One enduring storytelling strategy is to put some characters in a cage and watch them fight it out. There’s a reason so many mysteries, thrillers and horror movies take place in close quarters: Lockdowns have a way of turning people into lab animals. And whatever the cause — nature, nurture or screenwriting contrivance — when characters are stuck together, they often gnaw on one another, whether they’re on a lifeboat, in a hotel or on a private island.
The studied drama “Who by Fire” from the Québecois writer-director Philippe Lesage takes place in a Canadian wilderness area that is as swooningly beautiful as it is expediently remote. Set over a blurry few days, the story largely unfolds in and around a waterfront property, a slice of paradise so isolated that visitors arrive by seaplane. There, old friends and new acquaintances connect. They read, listen to music, dance a bit, and laugh and shout over dinners filled with wine and talk. Amid the levity and Lesage’s heavy ideas about men and masculinity, they also enjoy nature and, at times, try to dominate it and one another.
Lesage has a terrific eye, and he opens the movie with a grabber: a hypnotic shot of an old, boxy Mercedes alone on a highway in the near distance, a series of droning electronic notes rising and falling on the soundtrack. As the car passes miles of dense, mountainous forest, Lesage keeps the vehicle steadily positioned at the image’s vanishing point, which keeps your gaze similarly pinned. Outwardly, the setup looks familiar (you could be following friends in your own car) yet the absence of extraneous sounds — there’s no wind, no whirring engine — gives the whole thing a dreamy, somewhat eerie timelessness. Whatever the period, some old-fashioned flourishes and the absence of cellphones suggest that this is a memory piece.
The car belongs to Albert (Paul Ahmarani), a screenwriter who’s en route to a friend’s house with his adult daughter, Aliocha (Aurélia Arandi-Longpré), his younger son, Max (Antoine Marchand-Gagnon), and Max’s friend Jeff (Noah Parker). The owner of the remote getaway is Blake (Arieh Worthalter, an effective live wire), a successful director with an Oscar on a shelf and a plane out front. Blake’s baggage proves heavier than his visitors’: He has a dead wife, an unwieldy ego and a fraught past with Albert. When the two old friends meet, it’s all smiles and bear hugs. Before long, though, everyone is aloft in Blake’s plane and headed for some emotional, psychological and spiritual bloodletting.
The movie’s opener — including the enigmatic drive, which can’t help but evoke Kubrick’s “The Shining” — announces Lesage’s gift for stirring up tension visually. That talent is evident throughout, notably during three leisurely dinners that anchor the story, each lasting some 10 minutes of screen time. Working with his director of photography, Balthazar Lab, Lesage stages and shoots these meals similarly, with everyone gathered around a long table. Over drinks and much talk, the camera alternately pushes in toward certain characters and pulls out to reveal the group’s dynamic, catching gestures and the circuitry of their gazes. “You know I hate fighting,” Albert tells Blake at one meal, an assertion that’s plainly hollow.
Death haunts “Who by Fire” as much as it does the 1974 Leonard Cohen song that apparently gives the movie its title. (“Who by very slow decay,” a lyric goes, although you never hear the song.) Blake’s defunct partnership with Albert constitutes a kind of passing, and Jeff — who aspires to become a filmmaker like Blake — emerges as an overt if wholly unpersuasive threat, a would-be usurper. More blatantly, a dead rabbit is skinned early for a meal, an episode that Lesage clearly regards as crucial. To that end, he shoots the scene for maximum ick and impact, centering the carcass as characters swirl around it. Here, a dead rabbit is clearly not simply an entree; it’s also a statement, though about what remains vague.
Albert recoils during the rabbit scene and Jeff spits out his booze, which suggests that they’re sensitive souls or have weak constitutions. Whatever the case, the men veer toward aggressive posturing and peacocking enough that by the third dinner, you’re wondering why no one flees the house. Lesage’s characters may talk a lot, but because he avoids exposition, he ends up overloading the story with dramatically heightened episodes. These keep things simmering, but they often overstate the obvious as much as any telegraphing dialogue might: A lost soul goes missing; men hunt with bows and arrows; a nubile woman bares flesh. It’s very fraught, but so is the movie, starting the instant that Albert and Blake reconnect. You already see the violence in their embrace; all you do is wait for things (and them) to fall apart.
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