Written by Hunter M. Daniels

PREFACE:

Occasionally I am under prepared for my duties as a film critic. Usually, my biggest issue is that I’m not a tech guy, and I don’t own a powerhouse home theater, so my takes on the audio and visual elements of a DVD are far from definitive. Other times I get entirely too involved in film theory, or personal ethics. Today, my issue is history.

I have no idea about anything relating to the IRA, except that it was about England fighting the Irish over independence and religion and there were acts of terrorism/freedom fighting. I’m 20 and this stuff was never even mentioned in any history class I took.

In one sense, this could make my opinion of a film like Hunger totally invalid. I simply don’t know the history, and I’m not foolish enough to think that I can fill in the blanks by reading a wikipedia article.

But, in another sense, my near total ignorance of the issues at play in Hunger means that I can do what few other film critics can, judge the film on it’s own merit without worrying about politics.

THE FILM:

Hunger is a searing, often painful to watch drama detailing the last days in the life of Bobby Sands, an imprisoned IRA freedom fighter/terrorist who slowly starves himself to death over 66 days as a protest of English rule.

As with Steven Soderbergh’s much talked about but little see, Che, Hunger is sure to strike a chord with anyone invested in the actual events. Right-wingers will no doubt decry the film as a tribute to a murderer while leftists might well see it as a call to arms for non-violent non-cooperation. The truth lies somewhere in the middle.

As with Che, Hunger seems to go to great lengths to remain ambivalent towards its subject. That is to say, the film can be read as a rallying cry, or a condemnation of a wasted life. There are epic valleys of interpretive space and many long, long takes that leave room for internal ruminations. The camera stays at a distance, never edging too close, never getting involved. The film contains very few close-ups, keeping the audience at arms length. Most of the close-ups we do see are reflections in a mirror.

At the center of the film (both literally and metaphorically) is a 17-minute one-take of Sands and a prison Chaplin discussing his decision to start a hunger strike, and his plans for how to achieve what is ultimately an elaborate form of suicide.

The chilly demeanor of the picture becomes more and more devastatingly the longer the film plays. As things fall apart for Sands, one wants to look away, or else to show some type of sympathy, but first time director Steve McQueen doesn’t allow for the easy route. When the feces, bed sores, and haunting final images of the simple, unemotional disposal of a corpse flow across the screen we are left to consider them. McQueen refuses to cop out and make Sands into a Jesus figure. And the film is incredibly effective as a standalone narrative as a result.*

The methodical pace is potent, creating mood and tension. There is more nerve twisting during a short, near silent scene where a man prepares for work, while fearing a car bomb than in a dozen teen slasher flicks. In another sequence we learn everything we need to know about a man from seeing the bruises on his knuckles, the sweat on his shirt in the snow, and the way he smokes his cigarette.

Hunger might well be a silent film. The images tell all the story we need to know and, though the film starts with pounding drums, silence is the pervading sound. A good 20 minutes of the film is simply white noise.

This type of consistent mood and feel is achievable only because of superb acting from Stuart Graham, Liam Cunningham, and an especially shocking turn from Michael Fassbender.

It would be wrong to call this Fassbender’s show as everything about the production is top notch, but his role is of particular interest. His career has thus far been dominated by television work and a hammy performance in Zach Snyder’s 300, but he is nothing short of a revelation here. Whereas most biopic performances never rise above the level of detailed imitation* Fassbender disappears completely. During the latter half of the movie, it is easy to forget that he is even acting. When his emaciated figure fills the screen, his eyes burn with the look of a man who is ready to die for a cause. I never doubted it once.

In the end, Hunger works as a film on its own terms. Without history, without politics, without an argument over the ethics, Hunger remains a profound statement on the human condition.

CONCLUSION:

I am sure that many will try to read Hunger as despicable agitprop, and just as many will find it to be a call to arms. I don’t think it is either. Instead, it is a moving portrait of a human struggle for survival, even when survival also means death.

A

*It doesn’t hurt that this film is also as close as we are ever likely to come to an adaptation of Kaftka’s A Hunger Artist, my favorite short story.

**Or annoyingly broad imitation as with Sean Penn’s way off the mark Fey version of Harvey Milk.