Simon Killer (2012)
★ / ★★★★
This is what happens when a lead actor is given the monumental task of creating an intriguing character out of a malnourished screenplay. “Simon Killer,” written and directed by Antonio Campos, is an exercise of boredom and futility, a movie that begins but never stops beginning, stuck in a loop of malaise of dour imagery. At one point, the viewer is forced to question the point of it. Is this a deeply personal story that the filmmaker needed to exorcise out of himself or is it merely self-masturbatory, certainly self-congratulatory, fluff that ought not have been made in the first place? Perhaps it is both, but I lean toward the latter.
The premise involving a young American who visits Paris after a messy breakup has the potential go in a million directions, but this picture chooses to go nowhere. The criminally underrated Brady Corbet plays the titular character with a level of unease and danger. When Simon looks at a woman, we feel alarmed. We wonder wether his brain processes the person in front of him as another human with complex thoughts, emotions, and motivations or as an object to be possessed under the guise of “love.” And do not be fooled—the story does not involve serial killers or murderers. It is a metaphor. And, for a while, because Corbet is capable of making fresh choices, we grow curious of the pathetic and damaged subject.
But there has to be more than a gripping performance. Circumstances surrounding the protagonist must not only be interesting initially, they must be absorbing throughout. Instead, we are thrusted into a whirlpool of repetition as Simon experiences psychological and emotional troughs that may possibly lead to a mental breakdown. While the writing hammers on the fact that Simon lacks the basic tools to be able to nurture a healthy, long-term romantic relationship—open communication, for instance—the more interesting question is what made him this way. The material offers no explanation, not even a relevant backstory that may lead to a probable explanation. As a drama, this is inexcusable.
While I liked that the material is not a portrait of a monster but that of a user, perhaps even a loser who will always be one because he is stunted, the material comes across as closed off, afraid to genuinely delve into what makes Simon a bit off. As a result, we are tasked to sit through a series of behavior that, while open to interpretation, is too amorphous to be truly specific to Simon who finds himself drawn to be a Parisian prostitute (Constance Rousseau).
Character studies require precise writing—at the very least. Without this prerequisite, the drama remains unconvincing, laughable, perhaps even unbelievable. While I understand what it is going for, particularly in how it employs the soundtrack to create a sensory, almost feral experience, silences must command equal power when the noise dies down. When we continue to feel or think when there is nothing but silence, it is a sign of high-level writing. Here, I felt that the silences are awkward pauses due to having run out of ideas.
To escape my boredom, I thought about how master filmmaker Gaspar Noé might have turned the material into a more potent, unforgettable experience. First off, he probably would have stripped away the dialogue completely for words tend to distract. Secondly, he likely would have made the music more confronting, maybe even ubiquitous, by making the bass reverberate alongside our heartbeats. He would not be afraid to give the viewers a headache—since inducing a physical response means the audience is paying attention.