When a society is crumbling, you can either choose to make art, climb the corporate ladder, start a revolution, tend to your own selfish interests, or try and touch God. Now picture all of that happening inside the confines of a labyrinthine, shrinking, secluded H๏τel with no exits in rural Belgium, and you’ll (sort of) have Mr. K.
Tallulah Hazekamp Schwab’s surrealist comedy is a bizarre affair, which is absolutely part of the plan. The press materials stress the word “kafkaesque” as a descriptor. Though it is never quite as convincing as anything but that, it’s a perpetual head-scratcher whose absurdism is only sporadically in service of something interesting to say.
Tallulah, credited only by her first name, also wrote the script for this Crispin Glover vehicle, and the whole film feels a bit like it might be stuck too much inside her head. The film makes sense overall, but on a moment-to-moment basis, it feels rather hollow, as if it is aiming for irreverence for irreverence’s sake. Its rather hooky premise is only partially fulfilling, and despite Mr. K’s inability to escape his confines, at least the film has the good graces not to overstay its welcome.
Mr. K Has Too Much Irreverence, Too Little Interest
The film starts with an image of the starry sky and Mr. K’s voiceover, “Every human being is a universe within themselves, floating about in eternal darkness. Aimless, lonely, so lonely. Or maybe it’s just me.” Are we being set up to see the upcoming journey as an imagined, internal turmoil? It’s certainly possible, as the next 90 minutes escalate into insanity.
Glover’s character is very representative of the actor’s oeuvre. A lanky, socially awkward outcast, Mr. K is a traveling magician who is long on talent but short on popularity. We glimpse his Gumby-like body in performance at a restaurant where no one is paying attention to his illusions. He moves on to a H๏τel covered in overgrown ivy where he plans to stay the night. Inside this once-opulent establishment are deteriorating walls, rumbling pipes, and a distinctly pugnacious concierge, Mrs. Hum (Barbara Sarafian), whose murky glᴀss eye and faded red coat are the least weird elements Mr. K is about to encounter.
Mrs. Hum’s rules are simple: no running, no jumping, no prosтιтutes, no pets (never mind there is a large bulldog following them around). She tells him that this is a “respectable establishment,” but Mr. K immediately finds a mute old man hiding under his bed and a maid in his closet, both of whom scurry off like rats. The next morning, Mr. K cannot find the exit and his suitcases are stolen by a horde of helmet-clad children.
Suffice it to say, K is now stuck, lost, and hopeless. For a while, the film acts as a lazy, bonkers river, pulling him from one extraordinary setting to the next. First, a marching band filled with people dressed like they’re in Mad Max chases him around the corridors under flickering hallway lights. Then, he’s pulled into the bedroom of two old women with a strong penchant for phonographs and coffee. Here he is being roped into a job as an egg beater in an exceedingly busy H๏τel kitchen with an aging chef (Bjørn Sundquist) who is strangely attached to Mr. K’s ability to succeed him.
It’s difficult to say what all this means, or if there’s any logic to the progression of events. The film is certainly nice to look at, cast as it is in deep forest greens and rich chocolate browns, with exceptionally evocative production design by Maarten Piersma and Manolito Glas. Even when the film frustrates in its esotericism, it is at least a veritable feast for the eyes.
But a little logic would be nice. Mr. K asks its audience to indulge in its own interpretation, but because it is so thoroughly out of the ordinary, it leaves little to glom to. At its best, Mr. K is like being immersed in Hieronymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. More often, however, it’s like living inside a trash heap.
Perhaps it is a film about the deterioration of societal norms and the paradox of choice when it comes to living inside a dysfunctional world. Or, maybe it is about the way nature overtakes the land despite humanity’s capability for destruction. Maybe it’s about how difficult it is to create art in a hyper-capitalist society. Maybe it’s just a weird movie with a weird character portrayed by one of cinema’s great weird actors. It’s just not entertaining enough to contain those mulтιтudes of possibilities, and ultimately inures the audience into exhaustion.
Mr. K will play in select theaters beginning October 8 and have a nationwide rollout thereafter.
