, hamsters and so on), venomous jibes rip preciousness apart. Jodie Foster is hysterically laughing as she proclaims: “My husband has spent the entire afternoon drying things!”. I could not help but wish for things to take an even nastier turn, but the film refuses to become untethered from the real world and soar into total farce. On reflection (and as my co-filmgoer observed), that is a large part of its success.

"I don't have a sense of humour, and I don't want one."

The single-set device is clearly inherited from the stage play. The characters seem trapped, drawn back in whenever they try to leave. It lends a Buñuelian touch; or, as Winslet slurs, “Why are we still in this house?!”. Polanski is masterful enough not to be put off, creating an aesthetically interesting piece out of the static setting. The actors are positioned in various oppressive combinations around the screen. The camera angles are deliberately uncomfortable: a little too high or too low, in tight close-up and deep focus tableaux. Polanski is also not tempted to open up the script beyond the apartment. As Hitchcock saw it (discussing Dial M for Murder), why would you? Easy for him to say perhaps, but Polanski rises to the challenge just as keenly.

On a similar note in fact, according to ever-neckerchiefed director–cineaste Peter Bogdanovich, Hitchcock's view was simply: When the batteries are running dry, take a hit play and shoot it. Polanski is energized here, no doubt, along with his splendid and game cast. Together they have produced a cinematic scherzo, with claws. I think Hitch himself would have enjoyed it.

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