Dans l'oeil d'un tueur

This movie -if one call that crap "a movie" that is- is an outright insult to the art of cinema. Sound and songs are awfully annoying, acting is way down below zero...

Some psychopatic killer makes a story eh? Please gimme a break! Any wacky teenager would make a better movie out of this story.. (When I say story, I apologize to all those who appreciate a real story.. Sorry this crap doesn't even have a story)

I have serious concerns about the mental health of those who could grade this crap as a "masterpiece". I guess those people must get some professional help.. NOW ... not any minute later

OK, maybe you have to be a Herzog fan to get this one. In its small and quiet way it's a classic Herzogian study of visionary madness and obsession, played out this time with mordant irony against the blandness of suburban San Diego. Brad, a brooding man-child who lives with his mom, gradually goes nuts, saying and doing increasingly unhinged (and funny) things to his clueless loved ones, played by goofy character actors like Udo Kier, Grace Zabriskie and Chloe Sevigny. Willem Dafoe plays the equally clueless detective called in when Brad, inevitably, explodes in a single (off-screen) act of violence. All the usual Herzog flourishes are here, though often played small: odd animals, oddball people, grimly threatening nature, useless bureaucratic procedures, civilization and its hapless inhabitants struggling to maintain order and etiquette in the face of the world's natural madness, violence and chaos. It's a wacky, Herzogian comedy of manners, very much in the tradition of many of his films from Dwarfs through Stroszek to Grizzly Man. If you like Herzog you'll probably like it; if not, maybe not.

Roger Ebert said about My Son that it "confounds all convention and denies all expected pleasures", and this is partially true because there's a murder but we know who did it and we know where he is, right across the street, and the hostage situation that develops outside the suspect's place is perfunctory at best (which means Willem Dafoe as the homicide detective has very little to do here, no this is Mike Shannon's film), but in place of the tired conventions of the detective movie Herzog invents new pleasures, strange and mystifying and sometimes completely mindbending and hilarious, like the mental image of a midget on a baby horse being chased by a 45 pound chicken that is taller than both rider and horse, an idea for a commercial Brad Dourif explains wide-eyed with fascination, but a commercial to what how should he know!

This is an amazing film on the poetics of madness using the real story of a man who slew his mother with a sword to tell us about absurdity in the world. It's like jumping over the fence of an insane asylum to mingle with the inmates and pay attention to what they have to say because there might be truth there, and if there isn't they always make up the best of stories. Herzog's most famous characters have been romantic madmen indeed, and Brad McCulloch fits right next to Cobra Verde the slavetrader bandit, he's the cynic who rebels and leaves his rebellion incomplete, without a grand message for the world. He goes rafting in Peru then gives up on it, tells his friends he won't go to the sweat lodge where the 104 year old shaman smokes Kool cigarettes and reads Hustler, that he wants to stun his inner growth and become a Muslim. He berates his hippie friend who meditates on a rock facing the river, and tells him to open his eyes, reality is around him.

As with other Herzog films, I like this so much because it celebrates insane human behaviour, monomania and folly, dogged human pursuit for transcendence against a yawning futile universe. I like how this is punctuated by some amazing images; like the dinner scene at Brad's house with his girlfriend and mother, where all three of them simply stop moving and freeze in position. People who love to hate David Lynch, will find plenty of room for maneuvre here to call My Son strange for its own sake, nonsensical and pretentious. In a meeting between Herzog and Lynch before the film was made, they both expressed a desire for, in Herzog's words, "a return to essential filmmaking" with small budgets, good stories, and the best actors available. This is all that, except in the way very few people can make it.

Of all the films I saw at the 2010 Edinburgh International Film Festival, this is the only one (apart from Savage Messiah) that deserved, for me, repeated viewings. I'm not implying it's the best ever Werner Herzog film. Or the best David Lynch film (if you feel his 'producer' role influenced it that much, as many did.) But I was captivated by what 'My Son' had actually done. Even though it is obvious from the start. Less obvious though is the Greek tragedy playing out in his mind which, in his head, is mostly what he's actually doing. Apart from that, I wanted to re-watch so many scenes. Crazy stuff that is made believable simply by the conviction with which it is presented. The first viewing had me gripping my seat in open-jawed amazement throughout, only to breathe a sigh at the end and wonder what I was getting so excited about. Flamingo hostages? Give me a break! (Even if you are supposed to call them 'eagles in drag.' Or ostriches.) God is in the kitchen. On a tin of oatmeal to be precise. But this isn't comedy (though you may laugh) and consider, if you will, that, "The cruel bitch of female passion can break apart the yolk that joins a pair; and force apart the dark embrace of beast and man alike."

Now we're getting somewhere, and it's hypnotically arty, fiendishly funny, upsettingly evocative of nasty dread around the corner, and aren't you pleased that dreams are only dreams and this is only a film.

Story One. The Truth.

The film is based on the true story of Mark Yavorsky, a San Diego man who stabbed his mother to death, inspired by his recent role as Euripides' Orestes in a production of The Eumenides at University of California, San Diego. Or was it Aeschylus' version. Or maybe it was Electra, by Sophocles. (The Truth isn't very interesting anyway, so you can skip this bit.)

Story Two. The Cinematic Truth.

Brad McCullum (Michael Shannon) is maybe in his late twenties but lives with his eccentric and overbearing ("You know you like your jello!") mother. Brad adores mum (played by Grace Zabriskie) with a Norman Bates –like unhealthy shine. This being a Herzog movie, it goes with saying that he's crazy, although the line between 'crazy' and 'madly inspired actor-artiste' is deliberately nebulous. He is engaged to a very normal girl (played by Chloë Sevigny, whose characters do seem to specialise in dubious boyfriends, don't they?). Their shared passion for theatre somehow makes this believable. Willem Dafoe and Michael Peña are bizarrely and beautifully caricatured Lynch-style detectives for whom the unusual is just another day's work. Rather more interesting for them is a tale of the plain clothes policeman getting busted for speeding by another plain clothes policeman. They're about as normal as the blood-related cops in Tarantino's Deathproof. If a murder won't fit on the report sheet, it will by the time they've finished with it. They are also about the sanest thing we've got short of lovesick Sevigny or an exasperated theatre director.

So Brad doesn't get to kill mum on stage cos he's far too 'inspired' to be managed by the director and gets kicks off the cast. He runs the stage sword (which is meant to be Greek but isn't, because Brad prefers it that way) through his mother several times as they are sitting down for morning coffee with their nice neighbours. This occurrence is treated in a fairly routine way near the beginning of the film, so we can enjoy the rest of the time in extended flashbacks to understand what really happened and why.

Story Three. The Real Truth.

Orestes (with whom Brad identifies) is the last link in a bloody line of godly nastiness. Tantallus had been hard done by, and invites the gods to dinner to see if they are real. When they turn up, he serves his son in a stew (They didn't have jello in ancient Greece). The gods puke, but the bits of half-chewed flesh live on to father more cannibals. Only Orestes can lift the curse, but has to kill his mother to do it. If that sounds crazy, it probably was. But Orestes is something of dramatic symbol for anyone whose crime is mitigated by extenuating circumstances. Mad or not, you do what you have to do. "At least some people act a role," says Brad, "others play a part." Historically, it's about replacing matriarchy.

This is a film where you are entranced throughout, awaiting the dark brooding fury or the mother's 'vengeful hounds from hell.' (Or at least an ostrich that steals yours glasses while you're cleaning them.) It even has a dwarf. At the end, you might wonder what on earth you were getting so worked up about, but it's hard to deny you enjoyed the ride. Analyse it too closely and you might not like the extended freeze frames which are ludicrously pretend (you can see Sevigny moving, understandably, as she tries to eat her horrid jello). I did, but for someone people who spotted it the first time round, the joke had worn off. For others, it might be a re-hashing of Lynch/Herzog staples without breaking radical new ground. I suspect I may have to change my 'rating' to five stars if I slink back and see it yet again.

Directed by Werner Herzog, produced by David Lynch - quite a lot for any film to live up to? The question is does "My Son, My Son..." meet expectations? The answer is probably not. Although it's an interesting misfire. Although the film was directed by Herzog it often displays Lynch's hallmarks; the constant foreboding music humming low in the soundtrack, the moments of quirky humour, the mannered dialogue and the weird characters, most notably Lynch regular Grace Zabriskie as the mother. It's almost as though Herzog is intentionally paying homage to his fellow left-field director, while incorporating some of his own personal concerns such as a crazy central character, weird animals, dangerous nature and, most specifically of all, a river trip in Peru! The film is like a collision of two of the most fascinating film directors of the past forty years. But for some reason, it never truly clicks together, which is of course enormously unfortunate.

The film is basically about a psychologically troubled man called McCullum who one day kills his mother with a sword. He holes up in his house with two hostages while a detective arrives on the scene and talks to his two closest friends, his fiancé and theatrical director. From here we are told various things in flashback about McCullum, while still observing events in the hostage situation.

The set up is quite promising really. There is potential for an interesting story. And the film does have some good oddball actors at its disposal, like Zabriskie, Willem Dafoe, Brad Dourif and Udo Kier. But maybe Michael Shannon is a weak link in the central role, as it is very difficult to empathise with him. This may not be entirely Shannon's fault of course as the character he is playing is somewhat hard to like; nevertheless, Shannon is often too over-the-top and it becomes tiring. Funnily enough Nicolas Cage was also completely OTT in his central performance in Herzog's recent Bad Lieutenant but for some reason he was brilliant – so go figure. Anyway, for whatever reason, the characters never really draw us in so that we care enough. On a more positive note, the film looks great and has quite a lot of moments of the surreal, often humorously so.

This is a film only for those who appreciate Herzog or Lynch at their weirdest. To not put too fine a point on it, it's not for everyone. Not an unqualified success by any means but bizarre enough for some respect.