Abusing My Religion

Catholic-induced guilt alone does not a great movie make.

We have to talk. Catholic filmmakers of America, listen up. No one doubts that your faith is profound. No one doubts that it has had a significant impact. But here's the thing: We already know that Catholicism frequently induces feelings of guilt. We know that religion can be manipulated by insecure authority figures to make children feel bad, and we definitely know that the doctrine of sex-as-method-of-procreation-only can lead to some serious repression. Okay? This ground has been covered. So unless you have something to add, please don't waste our time. It's bad enough that we had to sit through the unholy trinity of Dogma, Stigmata, and The Third Miracle last year. Remember: The Exorcist was a good film because it scared people, not because it was about Catholicism per se. And while the outstanding Rosemary's Baby was laden with satirical jabs at the Catholic Church, there also happened to be a good story in place for those who couldn't care less about the subtext. Cinema is, after all, a medium primarily designed for storytelling. If you're going to use it as therapy, then be prepared for the inevitable discovery that your own neuroses may not be as fascinating to the general public as they are to you.

First-time director Mark D. Hanlon's film Buddy Boy opens with grainy video footage of crucifixes and elaborate church altars, then transits to an image of our protagonist Francis (Irish actor Aidan Gillen) masturbating to a centerfold of two giant breasts. This does not bode well for the rest of the film. Sure enough, Francis is soon revealed as a "man-child" (it's never really clear if he's mentally handicapped, excessively shy and repressed, or merely a poor sensitive artist) who lives with his overbearing guardian-from-hell (a suitably skanky Susan Tyrrell). She professes to be his mother, but it's a more complicated relationship than that, and to say more would ruin the film's one good surprise. "Mom" has prosthetic legs, washes endless pills down with hard liquor, chain-smokes, yells, and, of course, uses religion to berate Francis and make him feel bad about himself.

One day, during a routine trip to take out the garbage, Francis inadvertently discovers a small peephole in the wall, through which he can see into the apartment across the street. This flat is inhabited by the lovely Gloria (Roman Polanski's main squeeze, Emanuelle Seigner). Like any lonely, sexually repressed straight man, he becomes immediately obsessed, and finally gets to meet her. This being a movie, and the protagonist being an obvious stand-in for the filmmaker, the gorgeous woman immediately falls for the creepy introvert, and ample guilty, if pleasurable, sex ensues. Gloria is a vegetarian, which soon becomes a metaphor for Catholicism when Francis accuses her of being a hypocrite for repressing her natural urge to eat meat ("meat." Huh-huh).

It is at this point that the film attempts to become Rear Window. Francis continues spying on his lady love and starts noticing some very suspicious activity: Gloria chops up a big piece of bloody steak and gnaws at it ravenously, she appears to be serving up a severed human head at a dinner party, and she even makes out with a big biker dude. When Francis actually goes over to her apartment, however, he can find no evidence of any of this. Meanwhile, Mom is starting to get cozy with the neighborhood plumber, played to sleazy perfection by Mark Boone Junior, who resembles a roly-poly version of Tom Waits. Given the overwhelming sex/guilt metaphors, it's clear that this relationship probably won't end well. But what of Francis and Gloria? Will his paranoia ruin a good thing? Or is she really hiding something?

It doesn't matter, because we don't really care. Gloria's attraction to Francis is mystifying, and you just want to give the disturbed mama's boy a kick in the pants, in hopes of spurring him to stand up for himself. The pacing is glacially slow, so we get endless scenes of the stammering Francis wondering what to do, occasionally touching up his model ship or developing photos at his low-paying job while listening to death metal. The whole "artist as tortured innocent" metaphor is even more of a cliché than the sexually repressed Catholic, and writer-director Hanlon, try as he may, is no David Lynch or Billy Bob Thornton. He has effectively created a creepy atmosphere, what with the grungy decay of Francis' home, the dimly lit clean kitchen at Gloria's pad, and the eerie sounds of Brian Eno on the soundtrack; but for the creepiness to be effective, we have to believe that something awful might happen. But nothing much does. A subplot about a missing girl seems to be leading somewhere dangerous, but it's glibly written off shortly before the film's emotional climax. And when Francis finally breaks down and curses out God, you don't have to be a Catholic (hell, or even a Christian) to want to smack him. It ain't God's fault you're not doing anything with your life, pal.

In short: That's Mark D. Hanlon in the corner/That's Mark in the spot...light, losing his religion. Now that he's gotten that out of his system (we hope), his evident stylistic talents may come together to tell an actual story next time.