Director: Victor Fontoura
Writer: Victor Fontoura
Cast: Evan Crommett, David E. McMahon, Monica Steuer, Cape Ramirez
Running time: 20mins
WARNING: the following review makes reference to sexual abuse, which some readers may find distressing.
Made by Victor Fontoura, a Brazilian artist living in New York, The 2nd Act is the kind of highly-combustible movie that utterly terrifies critics. It has something topical, socially important, and highly personal to say. It takes commendable risks in doing so – and delivers moments of technical excellence along the way. But in many other areas, it falls flat in ways which are very hard to look past, and will likely make it difficult for audiences to stick it out to its courageous final act. All this makes me extremely worried that I may be about to say something upsetting to a filmmaker who in many ways I have a lot of respect for.
In some ways, of course, this should be a difficult film to watch. It centres on an aspiring actor, who falls prey to a sexually abusive casting agent. That is not a topic which should ever be treated as light entertainment – and intense care should be taken while addressing it, because mishandling the ‘casting couch’ could both play down the crimes of the likes of Harvey Weinstein in the public eye, and belittle the lived experience of millions of survivors, whether or not they are watching.
The way in which Victor Fontoura’s film goes about addressing sexual abuse in the entertainment industry does make for supremely uncomfortable viewing. It will be a matter of discussion as to whether or not it strikes the previously-mentioned balance, though.
Tonally, the very first shot sets a tone which is unsuitably jaunty. Listening to some upbeat, royalty free music on his headphones, Rick (Evan Crommett) dance-walks his way towards a sunlit home, somewhere in American suburbia. Rick is decked out in the signature uniform of the student filmmaker – a chequered flannel shirt with plain t-shirt underneath – and coupled with the unnervingly spry, non-descript music, it is hard to feel like we aren’t being set up to expect quirky, comedic fare, rather than a hard-hitting social-issues drama.
The feeling is reinforced when alleged Hollywood agent Mark (David E. McMahon) opens the door to his cottage. McMahon’s performance is a strange one, ill-fitted to what the audience immediately twigs is going on. Of course, there is no single defining feature which can be used to flag up who is a predator. They don’t all look like Jimmy Savile. But in this scenario, you would imagine that a serial predator in the arts world would have something of a duality – a charming façade to help win him a name as a ‘nice guy’ in the industry and put his targets at ease, and a physically or mentally threatening side which slips out when he is not getting what he wants. McMahon is neither – endlessly babbling about uninteresting and vague celebrity connections, or overtly nagging Rick into increasingly vulnerable positions. For this reason, he never comes across as anything but one giant, whingeing red flag.
Beyond this, there are a number of practical choices which do not seem appropriate for the story being told. In terms of some hasty writing, there is a sequence where Rick seems to randomly guess Mark’s computer password, to find more worrying signs of what is going on. Meanwhile, a semi-comedic beat sees Mark suddenly brandishing a knife over his shoulder – but the idea he is about to silence someone for seeing too much is a fake-out, because we then see he is holding a plate of sandwiches he has used the blade to prepare. This comes moments before the scene depicting an actual assault, which is frankly baffling. And amid this hideous tonal dissonance, we are also subjected to some rather clumsy sound effects, which seem less suited to a sexual abuse drama than a nightmarish American Pie sequel.
What Fontoura does get right, is the film’s ending – which will give audiences that do make it that far a horrible sinking feeling. This is where we get into spoilers, so do not read on if you intend to see The 2nd Act.
After being sexually abused by a Hollywood agent, Rick (Evan Crommett) has established himself as a theatre performer in New York. While it isn’t a job that pays huge sums, he says it pays his bills – and that’s enough.
The troupe he has joined appears to be an LGBT+ cabaret, with singers, dancers, drag artists and comedians all surrounding him during a rehearsal performance. After the performance concludes, the stage manager Louise (Monica Steuer) informs Rick and his chosen family of a great opportunity. A casting agent has offered to sign them all! But when Rick’s unexpectedly hostile reaction silences the glee of the other performers, Louise asks what might have happened – and the horrors of the past come flooding out.
In a moodily-lit scene, dripping with visual dynamism (to the extent I could not believe Ricardo Acioli had been cinematographer for both the 1st and 2nd Act), the pair talk for hours, while the rest of the performers gradually fade to black behind them. Finally, with the truth having come out, Louise encourages Rick to speak publicly about his experiences. If he doesn’t feel that legal action will work, perhaps he could make art to both process his trauma, and help expose the people in the industry who exploit their power to take advantage of performers. He could even change the names, or location – a suggestion which sees Louise revert to speaking Portuguese…
It becomes clear at this point what Fontoura has been doing with his script. As the words “Based on a True Story” flashed across the screen, I suddenly felt a sense of remorse I have seldom encountered in my work with Indy Film Library. To an extent, everything I have said here becomes irrelevant, in the sense that I have no place telling survivors how best to recreate their awful experiences. The film that best helps them process their trauma does not need to appease my perceptions of what a film should be like, from the perspective of a consumer.
Again, I also think that anyone who commits to retracing the most torturous chapters of their life, to help educate and warn other people, is exhibiting extraordinary bravery. The world is a better place for people like that, who are willing to put the most vulnerable and painful parts of themselves on display for the good of other people. At the same time, the odd performances and more rudimentary cinematography of the opening act make a little more sense in this framing. They seem unrealistic, because they are supposed to be artifice, within an artificial world.
But, I type with a sigh, there is still a but…
This film-within-a-film still has problems of its own which can’t wholly be excused. Most prominently, the portrayal of Mark is still an issue, even if we think it is supposed to be a little unreal. The first person who Rick tells about his experiences disbelievingly blinks “but Mark’s such a nice guy” – when we have comprehensively seen that he doesn’t even have faux-nice in his locker.
This undermines the cautionary aspect of the story the film’s real and imagined directors are trying to tell. This whole production is supposed to be Rick’s cinematic opus, after all, showing behind the mask of Hollywood to warn about the creeps in high-places, hiding behind public masks of decency and conviviality.
We should come away from his film thinking well I guess anyone could be a predator, and just because [insert #MeToo era writer/actor/producer/director] seems nice, I shouldn’t automatically disbelieve their accusers. But instead, we are just primed for the unhelpful norm that predators are obvious, you can spot them a mile off… Even less helpfully for the aim of the film, this is something which is weaponised by the world’s creep apologists, to suggest it is somehow the fault of a survivor for not picking up on these signs.
All this means The 2nd Act is somewhat caught in the middle. It seems to have served as a piece of individual therapy in some senses, and to have shared that with the world to show that there is life after trauma – and to try and help others – is a mission which sets this film apart as an admirable attempt at social art. But in trying to reach others, some of its most intense short-comings become more difficult to excuse, and that is a shame.