When I last left Otto Preminger, I had just seen his courtroom epic Anatomy of a Murder (1959). Anyone who read my column on the film from just a few weeks back will know how much I was enamored by the film for its ability to take such a revulsive subject matter and turn it into this provocative drama about human dignity. It wasn’t just that he was using language that was either seen as vulgar or juvenile, but repurposing it as these key pieces. You couldn’t tell the story without James Stewart (whether in a clever against type performance or not) saying “panties” and describing rape in vivid detail. It gives them a seriousness that you wouldn’t expect.
Most of all it made me realize how much I felt that we had overlooked him socially as a director. Whereas I had seen Anatomy of a Murder and initially mistook it for an Alfred Hitchcock movie, I came out of Bunny Lake is Missing (1965) and found a different perspective. While I would consider both to be technically proficient, I think that Preminger was a director who more qualified as an “Adult” filmmaker. Much like Billy Wilder before him, he reveled in the dark subject matter in order to better understand the human impulse. He knows deep down that we’re drawn to the salacious subject matter, eager to see justice prevail.
I have only seen four films that he’s directed, but there is something immediate and visceral about entering his films. It’s a feeling that most get watching David Fincher, who knows the right level of perversion to make the story accessible without making you feel terrible. This isn’t exploitation. It’s heightened fiction, presenting a side of the world that we hope to never experience. Who could possibly want to be made a public figure in Anatomy of a Murder for THAT, or in the case of Bunny Lake is Missing the complicated characters that may at times play like a cheap b-movie, but whose execution is undeniably creepy and surreal?
This is a movie that exists in a particular group of 1960s dramas that start out as one thing and evolves into another. In the case of films like Psycho (1960) and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), they’re these human dramas that swirl down into our worst impulses. The less you know going in allows you to be taken in by the sickening story of humanity falling apart. The same can be said for Bunny Lake is Missing, which has arguably one of the most twisted, uncomfortable endings imaginable. Whether or not it works above cheap sympathy is interpretive, but that’s part of Preminger’s brilliance.
To his credit, Preminger also seemed to use the Saul Bass title sequence better at times than Hitchcock. In this case, he creates a moment where a haunting melody harmonizes in the background as a lone hand rips at the black screen. Every tear reveals small details about the film (actors, writers, costume design, etc.). It’s like we’re tearing at the void, trying to find answers where there might not be any. For those who have a seasoned movie brain, they’re already thinking that Ann Lake (Carol Lynley) may be crazy, eagerly looking at clues… and the movie hasn’t started yet. We’re doing everything to understand the case of Bunny Lake. WHY is she missing? Does she even exist?
If you read the description, like on The Criterion Channel, you’ll already know that nobody believes that Bunny Lake exists. There’s contradictory evidence and every possible piece of ambiguity exists. Ann and Bunny had recently moved to the town and were ready to start school. When Ann goes to pick her up on that first day, we’re walking through every room in the school to try and find answers. As the crowd of children fades, we’re seeing empty rooms that should hold youthful innocence but are now ominous and hollow. Preminger knows how to make a hallway into the creepiest thing in the world. Even if we’re just looking for Bunny, we already feel a pit in our stomach that things are going to end horribly.
As the title suggests, Ann doesn’t actually find Bunny. It’s a premise that has become marginalized in fiction throughout the decades but is handled with a certain sensitivity here. Ann isn’t a ninny. She is confident that her daughter exists and gets the police to help her look. The only issue is that even their trail comes up short, filling them full of doubt that Ann is the real deal. She has no hard evidence to back her up, and the way that she scrounges for it only makes the quest all the more unnerving.
If this isn’t the story of a missing child, then it’s going to be a story of a mentally unwell woman. Who is the reliable narrator in this story? What is the bigger point of this story if any of the angles are true? Preminger can’t just let one mystery hang over our head at every moment. He wants us to interact with the text, giving into our impulsive belief that because something has a haunting tone that its reason to suspect the new face, scorched in a dark shadow, could be the person who holds the answers. Maybe they kidnapped Bunny, or maybe they will reveal something implicit about Ann’s own health. Preminger makes us paranoid, wondering what anything means by the end. We’re going crazy, and that’s exactly how he pulls his tricks.
This would be fine if Preminger was a hack director, going more for explicit stories full of gruesome imagery, but he doesn’t allow us to have that. What he wants us to experience is something that is missing from the frame. Much like Bunny, there is this hope that something just out of sight will cease our dread. We keep moving forward now not only to find our loved one but to prove to the world that we’re not crazy, that what we say holds some deeper truth. There are those judgmental eyes, peering down over Ann as the camera lingers from God’s perspective. Ann never feels like she's alone even when the most important part of her life is missing.
Much like Hitchcock with Psycho, Preminger sold the film on the third act twist. Unlike the aforementioned film, it’s easy to enter this film blind because of how rarely it’s talked about. Maybe that’s because the subject matter is more problematic and unsettling, or that it’s borderline camp right as Preminger’s artful eye doesn’t allow a single camera trick to go unused. The way that actors tower over each other gives depth to internal power structures. The depth of focus is rich, making our eyes linger from the forefront conversations in order to see if there’s something in that darkness, whether it’s Bunny, or a more insidious force ready to unleash chaos.
But before I get into the ending, which is a masterful moment, I want to mention the one thing that this film is often known for. It’s an early appearance by the rock band The Zombies. It’s a moment that could be taken for granted if it wasn’t for the prominent feature in the credits. As far as visual appearance, there’s nothing more but concert footage of them on a barroom TV. While I have always liked The Zombies, I love how their music is placed throughout this film to convey something crazier. It’s the sound of a motorcycle starting up, of a werewolf howling. It demands a shiver going down your spine, and it makes sense how Preminger’s early days in film noir, such as Laura (1944), bleed through this film in subversive ways. Preminger uses The Zombies the way that David Lynch uses the Black Lodge in Twin Peaks: The Return – more for tone and punctuation. It doesn’t add much to the story, but without it, the experience may be lesser.
While there is one prominent scene with The Zombies, their music echoes through the film and makes it feel equal parts cool and seedy. That’s the one thing that Preminger is brilliant at: stunt casting. Much like he used Duke Ellington to score Anatomy of a Murder, his use of contemporary rock music makes it feel more dangerous. He also got Noël Coward for a brief cameo. For two films now I am in deep admiration for what Preminger does. He adds these layers that make those with a richer film language giggle. To him, this is a game. If you can notice that one of the forefathers of the modern play was in this melodrama, then I’m sure your mind will be a little more broken by the end.
 |
| Noël Coward |
Okay, let’s get to the ending. Up until the last half hour, there is a strong ambiguity and the audience is looking for clues at every turn. In one crucial scene, Ann realizes that she sent one of Bunny’s dolls for repair. The cops have lost their patience with her and this is her last-ditch effort. As she gets the doll, she gives it to her brother Steven (Keir Dullea). There is no reason to suspect that Steven is a bad guy, first introduced being interviewed by the cops on Bunny’s swing set. However, as Ann goes back inside briefly, Steven sets fire to the evidence. It’s a twist that introduces what the rest of this film will be: breaking free of the trap that Steven has set.
Ann isn’t crazy. Bunny does exist. Steven snuck her out of school and threw her in the trunk before anyone noticed. He’s buttoned-up, refusing to give any sign that he’s insane, though Preminger’s photographing becomes sadistic in hindsight. His childlike mind makes it hard to not see Bunny as some interference between him and Ann.
That is why he is going to do everything in his power to murder the child and throw her in a ditch. The audience stays with Steven as he carries Bunny into the house, preparing for the cleanest form of murder that he can. Ann is just outside the window, watching the chaos and trying to find every way to stop him. This involves distracting him with everything imaginable which includes jumping onto the swing set and asking Steven to push her. Preminger can’t help but make this childlike subversion creepy.
Suddenly we’re in a different kind of mystery. Where we had been paranoid by a more human kind of story, we’re now confronted with something more flagrant. If either Ann or Bunny upsets Steven, then their plan of survival until the cops come will be ruined. The scene is insufferable, going on long enough to either make you nervous at the high-wire act or realize how trashy and manipulative the story really is. It can’t possibly last forever, and yet it drags on, reflecting a torment that exists underneath. We have our answers, but now we’re stuck wondering if Bunny Lake is missing because Steven got away with the crime AFTER they found her.
It really would’ve been a bold way to end the story, but I get the sense that Preminger has a heart underneath his perversion. He couldn’t let Steven win, because that would’ve been several forms of taboo abuse in one. Instead by giving Ann the satisfaction of being right, we as an audience are relieved. The film ends with the hand from the Saul Bass opening credits closing the black paper over our view. Things are returning back to normal while presenting one of the greatest fades to blacks in history.
While I can’t say that the film is similar in subject, Bunny Lake is Missing plays to me like a 1960s version of Gone Girl (2014). We’re introduced to one film that seems more subdued and straightforward. However, there is ONE twist that will make us see the entire world differently, and we’re drawn in by the shock, even if it’s trashy. I don’t know that this film earns its ending, but to watch Preminger figure out a way to make this story work is a miracle unto itself. In just two films, I feel like he’s become one of my favorite directors, capturing a certain atmosphere that feels leering and dangerous, but ultimately believes the best in people. It takes risks and challenges the audiences to love it and while this isn’t my favorite of his films, I love that besides the mystery of the story, it’s the mystery of how we watch cinema. Your eye never stays still, your brain never settled on an idea. Even when you get an answer, it just opens new questions. It may not be the most logical of stories, but Preminger plays on human emotion so well that I can’t help but love him.
Comments
Post a Comment