Trauma ripples through time at the London Film… | Little White Lies

Festivals

Trau­ma rip­ples through time at the Lon­don Film Festival

15 Nov 2024

Words by Erin Mussett

Man with beard and gun in dark setting
Man with beard and gun in dark setting
Jesse Eisen­berg, Mal­colm Wash­ing­ton and Christo­pher Andrews explored the diverg­ing man­i­fes­ta­tions of gen­er­a­tional trau­ma at this year’s Lon­don Film Festival.

New per­spec­tives are excit­ing, even more so when they arrive on our screens in the medi­um of a mov­ing pic­ture. The film fes­ti­val exists for this very rea­son, giv­ing space to explore even the old­est of tropes with fresh direc­tion, tal­ent and stories.

This year’s Lon­don Film Fes­ti­val was the first for three bur­geon­ing direc­tors. Lit­tle unites the work of Jesse Eisen­berg, Mal­colm Wash­ing­ton and Christo­pher Andrews in space, time or sub­ject mat­ter, but each of their films at LFF this year has cre­at­ed a sim­i­lar, qui­et sort of real­ness that explores just how the weight of the past bears down on the present. These were ordi­nary sto­ries about every­day peo­ple, unit­ed in their explo­ration of gen­er­a­tional trau­ma and how it affects the psy­che, pro­vokes the para­nor­mal and some­times erupts in violence.

Jesse Eisenberg’s A Real Pain is a road movie that fol­lows cousins Ben­ji (Kier­an Culkin) and David (Jesse Eisen­berg) on a tour of Poland, under­tak­en to hon­our both their Jew­ish her­itage and their recent­ly deceased grand­moth­er. The pair are polar oppo­sites: Ben­ji nav­i­gates the world with a care­free­ness that is both charm­ing and jar­ring, while David pos­sess­es a tense sto­ic­ness that seems to weigh him down.

But as their trip pro­gress­es, Ben­ji falls apart. He tries his best to decline any prop­er engage­ment with the facts and fig­ures of the Holo­caust, and when he does, it results in chaot­ic, tear­ful out­bursts. The weight of con­fronting the loss of his grand­moth­er whilst sur­round­ed by the col­lec­tive pain of his peo­ple leaves Ben­ji tee­ter­ing on an unpre­dictable edge that, David explains, pre­vi­ous­ly pushed him to take his own life. A Real Pain por­trays just two ways in which grief can influ­ence the psy­che. In the face of their trau­ma, David car­ries all of the resilience, while Ben­ji seems to car­ry all of the pain.

Just as David and Ben­ji han­dle their grief dif­fer­ent­ly, so too do the sib­lings of Mal­colm Washington’s The Piano Les­son. In 1911 Pitts­burgh, Berniece (Danielle Dead­wyler) and Boy Willie (John David Wash­ing­ton) are at odds over the fate of their heir­loom piano. For Boy Willie, sell­ing it means he can reclaim the land that their ances­tors once worked as slaves, but Berniece refus­es to let go. She clings to the piano, cap­tured by the carved face of their enslaved moth­er that gleams in the piano’s ebony wood.

A couple embracing on a path surrounded by autumn foliage.

In The Piano Les­son, the effects of this ances­tral grief man­i­fest them­selves as a para­nor­mal haunt­ing. The ghost of the family’s slave mas­ter wan­ders the halls of their home, entrapped by Berniece’s dou­ble act of cling­ing to the past, while refus­ing to look it in the eye. The appari­tions arrive as a chaot­ic force that phys­i­cal­ly push­es Berniece towards the future. Only when she takes a seat at the piano does the haunt­ing cease. The pain remains, as it always will, but the ten­sion shat­ters and the anger dis­si­pates in a way that only let­ting go can bring.

There is no such sat­is­fac­to­ry release in Bring Them Down. Michael O’Shea (Christo­pher Abbott) is the sole ten­der of his dis­abled father’s sheep farm in the hills of rur­al Ire­land. They are at odds with the neigh­bour­ing Kee­ley fam­i­ly, teth­ered by a trag­ic car acci­dent that killed Michael’s moth­er and scarred Jack Keeley’s moth­er Car­o­line. But when Jack (Bar­ry Keoghan) steals two prize rams from their shared moun­tain­top, ten­sions come to a head, and before long there’s bloodshed.

Bring Them Down is laced with a col­lec­tive trau­ma that explodes into episodes of bru­tal, male vio­lence. Jack pon­ders a life out­side the farm that he might nev­er see, and Michael is no more than a sullen sol­dier serv­ing his father’s whims. Both sons are trapped by the weight of their fam­i­lies’ liveli­hoods – the farms – and when things go wrong, both turn to vio­lence in pan­icked desperation.

So much of this film echoes an Ire­land of past and present; the clipped sen­tences between Michael and his dad, often spo­ken as Gaeilge (in Irish); the Tay­to crisps and Barry’s Tea bags piled high on the counter; and the terse code of silence that echoes the ances­tral Irish qual­i­ty of look­ing the oth­er way. It’s a trag­ic rep­re­sen­ta­tion of gen­er­a­tional trau­ma that mir­rors the clas­sic con­se­quences of rigid Irish mas­culin­i­ty and male aggression.

Though dis­tinct from one anoth­er, these por­tray­als of grief find root in a uni­ver­sal truth; trau­ma trick­les down the fam­i­ly line, and it per­sists. There are no easy solu­tions offered here. These films force the view­er to con­front the raw­ness of the human expe­ri­ence, serv­ing as a reminder that heal­ing is a process with no clean-cut end. Yet, through Benji’s vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, the recon­nec­tion of the Charles-Doak­er fam­i­ly and the desire to break cycles of vio­lence in Bring Them Down, a sub­tle invi­ta­tion to move for­ward is offered. We must take it, even if it hurts.

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