LFF 2020: A Common Crime
LFFIt’s unsurprising that the fairground has become something of a trend in horror films. By its very nature, there’s limitless potential in how tension can be mined, whether it’s maneuvering through a hall of mirrors or tapping into people’s coulrophobia. Thematically, it signifies a corruption of innocence; even the most brightly-lit place can harbor the darkest of secrets. This setting is what bookends A Common Crime, the third film from Argentine director, Francisco Márquez, presenting it as both a breeding ground for turmoil and a haven for concealment.
Cecilia (Elisa Carricajo) is the afflicted soul, a confident and good-natured sociology professor who is successfully overcoming the limitations of being a single mother. She has a comfortable yet unflashy existence with her son, Juan (Ciro Coien Pardo), hiring Nebe (Mecha Martinez) to clean the house during the day. A brief encounter with Kevin (Eliot Otazo), the housekeeper’s son, seems innocuous at first, but it’s a meeting that will have dire consequences for all involved. Later that night, Cecilia is awoken by a knock at the door, but given the time and neighbourhood, she is initially skeptical. After peering through the blinds, she sees a flustered Kevin frantically banging on the door but she refuses to welcome him in. The next day, the boy’s body is found in a nearby river.
The local community, already disenfranchised regarding financial and cultural inequality, is understandably outraged. Their anger is subsequently channeled towards the supposedly corrupt police force. Cecilia, meanwhile, is crippled with guilt and treats her own complicity in the case as the biggest crime. As the riots begin, she meanders through the vociferous crowd like a shell-shocked soldier, unable to process the newfound state of the world. Cecilia’s PTSD worsens over time, with the memories of her crime manifesting itself, at least in her eyes, as something altogether more tangible.
In this aspect, Márquez keeps his cards close to his chest, slowly integrating more supernatural elements as the story unfolds, but the exclusive filtering of experiences through Cecilia’s eyes make for ambiguous readings. The frame, a slender 4:3 aspect ratio, boxes its characters within it, denying them the opportunity to move freely – a consequence of their societal class and local authority. For Cecilia, though, the compression is much more symbolic. It visualises her growing paranoia and mental enslavement. One sequence, in which we see her disoriented in a labyrinthian maze of narrow streets and back alleys, is particularly effective in conveying this shackled headspace.
Even with the camera in such close proximity to its characters, the film is, unfortunately, too distanced and passive to leave a significant imprint. Rather than descending into madness, Cecelia is more dulled by the impact, occupying something akin to emotional limbo. Thematically, it makes sense to have Cecilia blend into her surroundings – nobody even bothers to help her despite the noticeable change in demeanour – but it doesn’t make for captivating viewing on the whole. Similarly, Nebe, given her personal circumstances, should be allocated far more screen time, but Márquez, at the detriment of painting a more detailed view of the suburb, elects to focus solely on his lead character.
Carricajo, to her credit, performs admirably. She manages to smoothly transition from her hectic life as a lecturer to the monotonous existence of a guilt-stricken citizen. Her occupation, spent teaching on Marxism and philosophy, was built so much on the power of words and the exchange of knowledge, but as she slowly succumbs to her guilt, her eyes do all the talking and emoting, showing a woman present in body but not in spirit. Silence, whether it’s literal or metaphorical, permeates the film, showing how initial inaction, no matter the severity, can lead to grave actions further down the line. It’s a thoughtful and noble theme, but A Common Crime is, rather unwittingly, too passive for its own good.