(Directed by David Cronenberg)
by Kevin Murphy
This week’s scheduled essay intended to discuss Charlie Wilson’s War, Mike Nichols’ new picture starring Tom Hanks as the Texas congressman noted for his personality as much as his politics. A couple of hours before I left for the theater, though, I received Eastern Promises in the mail. Eager to see David Cronenburg’s latest installment, I was suddenly at odds with which to film watch. Both have received praise, and though I’ll surely see Charlie Wilson’s War, I decided to take in Eastern Promises at home, where I could concentrate on things other than seven bucks spent on popcorn.
Eastern Promises follows the activity of London’s Russian Mob. The film opens with a grisly murder and the birth of a teenager’s illegitimate child. When the midwife working at Trafalgar Hospital (Naomi Watts) recovers the teenager’s diary, she unleashes a series of unsettling events that will eventually corral her into an underworld that’s sordid with thugs, deceit, and violence. Concerned with the morals and allegiance of criminals, the film asks when, if ever, violence and deception become acceptable. It poses these questions as throats are slit, lies are spread, and vengeance is had. No time for reflection, and just as the criminals must, the audience is forced to make fast, uninformed assumptions. One of Eastern Promises’ achievements is its ability to crack the veneer of our own assumptions and pour before us the dirty remains of what we once believed to be true.
On these rain-slick London streets, truth is not a thing to be spoken, but an action, a symbol of loyalty, expressed by the tattoos a man wears. In the Russian Mob, a man’s life story is catalogued by his tattoos. A man without the appropriate marks cannot be trusted, and he’ll remain on the outside until his worth and devotion are proven. Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen) understands this as well as anyone. Serving as chauffeur to the boss’s son, Nikolai is forced to endure the demeaning instructions spouted by his delinquent superior. Merely a soldier because he lacks the star tattoos of a recognized member, Nikolai waits, he plots and schemes until the time arrives for his coronation.
Part anthropological examination, part ethical discourse, Eastern Promises also raises the issue of prostitution. The teenage mother was one of many young women searching for an adventurous, fulfilling life. She was exiled to London and taken in by the Mob. Under the pretense of shelter, money and acceptance, she was appropriated not as a wife or friend, but a sexual slave. She was rendered helpless by vast amounts of heroin, and simply discarded when her cries grew tiresome. This behavior later revisits and threatens the Mob. The teenager, Tatiana, had been raped. When she dies in childbirth she instills in Anna a hunger for justice. But when Anna’s pursuits reveal the man responsible is of high order, she’s suddenly confronted with a dangerous, encroaching reality, one that intimidates with brute force and dire conviction.
At this point Nikolai and Anna embark on an ominous, fluttering relationship. Striving to climb rank, Nikolai is dispatched to stifle Anna’s interference and retrieve the incriminating diary. He is an agent of a nefarious group, a relentless undertaker with ambitious plans. He also struggles with the choices he’s forced to make, and repeatedly acts as Samaritan to Anna’s cause. Within these tight borders, Mortensen delivers a refined, charismatic performance. His gestures are refrained and nuanced, suggesting rather than showing an emotion or thought. His eyes, brow, nose and mouth are artful triggers. He moves stealthily, a true gangster, and manipulates scenes with cunning intelligence; he is Russian to the bone, characterized by voice, mannerisms, and tattoos.
Armin Mueller-Stahl plays Papa, the Mob boss. Avuncular, caustic, charming and repellent, Mueller-Stahl’s performance has elicited comparisons to Brando’s Godfather. This script doesn’t call for the rooted, complex study of power like the Godfather did, but still, prepare for a quiet, powerful annihilation of trust, delivered by a man with blue eyes and a cigar voice, a man so attached to his power and security he will stop at nothing to save himself. Papa is the elderly man’s answer to all the punks out there. Time and again he shocks with his sheer force and determinism. He is nimble on his feet when expected to drag, slick with insight when the wool’s over his eyes, and pummels vulnerability with savage grace.
Savage grace could also describe David Cronenberg’s recent efforts. Registering as a cousin to A History of Violence, this film, along with the return of Viggo Mortensen, is a grim waterfall, spilling blood and roses on the shoes of audiences everywhere.
Early in the film Anna takes a ride home with Nikolai. When she describes the death of Tatiana, Nikolai responds, “I thought you did birth.”
Anna, with her brow wrenched, explains, “Sometimes birth and death go together.”
The juxtaposition of creative destruction still inspires this director. And the results find Cronenberg properly ascending to an unrivaled position in a genre largely created by his own hands.
