RELUCTANT REPENTANCE
El Club tackles pedophilia
The timing of Pablo Larraín’s El Club couldn’t be better. With the Quebec film milieu plunged in an existential crisis surrounding the alleged pedophilia of one of its founding fathers, Claude Jutra, the Chilean auteur’s shrewd, dark comedy El Club tackles just such abominable acts committed by his country’s priesthood.
Larraín’s last three films (Tony Manero, Post Mortem and No) looked at the complex repercussions of the Pinochet regime on his homeland. With his latest work, he turns his sights to another great bastion of power; and while the church in Chile, as in Quebec, no longer has the influence it once did, its reach is insidiously tenacious. But rather than charge at the topic head-on, Larraín comes at it from the side.
Shot with sinister beauty by cinematographer Sergio Armstrong, complemented by a nuanced string score, the film introduces us to the strange world of a group of priests — Fathers Silva (Jaime Vadell), Ramirez (Alejandro Sieveking), Ortega (Alejandro Goic) and Vidal (Alfredo Castro) — who reside in a modest house by the sea, overseen by Mother Monica (Antonia Zegers).
The men live a strange, quiet existence, training and betting on a thoroughbred greyhound they own, drinking wine and watching reality TV. All seems to be going well enough until a new priest, Father Lazcano (José Soza), arrives at the home; and while he receives a chilly welcome, it is but a taste of things to come.
The man’s appearance is soon followed by that of a vagrant (Roberto Farías), who stands in front of the cottage and begins shouting explicit accusations of sexual abuse. When Father Lazcano goes out to confront the man, tragedy erupts, prompting the arrival of another priest, the young Father Garcia (Marcelo Alonso), tasked with getting the priests to admit their sins so he can close the place down. Easier said than done.
Nothing is spelled out in this hazy, drifting narrative, which finds more power in its ironic visual language than any grandiose confrontations. Using the wide screen to maximum effect, Larraín employs a mix of deadpan close-ups, slow-moving camera and static shots of characters plodding through the misty landscape. We are left with the impression of a group of men disconnected from the world around them, in denial of their transgressions and the pain they have caused. But they won’t be able to stay that way for long.
Much like the swiftness with which things have happened over the last few days in Quebec, these priests can’t stop the mysterious chain of events that has been put into motion around them. It is never clear exactly where Larraín is going, and he plays his cards close to his chest to the very end, achieving wry resolution in unexpected yet appropriate fashion.
The striking achievement of his subtly affecting film — which won a Silver Bear at last year’s Berlin International Film Festival — is in broaching the great divide between the impunity with which so many men commit such acts and the devastating consequences to their victims.