Film Review Double Feature: "Wicked Little Letters," "Monkey Man," and the Resistance of the Abject
Two new films focus on the efforts of society's outcasts to forge their own destinies, whether through words or through violence.
Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!
It was quite a fun weekend at the movies for yours truly, as I got to see both the black comedy Wicked Little Letters and the revenge action film Monkey Man, both of which I very much enjoyed. While I didn’t expect them to have any connections, it turns out that they do have at least one thing in common: they both deal with abjection, featuring characters who exist in the margins of society but who, nevertheless, find a way of fighting back often with devastating consequences.Â
When Wicked Little Letters begins Olivia Colman’s Edith Swan has found herself the recipient of several very ugly and vituperative letters, and blame falls squarely on her nextdoor neighbor and former friend Roose Gooding. As time goes by, Rose becomes ever more determined to clear her good name, and she is assisted in this effort by a coalition of local women, including Gladys Moss, the only female member of the local police force. Very soon the letters become a national scandal, and there are increasingly vociferous calls for someone, anyone, to be prosecuted. The truth, however, is that Edith has been writing the letters, and she is ultimately sent to jail while Rose is set free.
I continue to be in awe of Olivia Colman’s ability to portray female abjection in a way that manages to wring both sympathy and repulsion from the audience. Her Edith is a woman who has existed under her father’s tyrannical and repressive Chrisitan thumb for her entire life–in one particularly haunting scene, he forces her to write out Bible verses as punishment. While on the outside she is a tragic and rather pitiable figure–much like Queen Anne, one of Colman’s other most notable creations–on the inside she is a seething cauldron of female rage which is prone to erupt in her poisonous letters. Also like Anne, Edith turns her rage both outward and inward, and Colman ably captures the many fascinating complexities of this deeply damaged woman, her face giving us unique insight into her mercurial changes of temper, from simpering victim to screeching harpy.
Jessie Buckley, likewise, has proven remarkably adept at playing sprightly and spunky characters who flout their unconventionality and refuse to obey the rules of the staid cultures in which they find themselves. Buckley’s Rose Gooding is very much an unruly woman, drinking and swearing a blue streak any time she gets the chance. She calls things as she sees them, whether in the street or in the courtroom. Unfortunately, it’s precisely this lacerating tendency–in conjunction with her Irish origins–which makes it very easy for both the citizens of Littlehampton and England as a whole, to find her guilty of the crime of writing these sordid letters.
Then there’s Anjana Vasan, whose dogged police work and refusal to bend the knee to the inept (and deeply misogynist) hierarchy of the local police force ends up being key to solving the mystery of the letters. If you’ve seen Vasan’s work in We Are Lady Parts, you’ll know that she excels at playing seemingly meek characters with a core of iron, and so it proves to be here. She’s a delight from start to finish, with impeccable comic timing.Â
The rest of the cast is likewise tremendously talented, but particular points have to go to Timothy Spall, who portrays poor Edith’s tyrant of a father. Edward is a withered old stick of a man who grows increasingly resentful of the world changing around him, particularly the agitation of the suffragists (whose actions are frequently referred to throughout the film). He seems to take a perverse glee in making Edith’s life miserable, and there’s a potent sort of glee in seeing her finally stand up to him at film’s end.
Ultimately, I don’t agree with those critics–such as Peter Bradshaw of The Guardian–who argue that the film doesn’t have anything meaningful to say about this notorious (if largely-forgotten) scandal. Not to oversimplify, but I do sometimes wonder whether male critics watch the same film that I did, since it seems to me that Wicked Little Letters is remarkably scathing in its takedown of the patriarchy. This is a film all about women: their voices, their interests, their desires. All three of its main characters have been shunted to the outskirts of society, even when, as with Gladys, they are actually part of an institution. They have been continually looked down on and ignored, often with terrible results, so it’s no wonder that they finally take matters into their own hands. A crisis that has been started by a woman is, in the end, solved by several of them.
There is thus something particularly fitting about the film’s final scene, which sees Edith laughing in glee at having finally been able to express herself outside of her father’s tyranny. Her laughter–more than a little mad–is a fitting conclusion to the film. It’s a reminder that when women’s voices are stifled and repressed, as Edith’s has been, they’ll find a way of coming out and when they do, all hell can break loose.Â
I’ve been a fan of Dev Patel’s for quite a long time, and his best roles, I think, are those which allow him to show both remarkable strength and wrenching vulnerability. Monkey Man features him in just such a role, with the added benefit that he is now in the director’s chair. It’s a powerful and haunting film that operates on a number of levels: as a muscular tale of male revenge; as a blunt takedown of Hindu nationalism; and even, most surprising, as a trans rights manifesto. It’s also a hell of a lot of fun to watch (though not, I should point out, without its moments of wrenching sadness and pathos).
There’s a visceral intensity to Monkey Man that’s present from the very first frames, which sees Patel’s character–known mostly as Kid–scraping together a living by boxing in a club known as Tiger’s Temple. Slowly but surely, however, he manages to ingratiate himself at a high-level club, where he hopes to have the chance to gain vengeance on the men who are responsible for the death of his mother: the brutal and corrupt police chief Rana Singh and his employer, the a guru who has become a political power-broker supporting the nationalist party. Patel makes abundant use of quick cutting and some well-executed point of view shots to suture us into both the action and Kid’s perspective, which gives his story a potency it might otherwise lack.Â
Patel imbues Kid with a sort of haunting vulnerability that keeps him from ever becoming just a walking agent of destruction. The murder of his mother–which he was helpless to prevent but which he was nevertheless forced to witness–casts a long shadow, and it is what drives him, frequent flashbacks showing the strong and deeply affecting bond with her. His body, nevertheless, becomes the means by which he brings his plot to fruition, particularly once he starts training with the hirja.Â
As this description makes clear, Monkey Man is very much a male melodrama in the mold of films such as Gladiator and John Wick, both of which also see abjected male characters trying to find their way back to salvation. Like Maximus and John Wick, Kid has had everything taken from him, his idyllic existence with his forest-loving mother stolen and left in ashes by a nationalist movement that cares nothing for the downtrodden and the oppressed except insofar as they can provide its votes. While Monkey Man is very much focused on Kid’s personal quest for revenge, it also makes it clear that there are greater stakes involved than just one man’s desire to avenge his mother’s killing.Â
This is most evident when Kid is rescued by a group of hijra occupying a temple to Ardhanarishvara. Like Kid they have been abjected by the brutality of the nationalist movement, pushed to the extremes and forced to look at themselves as social outcasts. However, Kid’s sojourn among them–and a timely reminder of their warrior pasts–encourages them to shake off their victimhood and charge into battle. It’s nothing less than exhilarating to see a group of trans women charging into battle wielding badass blades, particularly when their crusade is against the brutal instruments of nationalist violence.
It’s likewise deeply cathartic to see Kid finally get to take down both Singh and Baba, both of whom have been the callous architects of violence and destruction. Neither are painted as anything other than villainous, which makes their demise all the more satisfying. Sometimes what you really want–need, even–is to see a hero take down some baddies, and on this score Monkey Man more than delivers.
In the end, though, the film leaves us with more questions than answers. Will India be changed as a result of Kid’s actions, or will it continue on its downward plunge into nationalist violence and repression? The film is remarkably vague about this, particularly since so much of it remains tightly focused–both narratively and visually–on Kid’s quest for vengeance. As other critics have observed, there’s something startlingly pessimistic about the ending, in which Kid, visited by visions of his mother, collapses and the film fades to black. Though it’s clear that the film could never end any other way, since most characters like Kid have no place in the world they have given so much to create, it’s still a bit of a gut-punch.Â
Monkey Man is, like Wicked Little Letters, a story about someone forced into the realm of the abject who manages to fight his way back into the real world. Unlike Edith, however, Kid uses his body rather than his words, but both are ultimately forced back to the outskirts. One can hope, though, that the world, or at least a little corner of it, might be a bit better and more just because of their actions.