In a film that undoubtedly sees Malcolm McDowell, one of the last greats of his generation, actor before star; performer before clown of the masses; person before media phenomenon; hailing from British stages and famously known for his remarkable performances in "Caligula" and "Time After Time" (1979) by Nicholas Meyer, it is he who carries the weight of this movie.
He brings an unexpected freshness to the film. A rare and even charming portrayal of a "refined" serial killer, who will do everything in his power to get away with his crimes unscathed, yet with a very subtle hint of remorse that becomes self-evident from the narrator's perspective, who is his character. In this sense, it might remind us of other roles he has played, like in "A Clockwork Orange" directed by the legendary Kubrick, where many shades and nuances of personality are interwoven into one character, coloured by a rich chromatism of emotions and moral contradictions.
We're not dealing with the classic, bone-chilling figure of the killer, born from pure terror, as we might see in the tormented and tragic figure of Norman Bates by Anthony Perkins. McDowell endows his character with a sharp, mocking edge... intentionally seeking (as the narrator of his own story) the empathy of the viewer's more "mischievous" side. Something masterfully achieved in his role as "Caligula," a figure quite unpopular at certain points in history. The "murderous" emperor, who, however, paradoxically becomes an icon of sexual freedom. An actor who always, or almost always, has managed to imprint this multifaceted character. His powerful magnetism, charisma, and distinctive physiognomy, marked by his popping, mocking, and whimsical gaze, do not constitute a monopolising emergence, nor do they rise with the spurious divisms seen in some performances by other actors, such as Joaquin Phoenix, who border on bizarre histrionics. McDowell remains steadfast, on his own level; and if other elements of the production do not shine brighter, it is not because he overshadows them; they are simply incapable of matching his stature.
For a work that could perfectly be executed in a theatrical format, the art direction by Shelley Bolton recreates a set in Alaska, as cold and dark as the soul of the protagonist. The ambiance that envelops the events, gloomy, harsh, and relentless, is a metaphor for the interior psyche of Dexter Miles, but from the perspective of inner comfort.
Relative, since one feels less safe imagining oneself next to the barber, in his house or in his own business, than in the actual frozen outdoors. This suggests and invites the intuition of more darkness, coldness, and harshness than the exterior scenes themselves.
The climatic conditions of the season in which the action unfolds are essential, along with the always confined spaces defined by cinematographer Adam Sliwinski in his framing, marking in his colour palette that sharp contrast resulting from the ambiance. Placing the characters and the events they experience practically beside danger. As if a few people were left locked in a room with a hungry lion among them.
While this definition of coordinates diffuses the characters' experience to the position of the viewer, it is one of the main elements that condition, define, and justify the direction of the events that will take place there. A sort of rat maze, whose functionality and relatively good design are evident from the moment an external element to this corrupted ecosystem, federal agent Crawley (Garwin Sanford), who comes to investigate the murders, gets trapped within the structure, transforming and evolving according to those suffocating parameters set by the set.
The Christmas season adds the finishing touch, to heighten to the extreme the perception of the homicidal antisocial coldness; not even the celebration of such endearing holidays can mitigate the merciless reality of the crimes. Nor can the abundant winter snow conceal them.
The climax, the peak of the tragedy is that the depicted atmosphere justifies the unleashing of the miseries that occur in the remote and isolated wilderness of Revelstoke.
What's innovative, different, creative, unique, idiosyncratic... is that in this melting pot, evil is woven, not through effects or displays of gothic aesthetics. The horror of the crime is not explicit in the character, style, or content; on the contrary, it remains slyly hidden like a greedy predator, under a layer of kindness, sympathy, and simplicity which inevitably, and against the actor's wishes (not just the main one; make no mistake, all will end up being victims of themselves), drives the engine of these dynamics.
Peter Allen bets everything on a single narrative card: to envelop this sickly essence of the protagonist, he uses "excerpts" from classical pieces. A portrait of the "refined psychopath," reminiscent of those scenes where Dr. Lecter is literally grilling pieces of a victim's brain on the "grill" while listening to piano music. As well as carols, arranged by Allen himself, to accentuate the contradiction between the Christmas spirit and what is happening.
The original extradiegetic music could have greatly enhanced the emotional impact of the narrative experience and its thesis, but it is reduced to almost nothing.
Due to overconfidence in McDowell's talent and resume, or simply because there was a lack of coffee on the film set, Michael Bafaro appears behind the camera as a sort of lethargic sluggard, who even seems too lazy to say "cut"... It's understandable that McDowell's presence and professionalism would amaze, captivate, and even intimidate... but it's hard to believe to the point of the inane direction. Likewise, just as actors like Garwin Sanford perform well, others like Jeremy Ratchford, not only appearing overshadowed in a more secondary role but also doomed by the fate reserved for them by the script, underestimate the need for their equally essential participation. Not to mention that the role of actress Brenda James (Sally) becomes, not just a cliché, but a grotesque caricature, in every sense, of a female figure.
The film is rich in values: the image of a fox sneaking into the coop of a handful of naive chickens that trust their necks to a barber who is constantly embroiled in a debate similar (though much simplified) to the reflective debate we might distil from Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment." The scheme Dexter Miles sets up in a peaceful village in Alaska is about to become his own deadly trap. With this, he must work to find a way to divert all attention (he could easily be pointed out as the "outsider"), and manipulate events, objects, and people to focus the collective gaze and desires for retribution, to make matters worse, on the figure of the town sheriff.
The fact that we intuit or know from the start who the "bad guy" is, is in itself the premise. It doesn't matter, because what's interesting is how he manages to dazzle us with his slippery skills.
The coup de grâce is not the intention to maintain doubt about the identity and/or motivations of the killer. In that case, we would be talking about a simple "slasher"; if there is terror, or at least something that sends shivers down the spine or gives goosebumps, it is witnessing, in the first person, from practically the same perspective as the main character, his ability to know, master, and pull the strings to sow panic and then get away scot-free. And not on tiptoe, but elegantly, using cunning to remain unnoticed, eliminate any trace of his past misdeeds, even at the cost of more corpses, right up until the curtain falls, and leave opportunistically without leaving footprints in the snow (quite a feat, by the way). Not without concluding his "work," by pinning the deaths on his scapegoat, making use of the distrust and ambition of some, and the ignorance of others. This is very well symbolized in the introductory scene, where two village fools shoot down a lynx. The image of this animal falling at the beginning, innocent otherwise, whose only fault is being prey to the human predator, is unmistakably anticipatory of that at the opposite end of the film, the lifeless and naked body of Sheriff Corgan on the cold, metallic table of the coroner.
"The Barber" is an exercise in suspense. A diabolical game in which even the viewer might crack a smile seeing the colleague get away with it; mission accomplished, one of the main objectives of the narrative arc. And seeing that it leaves everyone flabbergasted, provoking an unhealthy satisfaction.
"The Barber" seems to question and subvert the traditional system of moral values. The narrative creates a space where the lines between good and evil blur, and where the villain, more charismatic and cunning than the characters representing law and order, attracts as much or more interest and empathy than the traditional heroes.
The character of Dexter makes the viewer, through empathy and identification, brazenly cross the lines in a fantastical exercise of breaking the taboo.
And it's not so much a victory or triumph of the film itself, but of McDowell himself. Not only in "The Barber" but in most of the films he has been involved in.
He brings an unexpected freshness to the film. A rare and even charming portrayal of a "refined" serial killer, who will do everything in his power to get away with his crimes unscathed, yet with a very subtle hint of remorse that becomes self-evident from the narrator's perspective, who is his character. In this sense, it might remind us of other roles he has played, like in "A Clockwork Orange" directed by the legendary Kubrick, where many shades and nuances of personality are interwoven into one character, coloured by a rich chromatism of emotions and moral contradictions.
We're not dealing with the classic, bone-chilling figure of the killer, born from pure terror, as we might see in the tormented and tragic figure of Norman Bates by Anthony Perkins. McDowell endows his character with a sharp, mocking edge... intentionally seeking (as the narrator of his own story) the empathy of the viewer's more "mischievous" side. Something masterfully achieved in his role as "Caligula," a figure quite unpopular at certain points in history. The "murderous" emperor, who, however, paradoxically becomes an icon of sexual freedom. An actor who always, or almost always, has managed to imprint this multifaceted character. His powerful magnetism, charisma, and distinctive physiognomy, marked by his popping, mocking, and whimsical gaze, do not constitute a monopolising emergence, nor do they rise with the spurious divisms seen in some performances by other actors, such as Joaquin Phoenix, who border on bizarre histrionics. McDowell remains steadfast, on his own level; and if other elements of the production do not shine brighter, it is not because he overshadows them; they are simply incapable of matching his stature.
For a work that could perfectly be executed in a theatrical format, the art direction by Shelley Bolton recreates a set in Alaska, as cold and dark as the soul of the protagonist. The ambiance that envelops the events, gloomy, harsh, and relentless, is a metaphor for the interior psyche of Dexter Miles, but from the perspective of inner comfort.
Relative, since one feels less safe imagining oneself next to the barber, in his house or in his own business, than in the actual frozen outdoors. This suggests and invites the intuition of more darkness, coldness, and harshness than the exterior scenes themselves.
The climatic conditions of the season in which the action unfolds are essential, along with the always confined spaces defined by cinematographer Adam Sliwinski in his framing, marking in his colour palette that sharp contrast resulting from the ambiance. Placing the characters and the events they experience practically beside danger. As if a few people were left locked in a room with a hungry lion among them.
While this definition of coordinates diffuses the characters' experience to the position of the viewer, it is one of the main elements that condition, define, and justify the direction of the events that will take place there. A sort of rat maze, whose functionality and relatively good design are evident from the moment an external element to this corrupted ecosystem, federal agent Crawley (Garwin Sanford), who comes to investigate the murders, gets trapped within the structure, transforming and evolving according to those suffocating parameters set by the set.
The Christmas season adds the finishing touch, to heighten to the extreme the perception of the homicidal antisocial coldness; not even the celebration of such endearing holidays can mitigate the merciless reality of the crimes. Nor can the abundant winter snow conceal them.
The climax, the peak of the tragedy is that the depicted atmosphere justifies the unleashing of the miseries that occur in the remote and isolated wilderness of Revelstoke.
What's innovative, different, creative, unique, idiosyncratic... is that in this melting pot, evil is woven, not through effects or displays of gothic aesthetics. The horror of the crime is not explicit in the character, style, or content; on the contrary, it remains slyly hidden like a greedy predator, under a layer of kindness, sympathy, and simplicity which inevitably, and against the actor's wishes (not just the main one; make no mistake, all will end up being victims of themselves), drives the engine of these dynamics.
Peter Allen bets everything on a single narrative card: to envelop this sickly essence of the protagonist, he uses "excerpts" from classical pieces. A portrait of the "refined psychopath," reminiscent of those scenes where Dr. Lecter is literally grilling pieces of a victim's brain on the "grill" while listening to piano music. As well as carols, arranged by Allen himself, to accentuate the contradiction between the Christmas spirit and what is happening.
The original extradiegetic music could have greatly enhanced the emotional impact of the narrative experience and its thesis, but it is reduced to almost nothing.
Due to overconfidence in McDowell's talent and resume, or simply because there was a lack of coffee on the film set, Michael Bafaro appears behind the camera as a sort of lethargic sluggard, who even seems too lazy to say "cut"... It's understandable that McDowell's presence and professionalism would amaze, captivate, and even intimidate... but it's hard to believe to the point of the inane direction. Likewise, just as actors like Garwin Sanford perform well, others like Jeremy Ratchford, not only appearing overshadowed in a more secondary role but also doomed by the fate reserved for them by the script, underestimate the need for their equally essential participation. Not to mention that the role of actress Brenda James (Sally) becomes, not just a cliché, but a grotesque caricature, in every sense, of a female figure.
The film is rich in values: the image of a fox sneaking into the coop of a handful of naive chickens that trust their necks to a barber who is constantly embroiled in a debate similar (though much simplified) to the reflective debate we might distil from Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment." The scheme Dexter Miles sets up in a peaceful village in Alaska is about to become his own deadly trap. With this, he must work to find a way to divert all attention (he could easily be pointed out as the "outsider"), and manipulate events, objects, and people to focus the collective gaze and desires for retribution, to make matters worse, on the figure of the town sheriff.
The fact that we intuit or know from the start who the "bad guy" is, is in itself the premise. It doesn't matter, because what's interesting is how he manages to dazzle us with his slippery skills.
The coup de grâce is not the intention to maintain doubt about the identity and/or motivations of the killer. In that case, we would be talking about a simple "slasher"; if there is terror, or at least something that sends shivers down the spine or gives goosebumps, it is witnessing, in the first person, from practically the same perspective as the main character, his ability to know, master, and pull the strings to sow panic and then get away scot-free. And not on tiptoe, but elegantly, using cunning to remain unnoticed, eliminate any trace of his past misdeeds, even at the cost of more corpses, right up until the curtain falls, and leave opportunistically without leaving footprints in the snow (quite a feat, by the way). Not without concluding his "work," by pinning the deaths on his scapegoat, making use of the distrust and ambition of some, and the ignorance of others. This is very well symbolized in the introductory scene, where two village fools shoot down a lynx. The image of this animal falling at the beginning, innocent otherwise, whose only fault is being prey to the human predator, is unmistakably anticipatory of that at the opposite end of the film, the lifeless and naked body of Sheriff Corgan on the cold, metallic table of the coroner.
"The Barber" is an exercise in suspense. A diabolical game in which even the viewer might crack a smile seeing the colleague get away with it; mission accomplished, one of the main objectives of the narrative arc. And seeing that it leaves everyone flabbergasted, provoking an unhealthy satisfaction.
"The Barber" seems to question and subvert the traditional system of moral values. The narrative creates a space where the lines between good and evil blur, and where the villain, more charismatic and cunning than the characters representing law and order, attracts as much or more interest and empathy than the traditional heroes.
The character of Dexter makes the viewer, through empathy and identification, brazenly cross the lines in a fantastical exercise of breaking the taboo.
And it's not so much a victory or triumph of the film itself, but of McDowell himself. Not only in "The Barber" but in most of the films he has been involved in.