MOVIE REVIEWS : A Clumsy Defense of Human Rights

It is impossible to imagine how Radha Bharadwaj’s “Closet Land” (selected theaters) is going to do much good for the cause of human rights in general, and the oppression of women in particular. Surely, anyone with the slightest degree of awareness of what’s going on in the world knows of the horrible plight of political prisoners subjected to unspeakable torture. Consequently, why should anyone subject himself or herself to this pretentious and contrived two-person drama, which punishes the audience rather than enlightens it?

The dramatization of the ordeal of torture has got to be one of the most formidable challenges a filmmaker can take on, but it has been done effectively. (Costa-Gavras’ 1970 “The Confession” with Yves Montand is the first example that comes to mind.) However, “Closet Land” seems misguided from start to finish.

To begin with, it takes place entirely in an unnamed country in a surreal, vaguely Grecian set, designed by Eiko Ishioka, best known for her key contributions to “Mishima” and on the stage, “M. Butterfly.” Right off, the filmmaker lets us off the hook, making it easy to reject the incessant cruelty we witness as artificial. If ever there was an instance when the viewer should be allowed to perceive the universal truths within the specific time and place, this is it.

A writer of children’s books (Madeleine Stowe) has been taken from her bed in the middle of the night to an interrogation room to be subjected to psychological and physical brow-beating by a smarmy, all-but-lisping government tormentor (Alan Rickman). In time, she--and we--learn why she has been detained. One of her children’s stories, called “Closet Land,” has been deemed subversive.

What the authorities view as a subliminal indoctrination of children to rise up against the regime is intended by the writer as a fanciful encouragement to youngsters subject to being locked in closets by their parents. The point of her torture is to get her to sign a confession.

You may well guess correctly that the story is actually an expression of the author’s long-suppressed experience of child molestation. At one point, the writer’s ordeal perversely seems therapeutic in that it actually forces her to confront her past for the first time. In any event, this bit of Freudianism put in the service of protesting child abuse overloads and sidetracks the film from its main purpose of protesting all human rights violations.

Beyond all these considerations, the film ingenuously affirms that the individual in Stowe’s terrible predicament can will himself or herself into preserving his or her sanity by endlessly chanting “You can break my body but you cannot break my mind.” While it’s important to encourage mental and psychological resistance to evil captors, this sentiment smacks of wishful thinking.

Within the film’s stifling context, Stowe is actually quite moving in her unshakable dignity, but Rickman, whose diction often seems muddled, is needlessly, hissably arch. Too much of “Closet Land” (rightly rated R) comes off as porno chic; surely, the reality of anyone in the writer’s predicament would have to be far worse than what’s depicted here.