Reviewed: Stoker directed by Park Chan-wook

Niece to meet you.

Stoker (18)
dir: Park Chan-wook

Once upon a time, a South Korean director made a film in America about a fatherless 18- year-old named India placed in the care of her mother (played by an Australian) and the suave uncle she never knew she had (played by an Englishman) . . .

This hotchpotch of international elements has resulted in the seamless Stoker, an adult fairy tale that is perfectly ravishing and stylised enough to stand alongside Neil Jordan’s The Company of Wolves or Tarsem Singh’s The Fall. The film is not, as the title might suggest, a biopic of the author of Dracula, even though the director, Park Chanwook, comes to the project fresh from making his own vampire movie, Thirst. But it does concern a young woman, India (Mia Wasikowksa), cutting her teeth.

India’s bite is worse than her bark, literally so in one kissing scene with a high-school classmate. Her voice is but a tremulous murmur, the feeble vocal equivalent of her face, which is hospital-sheet pale and flanked by inky hair; she wouldn’t say “Boo!” to a bat. She provides the film’s opening narration, alerting us to characters no more able to alter themselves than flowers can change colour at will. In this India includes herself. She starts the film as a potential victim but this is a red herring. A blood-red herring.

Not that her dapper uncle Charlie (Matthew Goode), materialising out of thin air in an array of tweeds and ties and tennis whites, isn’t plenty sinister enough. When India’s mother, Evelyn (Nicole Kidman), jokes about him poisoning the dinner, she is verbalising her daughter’s suspicions and ours. The sulphurous whiff of foul play hangs over India’s father’s death long before we glimpse a documentary about deadly sibling rivalry between black eagles: another suggestion that murder is only natural.

As befits a story about awakening, metamorphosis bleeds into every corner of the film, even into Clint Mansell’s score, where an orchestral surge might give way to an electronic squall. Park’s favoured method of transition between shots is the dissolve, that layering of the incoming image over the departing one so that a cut becomes instead a delicate transformation. An eye turns into an egg; a close-up of Evelyn’s hair being brushed morphs imperceptibly into the next shot where two tiny hunters are hiding in the tall weeds. That visual segue makes it appear that they are Lilliputians concealed in her Gulliver tresses.

India is receptive to sights and sounds that are unavailable to the rest of us, and in rendering her world, the cinematography of Chung-hoon Chung is vividly heightened. It’s not enough to show India jabbing a tormentor with a pencil; the pay-off comes later, in an extreme close-up of her sharpening the weapon – the bloody shaving peels off like the skin of a tantalising fruit. The aesthetic of Stoker is storybook-brash in a way that overrides any demands for plausibility. Why would a person commit a murder in the only illuminated spot on a dark motel forecourt? Why would a domestic freezer in a vast house be stored in a dimly lit and inaccessible basement? These are the sorts of questions that the film hypnotises us into not asking.

India’s acceptance of her true nature leads Stoker into the territory of Brian De Palma’s 1976 film of Stephen King’s Carrie, about a timid girl in receipt of telekinetic powers. Park does not fight shy of the similarities. There is a stunning shot in the car park of a roadside diner where India appears in her nightdress: its white fabric is drenched in red neon, recalling Carrie in that blood soaked prom gown. Carrie also featured a distinctive shower scene, where the innocent heroine is shocked to find herself menstruating, and Stoker ventures into the shower stall for its own pivotal moment of sexual crisis. Recalling an act of violence at which she was present, even complicit, India becomes unusually thorough in her pursuit of the perfect lather.

If the genuinely Gothic allows for the existence of horror and beauty without either precluding the other, then Park is one of a small crop of modern directors to have pulled off that tricky balance. He also introduces a vein of camp that produces images to treasure without ever unbalancing the film: red-haired Evelyn drinking red wine; a red splash of brains on a red wall; a woman in high heels brandishing a hunting rifle. I’ve been resistant to Park’s previous movies, which were tipped too strongly toward cruelty (Oldboy) or whimsy (I’m a Cyborg, But That’s OK). This one, though, left me stoked.

Nicole Kidman in Park Chan-wook's "Stoker".

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 04 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The fall of Pistorius

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Commons confidential: Away in Pret a Manger

Corbyn's lunch, a Keith "Vazz" hunch and the New Left Book club.

Comrade Corbyn, despite the pressures of leadership, remains the Anne of Green Gables of British politics, maintaining an almost childlike joy in everything he does. Pride of place in Jezza’s Westminster office is a Lorraine Kelly mug. Corbyn asked for the memento after appearing on the popular telly host’s ITV show – where the pair discussed his interest
in manhole covers.

There’s no record, as far as I can ascertain, of Kelly requesting a Corbyn mug. And yet the sustained abuse Corbyn receives from Labour critics, Conservative enemies and the Tory press isn’t generating hostility on the streets. People still clamour for selfies with the bearded lefty. My snout sat in awe in a Pret a Manger (Comrade Corbyn likes to pop out for his own sarnies, rather than dispatch a flunky) as the queue disintegrated, with punters hungry for snaps.

The Corbyn apparatchik and London City Hall escapee Neale Coleman said: “The one thing I learned from Boris Johnson was never say no to a selfie.” Corbyn must hope he absorbed more than that.

Perhaps the unlikeliest odd couple in parliament is Labour’s Warley Warrior John Spellar and the purple shirt Nigel Farage. Both went to the private Dulwich College in south London. Spellar, who spearheaded his party’s anti-Ukip campaign before the election, won a free scholarship and likes to remind Farage that the Kipper’s fees would now be £18,000 a year. “I passed the exam, too,” sniffs Farage, “but my father earned too much, so we had to pay.” One school, two backgrounds.

Trade unionists no longer regard attacks by the Tory press as just a badge of honour. Aslef’s president, Tosh McDonald, a train driver, wears a black T-shirt with the slogan “Hated by the Daily Mail” on it, after being denounced by Paul Dacre’s organ. I suspect Labour’s Keith Vaz is unlikely to revel in a message sprayed on the side of a van in Leicester. The fastidious chair of the home affairs committee is entitled to challenge at least one inaccuracy in the statement: “KEITH VAZZ IS A KNOB.”

“Any idiot in opposition who argues that government legislation can somehow be got through without programme motions should be taken out to the nearest lunatic asylum.” Who said that? Ken Livingstone? No, Kevan Jones. In June 2010. How times, and language, change.

To the launch of the new Left Book Club, where a director of the Corbynista reading circle, Anna Minton, waved a personalised glossy invitation to join the Institute of Directors. The Pall Mall bosses’ club’s direct mailing system is way off target.

I wonder: what could expelled Tory trickster Mark Clarke have on Grant Shapps?

Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State