"Fiction is real," offers one of the the young psychotics in Austrian moralist Haneke's
visceral meditation on violence and the media. "What you see in the movies is what
you see literally." That's the guiding principle behind Haneke's film, and though
the argument is fatally flawed, the director nonetheless makes an astonishingly disturbing
case that rivals that of Rémy Belvaux's Man Bites Dog in terms of the issues
it raises and the frisson it engenders. Lothar and Mühe play upper-middle-class
mother and father Anna and Georg, who, with their young son Georgie (Clapczynski),
are on their way to their lakeside home for a summer vacation. On the way, Anna and
George play a game of "name that composer" as their car passes through the idyllic
Austrian scenery. Not long after the family arrives, and while Georg and son are
putting the boat on the lake, a stocky young man -- Peter (Giering) -- knocks on the
door and claims to be a friend of the neighbors. Could he perhaps borrow some eggs?
Anna happily agrees, though when Peter clumsily drops not one but two handfuls of
eggs and still demands more, she becomes disconcerted. Enter Peter's friend Paul
(Frisch), who appears at the door and begins verbally tormenting Anna. Flustered
and unable to make this disturbing duo in white tennis shorts and gloves leave, Anna
is relieved to see Georg arrive from the lake. And just as suddenly as things began,
they escalate, with Georg overpowered, and the family suddenly in jeopardy from a
ravingly calm pair of madmen intent on playing out their "funny games." Haneke, intent
on exploring the nature of media violence, pulls zero punches with his story. Although
much of the violence is committed off-screen, the horriffic aftershocks are as unnerving
as anything Oliver Stone or Wes Craven have shown us. As Peter and Paul, Giering
and Frisch are utterly cold, utterly alien killers, devoid of normal personality,
acting as a sort of universal template for random violence. Engaging their victims
in brief conversational gambits, they offer up transparently false rationales for
their behavior, as when Paul excuses Peter's actions by referring to him as "a spoiled
child tormented by ennui and world weariness, weighed down by the void of existence."
It's all so much psychobabble, and Haneke, knowing this, has Paul turn and wink at
the camera. What, then, is Haneke's point? Funny Games is a firestarter for post-screening
arguments, alight with ghastly images and actions, and essayed by a spot-on cast
and storyline that flows seamlessly from one nightmarish incident to the next. It's
an uncomfortable, distressing, and altogether provocative take on the global culture
of media violence that not only draws the hapless viewer in, but also forces them
into the role of fait accompli, like it or not. Take notes, you will be discussing
this one later.
--Marc Savlov
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