Touch Me Not – first look review | Little White Lies

Festivals

Touch Me Not – first look review

01 Mar 2018

Words by Elena Lazic

Woman with long dark hair facing away from camera, wearing a pink top, against a blurred background.
Woman with long dark hair facing away from camera, wearing a pink top, against a blurred background.
Adi­na Pintilie’s Gold­en Bear win­ner com­pris­es super­fi­cial images of unsim­u­lat­ed sex and peo­ple with disabilities.

The cam­era slow­ly slides down what appears to be a person’s body, though it is hard to tell which part. Hair begins to appear and sud­den­ly, the screen is filled up with the image of a man’s flac­cid mem­ber. The cam­era doesn’t stop to con­tem­plate this spec­ta­cle and con­tin­ues its qui­et move­ment, but its casu­al atti­tude feels forced, the con­fronta­tion’ clear for all to see.

Thus opens Adi­na Pintilie’s Gold­en Bear-win­ning Touch Me Not. This sequence neat­ly encap­su­lates what the film is about — touch, bod­ies — but also the slight­ly dis­turb­ing, reac­tionary stance it adopts towards the sub­ject. It is an omi­nous warn­ing of things to come.

This is the first of many occur­rences where Pin­tilie presents com­plete­ly innocu­ous shots of var­i­ous body parts, sex­u­al activ­i­ties and — more trou­bling­ly — peo­ple with var­i­ous types of dis­abil­i­ty, as though there were some­thing inher­ent­ly con­fronta­tion­al or defi­ant about show­ing them on screen. One would assume that a direc­tor pre­mier­ing their film in com­pe­ti­tion at the Berlin Film Fes­ti­val would have already seen enough sex and peo­ple with dis­abil­i­ties on-screen for any taboo around these top­ics to be com­plete­ly destroyed. Not so for Pintilie. 

Her fash­ion­ably loose and ellip­ti­cal film is broad­ly built around the expe­ri­ences of Lau­ra (Lau­ra Ben­son), a woman in her fifties who strug­gles with inti­ma­cy. The naked man we see in the open­ing sequence is paid to mas­tur­bate in front of her, with­out her ever touch­ing him, and it is heav­i­ly implied — through her con­ver­sa­tions with var­i­ous coun­sel­lors and sex work­ers — that Lau­ra is sin­gle at her age” because of this fear of phys­i­cal close­ness, and not by choice. It should be clear by now that this is not the fem­i­nist prize win­ner we might have wished for. 

Cer­tain good inten­tions are unde­ni­able, since the film delib­er­ate­ly cen­tres on an old­er woman fight­ing her own taboos, real­is­ing that there is noth­ing wrong’ or weird’ about touch, S&M and sex. This would indeed be admirable, were it not for the shal­low, pseu­do-intel­lec­tu­al way in which the film approach­es its sub­ject, its char­ac­ters, and by impli­ca­tion, its audience. 

Struc­tured around script­ed, fic­tion­al con­ver­sa­tions designed to look and sound like real-life ther­a­py ses­sions, com­plete with hushed tones and teary con­fes­sions, the film attempts to co-opt the emo­tion­al pow­er of real-life ther­a­py with­out car­ing about what is actu­al­ly being said. It’s an inef­fec­tu­al short­cut to emo­tion­al truth that is baf­fling in its audac­i­ty and superficiality. 

Only a casu­al rela­tion­ship to real­i­ty could explain being moved in equal mea­sure by a fake ther­a­py ses­sion and a real one. With that in mind, it comes as no sur­prise that Pin­tilie offers us anoth­er tox­ic instance of a direc­tor blur­ring the lim­i­nal bound­ary between fic­tion and real­i­ty,” with the dis­as­trous moral and aes­thet­ic con­se­quences this approach so often leads to. 

Chris­t­ian Bay­er­lein, an inter­view sub­ject with a spinal dis­abil­i­ty, is shown on numer­ous occa­sions dis­cussing his gen­uine­ly inter­est­ing expe­ri­ence and phi­los­o­phy with a fake hos­pi­tal patient. This mod­el-look­ing man, played by actor Tómas Lemar­quisan, is of course the man Lau­ra winds up even­tu­al­ly hav­ing sex with. Mean­while, Chris­t­ian and the oth­er peo­ple with more vis­i­ble dis­abil­i­ties remain firm­ly at the periph­ery of the film, their pur­pose seem­ing to be to help the main char­ac­ters on their own fic­tion­al search for peace of mind.

The shal­low­ness and insen­si­tiv­i­ty of Touch Me Not appears less mys­te­ri­ous when Pin­tilie appears in the film, play­ing a direc­tor like her­self, for no good rea­son. She offers no real insight either into her own psy­chol­o­gy – there is vague sub-Freudi­an chat of a dis­tress­ing expe­ri­ence with her moth­er, but what of it? – or into the nature of her film­mak­ing. She has sim­ply bro­ken the fourth wall in an already-fic­tion­alised con­text, with­out giv­ing us a rea­son why or an expla­na­tion of her process.

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