Director: Daniel Hillel-Tuch
Writer: Daniel Hillel-Tuch
Cast: Daniel Hillel-Tuch
Running time: 6mins
Ahead of anything else in Peephole, Daniel Hillel-Tuch deserves credit for his work as an editor. Not because there are any particularly ground-breaking tricks here, but that the writer-director-actor was so willing to piece together footage which made him come across as such a thoroughly dislikable individual.
That is a compliment, by the way. Hillel-Tuch’s nameless character – a recently-dumped psychopath attempting to reason his way back into his ex’s apartment – should be dislikable. In fact, the whole film hangs upon the nerve-shredding peeling back of his icy exterior, to offput and unnerve us in new ways we did not expect.
Even so, to sift through footage where your face is in the middle of the screen – contempt leaking from every pour; staring directly into the lens with the kind of “lifeless… black eyes” of a man-eating shark – must be blow to the ego. We all want to believe we are a nice guy, after all; and admitting there is something like this lurking in the back on, to draw on, can be a bit of a contradiction to our internal mythologies. So, delivering so brutally on that front itself takes skill and restraint, especially when you are writing your own opportunities as an actor.
Hillel-Tuch cuts himself no favours here. In a strict, no-frills technical set-up, there is nowhere to hide, no reprieve from the wilting gaze of his on-screen presence.
Cinematographer Michelia Kramer sets up two cameras – one replicating a closed circuit unit at the top of a hallway; and one giving us a point-of-view shot of someone watching through a door’s Peephole – and the lion’s share of the action comes through the latter. At the same time, Chaj Walvisch’s minimalist sound design largely comes across as background noise, and organic ambience. We feel we are the ones cowering behind a door, praying for this man to leave us be – completely at his mercy. Or are we?
While the technical aspects appear as bare-bones, they do occasionally supply us with a more hopeful context. At times, we cut to the live CCTV feed, and find the camera towering over this person who fills the other frame – who seems so imperious, so inevitable – suddenly seems so tiny, so insignificant. And while the hallway seems to maintain a reverent silence for this man’s every word, as his act first falters, the noise of a commercial airliner can be heard from beyond the walls as life, goes on – bigger and brighter, without the say-so of this tin-pot tyrant.
In a relationship cued up to be read as emotionally abusive, undermining the abuser in this way flags up the core element of their control: the isolation of their victim, to convince them of their omnipotence – and the impotence therefore, of resisting. Anyone who has been behind the door, waiting for the voice to leave, understands the power of this portrayal.
But of course, in the end, none of this would be as note-worthy without the strength of that lead performance. Hillel-Tuch’s excellent monologue itself requires a duality, the delivery of two distinct performances, which could both have blown up in his face. The first is a performance of a performance – with the man labouring his way through an assortment of platitudes and therapy speak. Acting as acting can be yield grotesquely hammy results – but Hillel-Tuch delivers it with such restraint that we initially don’t catch the gravity of his weaselling words. He frames everything as some petty misunderstanding which he and his ex can simply work through – but in every patently rehearsed utterance, it comes across as rigid, inorganic. We gradually come to feel we are standing in a vocal uncanny valley.
The second performance begins when this showcase fails to unlock the door. Here, the man finds himself in trouble, because, we can surmise, he only planned this far – having expected with certainty that by now, his brilliant speech would have seen him forgiven. Flailing for something to say, it does not take long for the mask to drop, the measured, delivery devolving into a rambling set of logical fallacies – which finally touch on the grave reality of what he did.
And while it is something I don’t want to spoil for viewers, what Hillel-Tuch’s script decides to use as this pivotal moment – where someone literally changes their locks without thought, to keep their former partner from returning – is an excellent choice. It is not a physical altercation, or even something explicitly directed at the ex – but which suggests an assumption of ownership of them: their time, their space, their body. It is a line which, when crossed, can only be indicative of a litany of dangerous red flags to come.
Whether the film manages to live up to this set-up in its final moments is open to debate. While there is an argument for things to simply peter out, it is hard for me not to feel that having paced itself so well, the story runs out of road as it approaches its finale. But even then, the movie leaves me wanting to see more from this talented storyteller – and that is hardly a bad way to end, considering the film’s main presence is so good at being off-putting.
Peephole is an impressive piece of maximal minimalism. With just two camera angles, one actor, and naturalistic sound, it has created one of the most unsettling atmospheres I have seen in my time reviewing with Indy Film Library. It shows what can be done with a tiny crew, on a shoestring budget – as long there is a good idea which can be executed with thoughtfulness and consistency.
