Two Kinds of Control

First, you'll notice that the blog's format has changed.  A while back, I switched to the "Advanced Templates" option to insert some widget into the sidebar, but then realized that switching to advanced templates requires you to actually mess with HTML code, which I don't fancy.  So back to the default templates, and away with the stupid widgets that nobody used anyway. To those of you who loved the widgets, my deepest condolences.

A few weeks ago, a commenter mentioned the 2003 Hungarian movie Kontroll.  I decided to pick it up, and while there, noticed another movie with the same-ish name, Control.  Why not have a Kontroll/Control evening? I thought to myself.

Kontroll, made by a young Hungarian director in 2003, portrays a team of ticket inspectors who ride the Budapest underground, flipping out their badges and accosting travelers. They have two nemeses -- the Roadrunner, a young hipster wearing reference headphones who always manages to outrun them, and Bootsy, a black-clad psychopath who pushes people onto the tracks in front of oncoming trains. But perhaps their most frequent enemy is subway riders, who curse and abuse the inspectors to no end. The inspectors themselves are a motley band, nominally led by Bulcsu, a morose loner in black leather who never leaves the subway. Together, they fight not only their quasi-mythical enemies, but also subway management and their own demons.

Unfortunately, Kontroll, although filled with inventive images of the ethereal flourescent underworld in which the characters live, is a confused mess. All the signature weaknesses of European moviemaking are here: hammered-home symbolism (including people who wear angel and bear costumes for no reason), overdone "magical" moments, spotty and slack pacing, clumsy irony (such as when emergency workers discuss goulash recipes while scraping an unfortunate victim off the tracks), and scenes and subplots that simply trail off for no reason. It's still intermittently interesting, but needed more discipline and skillful editing.

Control is no less gloomy than Kontroll, but worlds better. It's based on a book by Deborah Curtis, the ex-wife of Joy Division's troubled lead singer, Ian Curtis. The director is Anton Corbijn, perhaps best-known for his delightfully eccentric music videos for acts such as Mercury Rev and Nirvana. But there are no tricks here -- Control is filmed entirely in black-and-white, with sober pacing and elegant, minimalistic compositions. Curtis, a thin, hypersensitive introvert plagued by depression and epilepsy, marries much too young and has a child he's not prepared for. Meanwhile, the band he sings for after work, Joy Division, rockets to fame as one of the first identifiable "post-punk" acts. They married enervated, crystalline, volatile proto-goth-rock to Curtis' eerily gruff, half-groaning singing. A combination that galvanized many young listeners, yours truly included.

Curtis' song lyrics, which tell of isolation and alienation, are all too reflective of his mental state, which only worsens as fate burdens him with many simultaneous tasks -- being a rock star, husband, father, epilepsy sufferer and adulterer -- which burst his fragile ego at the seams. The only relief he has is Joy Division's live performances, which are expertly reproduced by Corbijn. Without obtrusive tricks, Corbijn convey the band's funereally mesmerizing live charisma. (Unfortunately, the movie provides little insight into the band's creative process, which is really my only criticism).  Sam Riley as Curtis delivers a staggeringly soulful performance, and Samantha Morton, playing his luckless wife, is no less moving.

Given that Control's main characters are all in their twenties, it manages to invest their story with more dignity and universality than you'd expect. But for those readers who don't know what happened to Ian Curtis, I warn you that Control does not have a happy end. Still, it's beautiful, somber, and elegant.