"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone" and yet, like the main character in "The Cremation of Sam McGee," the protagonist of "Whitewash" plods on, putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling from misadventure to misadventure, somehow managing to sustain the dim glow of life that really has no basis to exist in the midst of all this freezing indifference: (again from 'Sam McGee'): "The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in." The human spirit strives on, perhaps pointlessly. As Hamlet asks, "What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth?" In "Whitewash," the meaningless response is: freeze our butts off, that's what. Or, a fellow can build an igloo and sit in the middle of it and talk to himself, explaining his guilt and victimization to the uncaring frost vapor in front of his face. The only way "out" is death, but perhaps that's a "cop-out," a betrayal of the spirit. After "saving" him from suicide, Bruce later "helps" the dishonorable Paul find that "out," and Paul's smiling corpse attests to the macabre victory of his release: "I could swear to God he was smiling," which is reminiscent of Sam McGee: "And he wore a smile you could see a mile . . . "
This is one of those movies that starts out with a bizarre incident and then, by means of a series of flashbacks interspersed through the narrative, explains how that critical mishap came-to-pass. This always confuses me at first, until I realize what's going on. In this case, the narrative tapestry develops into a solid work of art. The threads in this tapestry are grounded by a brilliant and unusual soundtrack, much of it original to the film, credited to Serge Nakauchi Pelletier. Indeed, it is so unique that it at times seems to be defining its own genre: "arctic ambient." The "whitewash" cinematography is so cold and relentless that the mood gradually permeates the bones. Brrrrrrrrrrrr! And what pitch-perfect understated acting! Thomas Haden Church's lonely monotone soliloquies keep himself meager company throughout the film, and his deadpan delivery is perfect for the role.
I cannot find any fault in this film. It's lean and mean and doesn't waste any strokes. It stands by itself in its essential cinematic niche. It's "classic," in a word. Hooray for director Emanuel Hoss-Desmarais and everyone involved.
This is one of those movies that starts out with a bizarre incident and then, by means of a series of flashbacks interspersed through the narrative, explains how that critical mishap came-to-pass. This always confuses me at first, until I realize what's going on. In this case, the narrative tapestry develops into a solid work of art. The threads in this tapestry are grounded by a brilliant and unusual soundtrack, much of it original to the film, credited to Serge Nakauchi Pelletier. Indeed, it is so unique that it at times seems to be defining its own genre: "arctic ambient." The "whitewash" cinematography is so cold and relentless that the mood gradually permeates the bones. Brrrrrrrrrrrr! And what pitch-perfect understated acting! Thomas Haden Church's lonely monotone soliloquies keep himself meager company throughout the film, and his deadpan delivery is perfect for the role.
I cannot find any fault in this film. It's lean and mean and doesn't waste any strokes. It stands by itself in its essential cinematic niche. It's "classic," in a word. Hooray for director Emanuel Hoss-Desmarais and everyone involved.