Thrilling ‘Red Rooms’ provides killer entertainment
With the endlessly intriguing “Red Rooms,” writer-director Pascal Plante turns the “horror genre” inside out via his insightful deconstruction of a somewhat warped segment of society so desensitized to murder that the phenomenon has evolved into a punchline. No less than a former president of the United States repeatedly praises the “late, great Hannibal Lecter.” And don’t get me started on the multitude of films and documentaries flooding the airwaves containing graphic depictions of violence against women, particularly young, pretty white females. The more innocent looking the better.
Plante plants our faces in this fixation by ushering us inside the disturbed mind, not of a serial killer, but of each of two women so captivated by a mass slayer that they’ve lost all touch with their moral compasses. By some twisted logic, you’d kinda understand the infatuation if the accused looked like Ted Bundy or Boston Marathon bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, but not a scrawny, balding middle-aged doofus like Ludovic Chevalier (Maxwell McCabe-Lokos), aka the Demon of Rosemont, who appears so downtrodden and pathetic it defies explanation. Yet something about this loser inflicts a gravitational pull upon willowy fashion model Kelly-Anne (Juliette Gariépy) and runaway teenager, Clémentine (Laurie Babin). One goes so far as to sleep in a Montreal alleyway to ensure herself a seat inside the sterile, antiseptic courtroom where Chevalier is charged with the murder and torture of three teenage girls.
Besides being white, popular and blonde, the trio also share the connection of being enrolled at an exclusive Montreal prep school. Oh, yeah, and their dismembered bodies are all discovered on the former property of one Ludovic Chevalier. Not only that but there are so-called “red room” videos of the masked, blue-eyed monster torturing two of the teens live on the dark web, a sinister realm that Kelly-Anne also has been known to frequent. What’s up with that?
That’s just one of the underlying mysteries that holds you spellbound, as Plante methodically unveils just what it is that’s motivating Kelly-Anne to venture deeper down the pitch-black rabbit hole of depravity. He finds the perfect study in Gariépy, an actress who perfects the blank expression of a woman whose utter lack of emotion has facilitated Kelly-Anne’s progression into a successful online poker player.
Accordingly, when it comes time for Kelly-Anne to show her cards, Plante hits the jackpot with a payoff that is as gruesome as it is heroic. It’s a fascinating divulgence achieved without disclosing any element of Kelly-Anne’s backstory. But that doesn’t stop you from attempting to fill in the blanks. Was she a victim of a man like Chevalier? Is she an accomplice? And is she a fan of his snuff videos, two of which she has saved on her computer?
All or none are plausible in the habitat Plante creates for her. He’s similarly stingy with the details on Clémentine. But at least she reads like an open book, passionate in her advocacy of Chevalier, vociferously telling all who will listen – including reporters and a mocking, blowhard tabloid talk show host – that the man is not just innocent but a scapegoat.
She and Kelly-Anne couldn’t be any more different, but these two strangers somehow form a tenuous friendship after Kelly-Anne invites the homeless Clémentine to crash at her spartan sanctum encased in a tower of glass. It’s difficult to say why, but you’re absorbed by the awkwardness of their unlikely partnership in a shared pursuit of their ghoulish hobby, not to mention their bizarrely erotic attraction to Chevalier. You sense it’s a bond these two dedicated loners have never experienced before. And how it develops largely in Kelly-Anne’s far-from-warm surroundings is almost as gripping as the crimes.
Huge kudos to set designer Laura Nhem and cinematographer Vincent Biron for making the most of Kelly-Anne’s pristine, nearly furniture-free abode, perfectly in keeping with her online moniker of Lady of Shalott, Tennyson’s Camelotian heroine who also lived isolated in a tower. But sans a Lancelot, all that coaxes Kelly-Anne away from her desk full of computer gizmos are her dwindling modeling assignments, stress-relieving racquetball diversions and daily trips to the courthouse.
It’s the perfect setting for the film’s subtle exploration of how we’ve so readily swapped human connection for a life of seclusion immersed in our impersonal techno gadgetry. The aforementioned is exemplified by Genevieve, the Siri-like digital assistant Kelly-Anne has custom-programmed to be her robotic companion. She can ask Genevieve anything, and unlike most humans, she always delivers a straight answer. She even cracks jokes, some of them oddly amusing.
It all folds nicely into Plante’s assertion that too many people have sold out to the anonymity of cyberspace, where you can indulge your worst instincts from behind the safety of a computer screen. In this world – a barren environment enhanced by an eerie score composed by Plante’s brother, Dominique – empathy is but an antiquated concept. Most everything is virtual; little is real. Is this how we want to live? Plante insinuates as much, and “Red Rooms” is his compelling plea for us all to snap out of it – and fast.
Movie review
Red Rooms
Rated: Not rated
Cast: Juliette Gariépy, Laurie Babin, Elizabeth Locas
Director: Pascal Plante
Writer: Pascal Plante
Runtime: 118 minutes
Where: In theaters Sept. 6
Grade: B+
