Suture ("a sewing together" according to my dictionary) has to be one of the cleverest films I have ever seen.
Definitely not to everyone's taste, it concerns two half-brothers Clay (Dennis Haysbert) and Vincent (Michael Harris) who meet up after their father's funeral. Clay is a poor construction worker whom the rich Vincent plans to kill. The idea is that Vincent is on the run for murder and he attempts to kill his half-brother in a car bomb explosion, planted with his identity so that he will be free to continue his life without harassment, the authorities believing Vincent Towers to be dead. Unfortunately for Vincent, his brother survives, and, an amnesiac, assumes his life and identity.
If all this sounds quite good, then you have to remember that Dennis Haysbert is black and Michael Harris is white, and they have no physical resemblance whatsoever. I've seen this film trashed even by professional critics, such as the British magazine writer David Quinlan who bemoaned that `no one seems to notice'. Of course, the very fact that no one seems to notice IS the point. If I were honest, I wouldn't state for certain that I know what message the film is trying to purport. In fact, so confused was I by it, that I took the unprecedented measure of reading the other user comments before I wrote mine. I normally avoid this practise to avoid unconsciously stealing another's words, but I had to get some fix, some general consensus as to what it's all about. Some interesting theories abound, including one very good point about the two being `Yin and Yang', explaining the black and white filming. (And in delightful cinemascope too!) It is suggested that race is not an issue in this film, though I feel the scene where Clay's plastic surgeon describes his face in Caucasian terms (`Roman nose thin lips straight hair') is a definite reference.
In fact, the film emerges as a search for the nature of identity, as well as the nature of racial perception. Of course, you could argue that what is a straightforward plot, doubtlessly tried many times before, is merely propped up by gimmickry. And occasionally the film does over-crank it's tools, such as the glorious moment when Clay is listening to Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire", turned down, so it's almost subliminal, before he himself is consumed by such a ring. However, this sublime moment is gatecrashed by Clay's trolley-dash to hospital being punctuated by a full-blast rendition of the same song by Tom Jones. This does, though, act as a nice coda to the piece much later, just as the prelude is effective. The idea that you could steal another man's life and possessions, even his face but never be able to become that man acts as the central thread. As you can see from this outline, it all becomes very complex and heavy going, though it's told in a slight, minimalist fashion so you never end up with too much of a headache. What makes this film worthy of a `7', even if you don't like the basic concept and theme, is the execution. Using excellent direction, which often consists of arial shots, not one scene is given over to bog-standard point-and-shoot techniques, where the camera is merely dumped in front of the actors and left to roll while the director goes off for a sandwich. (And this is no place to bring up The Phantom Menace). Especially worthy of note are the dream sequences, and the recovered memory sequences, which are starch and fuzzy like a damaged television screen. Also outstanding are the initial scenes that showcase the climax-to-be, where the two brothers must ultimately confront one another. Haysbert's dark skin contrasted with the pure white of the bathroom as the camera looks down upon him holding a rifle in a straight line ahead is a perfectly captured image. Also worthy is the off-beat acting style, very evocative of Soviet cinema in the sixties, the deliberately off-kilter and underplayed performances giving it all a continental air. For the sheer basic conceit of it's plot I would recommend anyone see this film. It is a testament to the fact that real talent in cinema often gets buried. The writer-directors have done little work since, this film making less than $200,000 in it's own country. Meanwhile the creators of production line cinema have mountainfuls of projects lined up for them with increasing regularity. A great shame.
Definitely not to everyone's taste, it concerns two half-brothers Clay (Dennis Haysbert) and Vincent (Michael Harris) who meet up after their father's funeral. Clay is a poor construction worker whom the rich Vincent plans to kill. The idea is that Vincent is on the run for murder and he attempts to kill his half-brother in a car bomb explosion, planted with his identity so that he will be free to continue his life without harassment, the authorities believing Vincent Towers to be dead. Unfortunately for Vincent, his brother survives, and, an amnesiac, assumes his life and identity.
If all this sounds quite good, then you have to remember that Dennis Haysbert is black and Michael Harris is white, and they have no physical resemblance whatsoever. I've seen this film trashed even by professional critics, such as the British magazine writer David Quinlan who bemoaned that `no one seems to notice'. Of course, the very fact that no one seems to notice IS the point. If I were honest, I wouldn't state for certain that I know what message the film is trying to purport. In fact, so confused was I by it, that I took the unprecedented measure of reading the other user comments before I wrote mine. I normally avoid this practise to avoid unconsciously stealing another's words, but I had to get some fix, some general consensus as to what it's all about. Some interesting theories abound, including one very good point about the two being `Yin and Yang', explaining the black and white filming. (And in delightful cinemascope too!) It is suggested that race is not an issue in this film, though I feel the scene where Clay's plastic surgeon describes his face in Caucasian terms (`Roman nose thin lips straight hair') is a definite reference.
In fact, the film emerges as a search for the nature of identity, as well as the nature of racial perception. Of course, you could argue that what is a straightforward plot, doubtlessly tried many times before, is merely propped up by gimmickry. And occasionally the film does over-crank it's tools, such as the glorious moment when Clay is listening to Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire", turned down, so it's almost subliminal, before he himself is consumed by such a ring. However, this sublime moment is gatecrashed by Clay's trolley-dash to hospital being punctuated by a full-blast rendition of the same song by Tom Jones. This does, though, act as a nice coda to the piece much later, just as the prelude is effective. The idea that you could steal another man's life and possessions, even his face but never be able to become that man acts as the central thread. As you can see from this outline, it all becomes very complex and heavy going, though it's told in a slight, minimalist fashion so you never end up with too much of a headache. What makes this film worthy of a `7', even if you don't like the basic concept and theme, is the execution. Using excellent direction, which often consists of arial shots, not one scene is given over to bog-standard point-and-shoot techniques, where the camera is merely dumped in front of the actors and left to roll while the director goes off for a sandwich. (And this is no place to bring up The Phantom Menace). Especially worthy of note are the dream sequences, and the recovered memory sequences, which are starch and fuzzy like a damaged television screen. Also outstanding are the initial scenes that showcase the climax-to-be, where the two brothers must ultimately confront one another. Haysbert's dark skin contrasted with the pure white of the bathroom as the camera looks down upon him holding a rifle in a straight line ahead is a perfectly captured image. Also worthy is the off-beat acting style, very evocative of Soviet cinema in the sixties, the deliberately off-kilter and underplayed performances giving it all a continental air. For the sheer basic conceit of it's plot I would recommend anyone see this film. It is a testament to the fact that real talent in cinema often gets buried. The writer-directors have done little work since, this film making less than $200,000 in it's own country. Meanwhile the creators of production line cinema have mountainfuls of projects lined up for them with increasing regularity. A great shame.