In We Need to Talk About Kevin, Eva Khatchadourian is a veritable Lady Macbeth from the opening scene that finds a youthful Eva in an orgiastic frenzy of bodies writhing in eviscerated tomatoes to the painstaking, hand-held-razorblade scraping of red paint that has vandalized her home and refuses to leave her car, despite the squeaky effort of her car’s lone windshield wiper. Everything in Eva’s life seems to be a crimson-tinged symptom or consequence of tragedy.
At times, the metaphors are heavy, which, by design, create an almost suffocating tension that is ever-present, yet hardly sympathetic to Eva’s plight. As a young woman, she is carefree and, as per the terse exchange before intercourse with Franklin (John C. Reilly), her aloof, innocent, Led Zeppelin-shirt donned future husband, careless in her belief “it will be fine.” The film doesn’t seem to denounce unprotected or out-of-wedlock sex; in fact, it doesn’t necessarily take much of a stance – though if ever there were a film that could support parents eating their young, this would be it. Rather, Kevin looks at the “nature versus nurture” debate, tying its frame of reference to the existence of serial killers.
Sure, there are brief moments in which Kevin, Eva’s son, suggests his reason for killing seven classmates and others in an arrow-slinging rampage is inspired by celebrated infamy, noting “if I had just gotten an A on a math test,” most people would have “changed the channel by now.” This subject has been tackled before and more thoroughly in Natural Born Killers, so here it feels a bit like an add-in. The primary topic within Kevin is culpability. Essentially, was Kevin predestined to be a killer? And, does his blood lust stem from some sort of negative psychic energy imparted in utero by Eva?
Throughout, the film cuts back and forth from a present that holds Eva captive and isolated in a community that ostracizes her to a past ripe with lamentations on her role as a mother. Despite her assurances that “it will be fine,” it isn’t, and her unplanned pregnancy is met with despair as if a great impediment has been placed in front of her. Franklin is not the man of her dreams, but he is the father of her child. Her lack of enthusiasm is most notable at her Mommy and Me-type class where the other glowing mothers-to-be are showcasing their distending wombs and smiling in anticipation while Eva sits in the middle, lost in a daze, her stomach draped in a concealing blouse. In these moments, the film seems to question whether the unwanted Kevin and his victims are doomed from the start.
In a sense, Kevin also questions the role of “mother.” The existence of a 1990’s Nintendo gaming system affirms that society presumably emerged from the shadow of a nineteen-fifties idea and abortion is legal. Thus, if Eva is so unenthused about being a mother, why is she? I’m not touting the virtues of abortion here, but, seriously. However, this question may stem more from what I wanted the film to take on – unfortunately, it doesn’t. Instead, we watch Eva find solace in the cacophony of a jackhammer on a random Manhattan avenue as it drowns out the wailing cry of her newborn child. To writer / director Lynne Ramsay’s credit, Kevin’s cry is unbearable and consistently high-pitched, so much so that I wished I had a sock and duct tape; at the same time, this is where the story seems a bit confused as to whether or not it’s a true allegory on responsibility or a sequel to Rosemary’s Baby.
Despite Eva’s attempts to rock, coddle, and cosset her child to stop him from screaming, they are no use, but when Franklin arrives, Kevin’s cries cease. It’s as if the child is aware of its burdensome ways from birth and picks up on the presumably unknown vocabulary in Eva’s lilting “Mommy was happy before little Kevin came along; now mommy wakes up every morning wishing she was in France.” As he gets older, he doesn’t speak much and only responds to his mother, seemingly, out of spite or to antagonize.
As these moments are shown in flashbacks juxtaposed with Eva’s current diet of eggs, pills, and wine and a trial in which, apparently, she was found guilty of something (negligence? manslaughter?) and lost her “business and her home,” they are adequate enough to illustrate why Eva puts the burden of these murders on herself. Seemingly, her guilt keeps her in the town, and it also seems to be the only reason she visits her son’s correctional facility. Unfortunately, at times, this is unbelievable in that Eva, despite a certain soft moment or two in which her face lights up from the possibility that Kevin is showing genuine affection, seems to earnestly dislike her progeny – and I can’t really blame her. Throughout, the kid is a total snot.
The downside to this portrayal is that his depiction is hyperbolic and overdone. The list is lengthy, but at one point, he holds an open-faced jelly sandwich in hand, spits on it, slams it down on the glass coffee table, and walks away; to this, Eva stares and does nothing. Similarly, until he’s five or so, Kevin wears a diaper, defecating whenever he can to upset his mother. As soon as she changes him, he goes again. And, throughout, Franklin refuses to believe that Kevin is anything more than “a boy because that’s what little boys do,” which includes shoving guinea pigs in the food disposal.
Another issue with We Need to Talk About Kevin is Franklin’s abject ignorance. Perhaps there’s a question being raised about how well we know our children and what we’re willing to admit. At the same time, there’s an incredible stupidity that runs for sixteen years, a span in which he never once listens to his wife – something that seems highly unlikely if he ever valued his libido.
The strength of this film is Swinton. She’s superb and, as of yesterday, denied an Academy Award nomination. Her bodily control, her voice, and her eyes make it hard to like this self-assured, pretentious character in her youth, but it’s also difficult to abhor her as she spires down a precipice of guilt and self-doubt.
And, yes, we should talk about Kevin and whether things are predestined or owed to a cause. At the same time, the penultimate strength of this film might be its conclusion. It’s not an ambiguous cliffhanger, but there are few answers, and, in a world where we seek answers because we crave rationale, perhaps we should acknowledge that chaos and uncertainty govern existence.
