Heart is Where the Home Is

Thoughts on a film: The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017)

With its extensive use of wide-angle lenses to distort perspective, prolonged tracking shots that unfurl through a maze of labyrinthine corridors and slow, penetrating zooms that seem to expose the hidden emotions of its characters, The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017) is nothing if not a masterpiece of cinematic form.

In terms of its actual creative lineage, it was difficult not to be reminded of the films of Stanley Kubrick, both in its thematic design and its actual on-screen direction. More specifically, it brought to mind the presentation of Kubrick's similarly languorous and claustrophobic horror film The Shining (1980), where the discordant soundtrack, sense of isolation (both spatial and psychological) and the depiction of a family being pushed to the brink by external, possibly even supernatural forces, calls to mind the same events seen here.

However it also seems reminiscent of the detached and paranoid psychodrama at play within another of Kubrick's films: the often underrated Eyes Wide Shut (1999). Here, a successful doctor/surgeon is thrown into an emotional tailspin when his comfortable image of the world (and his own place within it) is challenged by an accusation that hits a little too close to home.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer [Yorgos Lanthimos, 2017]:

In keeping with the influence of Kubrick, Nicole Kidman once again appears as the wife of a successful doctor/surgeon whose all-knowing perspective on the narrative (and its secrets) creates a question of complicity. The role itself, and much of the resulting scenes, seem to offer a conscious throwback to Kidman's earlier role in Eyes Wide Shut.

Eyes Wide Shut [Stanley Kubrick, 1999]:

In Eyes Wide Shut, Kidman plays Alice; wife of the successful doctor Bill Hartford. It's Alice's initial confession about an erotic fantasy and possible extramarital affair that sends Hartford on his nocturnal odyssey; creating a question as to whether or not Alice is simply a victim of her husband's circumstances or a part of the greater conspiracy acting against him.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer [Yorgos Lanthimos, 2017]:

The frequent tracking shots through the labyrinth-like hospital feel specific to the point of establishing the location as an almost sentient space. Suggesting something of "the corridors of the mind" even; where the presentation seems to recall the vast passageways of the Overlook Hotel, or the hedge-maze and its wider (and applicable) connotations to Greek myth.

The Shining [Stanley Kubrick, 1980]:

Despite the Kubrickian similarities - as well as references and allusions to other works, which will be discussed shortly - The Killing of a Sacred Deer never feels like a copy or a work of imitation, but instead seems to have its own sense of morality and creative identity. It's an assemblage of influences, for certain, as almost all films today seem to be, but one that nonetheless reflects the general attitudes and worldview found in other films by Lanthimos and his co-writer Efthymis Filippou, such as Dogtooth (2009), Alps (2011) and The Lobster (2015).

Dogtooth [Yorgos Lanthimos, 2009]:

Like Dogtooth, The Killing of a Sacred Deer is preoccupied with exploring the roles and routines that come to define the conventional family unit. These routines depict a particular kind of American domesticity that is familiar from Hollywood movies and daytime television, but the scenes that feel most familiar, or recognisable, are robbed of personality, warmth and even basic humanity.

Again, as with Dogtooth - which presented an even more radical deconstruction of the suburban family - Lanthimos and his collaborators exaggerate these domestic routines until they become like little rituals of dehumanisation. Conversations about body hair and mp3 players or scenes of characters flossing their teeth are presented as a reality, but are depicted in such a way that it's as if we're witnessing aliens from a distant planet attempting to grapple with or engage with some rudimentary semblance of human behaviour.

Every scene in the film feels heightened, posed or artificial in construction. There's an almost 'autistic' quality to it, in the sense that so much of The Killing of a Sacred Deer is presented as if reflecting the worldview of characters unsure of how people are expected to respond or react to a situation; or where the intermittent bursts of discordant sound create a feeling of sensory overload; or where the mannered performance style and the bluntness of the dialog don't quite resonate with what feels 'recognisable' to us (whatever that might mean) and yet make sense within the context of everything else.

This aesthetic is symptomatic of the director's need to find new ways of expression; presenting familiar ideas, scenes and characters in a way that is aggressively unfamiliar. It's reflected in the imagery as well, as Lanthimos and cinematographer Thimios Bakatakis shoot from angles that are slightly left of the conventional; or use the wide-angle lens to dwarf the perspective of the characters, making them appear smaller, and the world around them, by contrast, appear greater, more overwhelming.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer [Yorgos Lanthimos, 2017]:

As an aesthetic approach it arrives fully formed with the film's astounding first image; a bird's eye view of a human heart beating inside the exposed chest cavity of one of the surgeon's patients. The shot immediately establishes context - who the character is, what he does for a living, etc - but also reinforces many of the thematic points of reference and interpretations that will develop as the film plays out. The idea of the heart as a symbol - with its conventional connotations of love, family, emotion (the expression, "home is where the heart is", etc) - but also the idea of the heart as a system. A functional organ that beats at the centre of things; like the character Martin; the teenage harbinger who enters into this family and disrupts it from within.

On the surface of it, The Killing of a Sacred Deer seems to blur elements of classical Greek tragedy - specifically the story of Iphigenia, with its themes of revenge, atonement and child sacrifice, as well as the implications of the title itself; which relates to Agamemnon's accidental killing of a deer in the grove of Artemis, who subsequently demands the death of Agamemnon's daughter, Iphigenia, as a penance - alongside further allusions to the film Teorema (1968) by Pier Paolo Pasolini.

In Pasolini's film, a beguiling young stranger enters into the life of a bourgeoisie family and attempts to destroy them from within; an element of the plot that is closely echoed here with Martin's initial acceptance within the family. There's also a suggestion of the children of the protagonist conspiring with the stranger to punish the father for some real or imaginary transgression; which seems to reflect not only the predicament faced by Colin Farrell's character in the film in question but also that of the Daniel Auteuil protagonist in Michael Haneke's similarly cold and clinical psychological study/revenge parable Caché (2005).

Teorema [Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1968]:

The Killing of a Sacred Deer [Yorgos Lanthimos, 2017]:

Caché (aka Hidden) [Michael Haneke, 2005]:

The final act builds to a kind of theatre of cruelty that feels close to another of Haneke's films; the home invasion thriller/didactic cine-essay Funny Games (1997). Here the contrasting elements of Greek myth, psycho-thriller and suburban satire collide in a moment that surely ranks as one of 2017's most jaw-dropping cinematic moments. As a climax to an otherwise slow and hypnotic study in sustained tension and emotional distance, the violent inevitability of this climax, and the way that the characters embrace it so unquestioningly, is absurd and outlandish; illustrating just how far the filmmakers are willing to go in order to honour the bizarre rules and rituals that they've created for themselves through this concoction of influences.

However, the climax is not gratuitous in nature. It doesn't stray into the realms of exploitation or sensationalism, as many of Haneke's (or even Kubrick's) imitators so often do when attempting to provoke or outrage their audience's sensibilities, but instead presents a final reckoning that is unflinching in its commitment and intensity.

While The Killing of a Sacred Deer struck me as an excellent film, much of it only works if we approach it on a level of allegory. Like Darren Aronofsky's recent film, mother! (2017) - which is similarly divisive and similarly brilliant - it's a work that seems to be playing with symbols and representations as opposed to a more tangible kind of reality that an audience can invest in, either emotionally or philosophically.

If we hold the story and its characters up to any kind of close scrutiny then nothing actually works and the whole thing just unravels into a muddle of unanswered questions and loose ends. But it's worth grappling with these issues and inconsistencies in order to experience how the story unfolds, and to appreciate how Lanthimos and his collaborators are able to put together these diverse influences to create something that feels so singular and so different.

Top Ten: 2005

Ranking the Decades

A Year in Film List + Image Gallery

Regular Lovers [Philippe Garrel, 2005]:

Last Days [Gus Van Sant, 2005]:

Breakfast on Pluto [Neil Jordan, 2005]:

Allegro [Christoffer Boe, 2005]:

I'm the Angel of Death: Pusher III [Nicolas Winding Refn, 2005]:

Hidden (Caché) [Michael Haneke, 2005]:

Seven Invisible Men [Sharunas Bartas, 2005]:

Reincarnation [Takashi Shimizu, 2005]:

Princess Raccoon [Seijun Suzuki, 2005]:

Munich [Steven Spielberg, 2005]:

Above, arranged in order of preference, my personal top-ten best films of the year (from what I've seen), accurate at the time of writing.

Pause for Thought

Imprecise observations on the film Benny's Video (1992)
As these notations are intended for people who have seen the film, some SPOILERS will follow.

INTRODUCTION:

A crime is committed.  A murder; cold and cruel.  As an audience, we're inherently coerced into becoming a collective witness to this act, but at a distance, unable to interject.  The murder happens off-screen, but the screen is what we see.  The video monitor - a recurring image in Haneke's work - displays a recording of what could perhaps be described, physically, as 'the scene' of the crime, or even literally, as 'the crime scene.'

The implications are clear.  We're watching this murder as we would watch a conventional film.  Only in this instance, the fiction is presented as a reality.

Art, imitating life,  imitating art.

Benny's Video [Michael Haneke, 1992]:

Though the film is called Benny's Video (singular), there are in fact several videos featured in the film that the title could refer to.  The protagonist - a disaffected teenage boy - spends much of the film watching videos or making them.  When he eventually takes the tentative step into cold-blooded murder, his obsession with recording plays a central role in the facilitation of the crime and also of his understanding of it.

He is, like the audience, something of a voyeur.  For Benny (Arno Frisch) , real life is not real unless it is viewed through a screen.  In his bedroom the curtains remain closed, even during the day.  A small video camera records the scene outside his window, which is displayed back to him, on a video monitor.  The television is therefore not just a means of entertainment, but a window into another world.

Here, one could perhaps connect Haneke's presentation back to a particular device used in Jean-Luc Godard's eccentric "thriller", Detective (1985), in which three amateur sleuths hide out in a room at the Hôtel Concorde, keeping a constant watch on the exterior of the foyer via the aid of a portable video camera and an in-room television set.  Although effectively a caper, Godard's film is also an extended thesis on the nature of recording and the role that an audience plays when engaging with the conventions of a genre; inventing and projecting, or even creating their own conclusions from the accumulation of "clues", whatever the case may be.

Detective [Jean-Luc Godard, 1985]:

For Haneke and - to a larger extent - Godard, the television becomes a window and the camera becomes the all-seeing eye.  The characters in both these films are "protagonists" in the conventional sense, but they're also surrogates for a viewing audience.  They watch, they plot, they invent.  When these characters cross the line, eventually taking control of the narrative and dictating the direction the film will take, they are - in a sense - breaking the forth wall, but also inviting the audience to do the same.  The act of viewing makes them spectators by definition, but by refusing to remain passive, by taking an active role in understanding these images and scenes, they become protagonists (legitimately) through the act of viewing.

In this particular instance, the idea of an initial character as a voyeur transcending his own role as a submissive observer to become a genuine protagonist (or active participant) in the development of the plot, the film channels the influence of Hitchcock's great masterpiece Rear Window (1954), giving its themes of voyeurism and the influence of the television as yet another window into the soul a more contemporary relevance in the age of the video rental.

Rear Window [Alfred Hitchcock, 1954]:

Unlike the conventional blink-or-you'll-miss-it mass spectacle of the cinema - which keeps its audience at a reserve - the video format (plainly ,"the home cinema") makes it possible for us to scrutinise the image from a much closer, more intimate perspective.  We can watch, re-watch, pause and re-live moments in a way that was impossible just over a decade before Haneke's film was released.

In the presentation of his central character and the 'video' of the title, Haneke is questioning the motivations of the audience, while also providing a not so subtle critique of the generation of this character, enthralled by the lure of 'the image', but at the same time detached from it; unable to see beyond the representation to the reality beneath.  This is similar to Hitchcock's more subtle critique of his own  protagonist, the disabled correspondence photographer L.B. Jefferies.  A man of action reduced to an inert observer, Jefferies becomes a surrogate for an audience who find entertainment in the lives of others and invent stories from the close scrutiny of the most arbitrary of details.

If Hitchcock's film was also something of an acknowledgement of the filmmakers own position as "ringleader" - the cunning instigator colluding with the antagonist and creating the film, as bait, in an attempt to exploit the most callous and judgemental facets of human behaviour - then for Haneke, the lead-up to the murder, the murder itself and the prolonged and provocative aftermath becomes almost like a macabre parody of the conventional moviemaking process (pre-production/production/post- etc), thus turning the entire nature of filmmaking, as a history, into something almost alarmingly sinister.

The scenes of Benny gazing with Kubrickian detachment at video-camera footage of a pig being slaughtered suggests the idea of "influence" (however contentiously) - that people are, in some small way, influenced by the power of images, for better or worse - but it also chillingly establishes the character's own (near) inhuman objectivity when he looks back at his own footage from the death.  These sequences are the first to suggest the idea of "responsibility" - one of the key points in the film - as Benny (the character and audience, by proxy) becomes, in the cinematic sense, the "auteur" of his crime.

Benny's Video [Michael Haneke, 1992]:

As the character goes back and forth through the tape, studying the frame, mixing in sounds and other footage to create a ghoulish montage of ideas, the methodology again becomes a kind of commentary on the process of filmmaking, where the "shots" and "cuts" take on an entirely different and markedly more disturbing definition.  In this respect, the film - or these specific scenes - offer an almost acknowledgement on Haneke's part of his own role in this shameful display, his own culpability as a maker of violent images, and the responsibility of the artist to present ideas, even as critique, without having them turn into an example of the very same exploitation that the film was supposedly against.

QUESTIONS:

·          With the central idea of Benny's Video, is Haneke explicitly creating a link between the viewing of violent images and the character's subsequent descent into cold-hearted violence?  If so, do you agree with his opinion?

·          If not, what do you think causes Benny's sudden break in personality?

·          Is Haneke implicating the viewer in this murder by framing it for our "entertainment", or is he implicating himself, as the creator of this scenario?

·          How do you interpret the ending?   Do you think Benny is turning himself in - his guarded apology to his parents an acknowledgement of their attempts to save him from a criminal prosecution - or do you think he has instead shifted the blame entirely onto them, thus proving that his character is now a genuine sociopath?

·          What is your take on the continual new stories that form the background of the film?   There are several explicit references to the Balkans conflict.   Is this simply Haneke providing a cultural and historical context for his film, or is there something more significant going being suggested, perhaps, once again, in relation to the influence of violent media, sensationalism, and social-conditioning?

INTERPRETATION:

For me, Benny's Video is very much about the nature of viewing; about how audiences are conditioned to accept and/or reject certain modes of viewing, and how the notion of desensitisation will one day rob these images of their ability to move, amuse, shock or repel, turning them into objects with no real meaning beyond anything presented on the surface.

It's also a film about video and about the process of taking films out of their natural environment - the cinema, where they are watched as part of a collective; as a social exhibition - and placing them in the home where audiences are free to use or misuse the film in a way that goes against the explicit intentions of the filmmaker; a thread that would be further explored in Haneke's subsequent films, Funny Games (1997) and Caché (2005).

Caché [Michael Haneke, 2005]:

Whether or not we accept this particular argument or instead accuse Haneke of hypocrisy - as he compels the audience to engage with the film, only to eventually turn our own engagement against us - will be decided by the individual.  However it's worth spending a moment or two to reflect on the experiences of the film, its contrasts - between the cold, static scenes of Benny's family-life, and the vibrant, exotic travelogue of images as the characters escape to Egypt - as well as the implications of the ending, which possibly posit the titular character as a legitimate sociopath, far closer to the antagonist (also played by Frisch) in the abovementioned Funny Games.

Ultimately, the film for me comes back to the idea of culpability; about the responsibility that audiences and filmmakers share when approaching any fiction that use violence, either to titillate or to provoke.  With the staging of the murder, Haneke seems to be saying that we, as an audience, are a witness to everything we see; that we have a responsibility as viewers to dismiss these films, as a moral judgement (and not simply as an "aesthetic" preference or on the level of personal enjoyment, as is often the case) and to question the intentions of filmmakers who use such measures to provoke a response.

We could argue in this instance that the end of the film is suggesting, figuratively at least, that the responsibility ultimately rests with the parents.  However, I also think Hanake is casting himself in that position; with the didactic, sometimes heavily moralising tone of his films occasionally creating the feeling of a stern lecture or even an academic dissertation on a theme.  Haneke is, in some respects, talking down to his audience, but nonetheless accepts the responsibility, therefore allowing the audience the opportunity to see the film, to reflect on it, but ultimately absolving us from our own implicit culpability - on this occasion at least - on the condition that we take something meaningful from the experience.

Caché

The use of the term "Hidden" - the English translation of the original French-language title Caché - is incredibly pertinent. Throughout the film, director Michael Haneke suggests the idea of something hidden, not only within the lives of these characters, but within the very fabric of the film itself. To establish and express this idea more concisely, he forces the audience to look deeply into the film from the very first frame; establishing the visual language of the picture and the recognisable ideas of voyeurism and observation that will be further developed throughout. Here, one could even argue that the actual presentation of the film goes beyond even that; offering the central point of characters viewing other characters - while simultaneously being viewed by the audience of the film itself - as a reflexive rhetoric between the filmmaker and his audience; wherein the two become co-conspirators, observing the fate of these selected characters, but also in control of it.

Haneke extends on this notion with a more provocative theme; introducing the subtle revelation that these characters aren't simply watching other characters, but are more importantly, watching other characters suffer. With this, we can choose to see the film as an even greater commentary on the nature of cinema in the 21st century, again, taking us back to the crux of the augment presented in the director's most infamous film, the controversial satire Funny Games (1997). As with that particular film, the fourth-wall between the audience and the protagonists is here continually broken; often in a way that deliberately diminishes the natural drama, tension or suspense that we might expect to find in a work broadly categorised (if not marketed) as a conventional thriller. However, like any thriller, there is a mystery: the characters are aware of the fact that someone is watching them, but they don't know who. We fill in the blanks and recognise the connection as we view these characters being forced to view themselves on the crudely-shot video cassettes that arrive on their doorstep.

Caché directed by Michael Haneke, 2005:

On the one hand this thematic set-up can be seen as an observation on the natural voyeurism of the cinema and the intrusion that an audience makes on the lives of its characters as we actively engage in their downfall. However, there is a lot more to the film than this simple, obvious reading of its themes might suggest; with the usual, sociological or political aspects, often present in Haneke's work, being represented by an incredibly intelligent cinematic presentation of the workings of collective-guilt (and in particular, how the sins of the fathers' are often visited upon their children; or if not, are at least caught up in the continual cycle that repeats itself over time) It's hard for a writer of limited vocabulary such as myself to really get to grips with this particular aspect of the film without delving too far into the plot (and by extension - those all-important background revelations), which develops slowly; often being discovered or interpreted by the audience alongside the characters, to again, further that blurring of the line that separates the viewer from the viewed. Nonetheless, it goes without saying that certain aspects here do warrant closer inspection; especially the references to the Paris massacre of 1961, which plays an important role in the development of the back-story and one of the strongest (albeit, implied) references to that aforementioned spectre of guilt.

The opening frame of the film; originally introduced as a conventional movie frame - an establishing master-shot that allows enough room for the opening block of credits - is deconstructed by the dialog of the central characters, who question what it is that we're supposed to be seeing. At this point, the character physically rewinds the image, like Paul (Arno Frisch) in Haneke's original version of Funny Games, forcing us to question the line between actuality and recording.

Caché directed by Michael Haneke, 2005:

Though considered a difficult work by some critics, no doubt as a reaction to the often extremely clinical nature of Haneke's direction, which, as in many of his films, creates an air of lifeless, cold examination, the style and the approach is nonetheless integral to the oddly conflicting world of the film, as these characters struggle through their issues in these grey, minimal-little worlds, devoid of colour or compassion. This kind of presentation goes as far back as the director's very first theatrical feature, The Seventh Continent (Der Siebente Kontinent, 1989), and can be see right the way through to his more recent projects, like the critically acclaimed Code Unknown: Incomplete Tales of Several Journeys (Code inconnu: Récit incomplet de divers voyages, 2000) or the award-winning The Piano Teacher (La Pianiste, 2001).

This particular style works well with Caché (2005), in which we return to certain ideas established in The Seventh Continent, in particular the depiction of a comfortable, seemingly normal middle-class family's slow deterioration into depression, desperation and worse. However, in that particular film, the sense of deterioration came from within; as the nature of society in the late twentieth-century (specifically the end of the turbulent 1980s) creates a cold and dehumanising vacuum that sucks the life from even the most average of everyday family units.

The Seventh Continent directed by Michael Haneke, 1989:

Caché directed by Michael Haneke, 2005:

In contrast however, the devastation in Caché comes from the outside in; it is here where the central core of the drama is established. Through the use of his mise-en-scene and the reliance on long-takes captured from a single static camera, Haneke is able to challenge his audience in their powers of observation; making light of the fact that we (as an audience) often look only for the obvious in situations; so much so in fact that we sometimes end up failing to grasp the various other pitfalls that await us. In keeping with this idea, Hanake offers us a story in which the ultimate answer could very well be the most simplistic. Indeed, so simplistic that the majority of audiences might even discount it within the first fifteen minutes for being far too obvious for such a seemingly sophisticated thriller. However, this (seemingly) is the point. We, much like the characters within the film - television presenter Georges (Daniel Auteuil) and his career-minded wife Anne (Juliette Binoche) - are given the chance to look at something. On the surface, a simple videotape; but it is in looking at this tape and the images depicted therein that triggers the events that will escalate throughout the film until that vague and enigmatic final.

By looking at the tape, they're being asked to look, not only within themselves, but within one another. What do they see? Do they - like the audience - look only for the obvious, or do they instead look for a deeper meaning? And does looking deeper actually offer them anything that the initial viewing wouldn't have already suggested? As the characters' view the tape, we the audience view the film. The person who sent us the film, much like the character(s) who sent the tape, is asking us to look for something of significance. Like the characters, we see the most obvious presentation - a gated three-story-home in an affluent Parisian suburb - but what do we see beyond that? What does this single image tell us about these characters? As the central protagonists begin to look into themselves and deeply into one another, we, the audience do the same; putting the characters under the microscope and drawing our own conclusions and opinions that may be right or may be wrong, but nonetheless, offer us clues to the greater mystery. At the same time the film is working as a critique on the broader notions of cinema and of the relationship between the film, the viewer and the filmmaker himself.

As the video cassettes continue to pile up - with each one offering yet another piece of a puzzle that will eventually take us forty-four years into the past, across race and generations - the relationships between these characters begin to strain and fragment. Here, we realise that the actions of the past - once hidden, never spoken - have tarnished the very fabric of this family and the comfortable bourgeois existence that they had previously shared together.

All of this is implied beautifully by the subtly of Haneke's direction and his skilful handling of his actors; with the filmmaker managing to create this authentic feeling of fashionable, upper-middle class Parisian domesticity with perhaps the two biggest stars in contemporary French cinema: Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche. Both are excellent in their respective roles of the husband and wife falling apart as their hermetically sealed existence is threatened by the accusing eyes of an outside force that only one of them can comprehend (a factor within the storyline that brings us to the real - for lack of a better word - moral at the root of this dilemma).

Caché directed by Michael Haneke, 2005:

The question that hangs heavy over the narrative is obviously "who sent the tapes?" There are several possibilities to explore here, including the most obvious; the one that both we and Georges immediately arrive at. NOTE: The following paragraph will contain MAJOR SPOILERS so as to better explore the potential suspects.

The most obvious figure to come under close-scrutiny is Majid (Maurice Bénichou); the now middle-aged Algerian denied a loving home and a proper education by Georges' childhood hoax. Majid denies such accusations and eventually becomes something of a tragic figure – the real victim at the heart of this twisted plot. As the story unfolds further, we speculate as to the involvement of Majid's son (Walid Afkir), who later points the finger at Georges, explicitly implicating him in the torturous ruin of his father's life. However, this character will also deny any involvement in the tapes, despite the fact that one video is clearly shot from the vantage point of his father's cramped kitchen. In a twist of sorts, the final shot of the film shows Majid's son meeting with Georges own teenage son Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky), where they exchange unheard words in a long shot that obscures the possible exchange of information (both between the filmmaker and the viewer) to the point of almost subliminal suggestion. One of the most interesting online interpretations that I've read suggests that it is in fact George himself who sent the tapes, suffering a psychotic break that has forced him to confront the demons of his past head-on; something that the character would never and could never have been able to commit-to if still in a correct state of mind.

Perfectly played by Auteuil, Georges is a continually enigmatic figure; able to move back and forth from the sympathetic victim to the contemptuous villain, as the balance of power shifts like the paused image of one of those illicit video cassettes. However, is he a poor sap on the wrong end of a malicious prank - something that he could no-longer be held responsible for given his age at the time of the initial event - or is he a man simply unable to accept responsibility for his actions? (Exemplified in a number of scenes, notably his conversations with the TV producer and in the brief - but potentially violent - altercation with the cyclist early in the film)

These interpretations can be scrutinised or passed over, with either one being plausible enough in regards to the eventual outcome. Nevertheless, these single elements, used to weave together the tapestry, are simply components that make up the greater image. Like the pointillist dots of Georges Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte - 1884, it is simply a way of accumulating enough visual information until we can step back and appreciate the complete picture.

Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat, 1884:

Caché directed by Michael Haneke, 2005:

A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte – 1884 (French title: Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte – 1884) parallels Caché, not just in terms of the flat, observational framing, but in the notion of objects and ideas "hidden" within the frame; the symbol of the monkey on the leash, the shadow without a tree, the little girl in the glowing white dress who is painted rather than made up of the thousands upon thousands of tiny little dots; the fact that the picture could be seen as the reverse shot of Seurat's earlier painting, Bathers at Asnières (French title: Une Baignade, Asnières, 1884) creating a socio-political commentary, the bourgeois, as observed by the working classes; the haves and the have-nots.

Seurat comparison created by the blog author:

At the end, does it matter who sent the tapes, and for what purpose? Does the end justify the means? To illustrate the (seeming) unimportance of the whys and wherefores, Haneke leaves certain elements of the film vague; offering us hints to a back-story through disconnected flashback, while simultaneously having important information play out in long shot, devoid of clarification. At the end of the film it is left to the viewer to put the pieces into place, to think about what we've experienced and to ruminate around the importance of the characters, the commentary on looking and seeing (that cinema naturally presents) and the central reference to the Paris massacre of 1961. The more we watch and indeed, read-into the themes behind the film, then the more interesting and fascinating it all becomes; with the root of the drama and the ultimate presentation creating something that has the power to provoke thought and induce a response from its audience, in a way that is truly compelling.