On The Act of Killing

I suspect The Act of Killing is going to be eternally seared into my memory. Anwar Congo’s smiling face isn’t going fade soon.

The last article I wrote I included this quote from Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky:

The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.

Touched by a masterpiece, a person begins to hear in himself that same call of truth which prompted the artist to his creative act. When the link is established between the work and its beholder, the latter experiences a sublime, purging trauma. Within that aura which unites masterpieces and audience, the best sides of our souls are made known, and we long for them to be freed. In those moments we recognize and discover ourselves, the unfathomable depths of our own potential, and the furthest reaches of our emotions.

Give The Act of Killing a decade or two and it’ll start receiving a multitude of Sight and Sound nominations (the same poll that, until recently, helped lead the perception of Citizen Kane as the greatest movie ever). Even before then it’ll climb its way to the top of lists ranking documentaries. Ranking movies in general. Collectively it will not soon be disregarded. As it stews in the critical subconscious it can only snowball and accrue further praise and higher regard than it already has.

There’s an interesting phenomenon that occurs with documentaries. So long as they broach a significant enough topic or attempt to “put across” significant ideas, or thoughts, or even a significant enough example they tend to get a critical pass. Often it doesn’t matter if they’re well made or present more than a healthy Googling could unveil. They’re about something significant, so they must be “good” art.

The Act of Killing never lets you forget you’re watching the perpetrators of genocidal slaughter. It gains an incredibly illusory feeling after a while, even without the chimerical imagery provided later. Anwar Congo guides the camera onto a roof and points out the place he murdered hordes of communists. He calmly explains that their first method of killing led to too much blood, and he walks through the new method he invented. Bloodless, execution-style strangulation. Then he wanders into the corner and starts talking about all the drugs he took to cover up the memory and starts dancing the cha-cha.

They called themselves “Movie Theatre Gangsters” because they used to scalp tickets. Before the Indonesian government enlisted them to routinely hunt and execute suspected communists. But the name acts as an unintentional double entendre; their entire personas were borne of the gangsters they watched in American movies. Anwar Congo swaggers through the movie with canes and shiny suits and fancy hats and elaborate thrones. His puppy-dog companion and fellow killer placidly leaning at his side. The picture of a movie-villain gangster. Shades of Alien in Spring Breakers, but from an older age. And real. And responsible for countless deaths.

“It’s a good family movie; plenty of humor; a great story; Wonderful scenery. It really shows what’s special about our country even though it’s a film about death.”

So Anwar Congo describes the movie he’s allowed to make, detailing his contributions to the purging of fellow countrymen.

The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.

If there was ever a documentary that guaranteed positive critical response because of its topic, because of the ideas it puts across, because of the thoughts it propagates, and because of the example it sets, it’s The Act of Killing. The mass slaughter of a whole political movement is a hefty topic at the best of times, let alone one that’s not filled with historical recreations, or interviews with historians, or old pictures, or placid narration. Instead this is a movie where the fascinating men who committed the act itself are on display, are let loose, are allowed to tell their own story, which requires almost no directorial embellishment to subvert.

There’s a chilling unabashed quality that Anwar wields when he tells his stories. Not only does he not seem to realize what he did was wrong, he doesn’t even seem… embarrassed by it. Sure, he’s been heralded by his government as a hero on many an occasion, but you can tell he doesn’t necessarily buy into that sound bite. He doesn’t even remotely flinch when he talks about his actions. Not at first anyway. This allows Joshua Oppenheimer to simply present Anwar talking. He calmly digs his own grave, so to speak. But there is a narrative edited out of the interviews. Slowly as the film goes on Anwar’s past begins to haunt him.

“Why haven’t the victims’ children ever tried to take revenge?”

“Because we’d exterminate them all!”

Anwar Congo said this on a TV interview in Indonesia.

Touched by a masterpiece, a person begins to hear in himself that same call of truth that prompted the artist to his creative act.

Every damn person Joshua Oppenheimer puts in front of his camera seems to reveal more than they should. It’s the rare movie that can manage to film and document governmental corruption as it happens. No staging. No rumours. Just no filters. No sense that they should hide what they do. If there was anything that set The Act of Killing apart from other documentaries on “serious” topics it is this immediacy. We get to watch the quietly menacing shakedown of Chinese immigrants for safety money. We watch the head of a massive, politically involved, youth organization make horribly sexist and sexual comments about every women that comes across his path. We watch a man running for a government position explain how the entire election system is based around bribes and hired audiences. This sort of footage lends the film immediate relevance and significance in an incredibly visceral, incontestable way.

Gangster comes from words that mean “free man.” That’s the oft repeated buzzword Indonesian politicians trot out as part of their defence of the actions of Anwar Congo and the Movie Theatre

Gangsters. Who doesn’t like freedom? Everyone does. At least when they’re sober and not around untrustworthy ears. There’s a scene in The Act of Killing where Anwar’s next door neighbour, who was roped into participating in the film Anwar was working on, reveals his relationship to the Communist purging. His eyes tearing-up and his voice infected by an affected laugh he describes watching his Chinese stepfather go outside to investigate a ruckus. He never came back. Later Anwar’s neighbour and his mother found his legs sticking out of a barrel cut lengthwise and put on top of him. They had to dig his grave themselves. And now this neighbour stars in a glamourized retelling of the story, directed by one of the slaughter’s chief figureheads.

“‘Crush the Chinese’ became ‘Crush my Girlfriend’s Dad’… So I stabbed him, too! Because he was Chinese…He fell into a ditch. I hit him with a brick. He sank.”

So speaks one of Anwar’s more guilt wracked affiliates.

The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.

Anwar Congo is not a good man. You couldn’t be, after doing what he did, and having it be celebrated and rewarded. But, as The Act of Killing slowly reveals, he’s not quite as secure as he seems. He’s haunted by certain actions, certain memories. What documentarian wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to film a genocidal figurehead as recurring bad dreams disturb his sleep? What’s more deserving of celebration than footage of a mass murderer being “haunted” by the people he kills? More than that, Anwar Congo recounts, his movie gangster persona breaking down, the time he decapitated a Communist prisoner. Suspected Communist prisoner. Watching a man imitate the sound a headless body made from memory is certainly a more substantial, and therefore a more critically satisfying topic, than any melodramatic music played over footage of water and under narration could ever be.

Anwar Congo’s passive, puppy dog follower sits next to a giant fish sculpture wearing a dress. Female dancers adorn a walkway extending from the fish’s mouth. “Hotter,” he shouts. Anwar Congo’s neighbour wears a spectacular and ornate black costume, his face painted like a ghost. Anwar demands he laughs more like the spectres in his dream. Anwar Congo’s follower stages cutting Anwar’s head off, recreating Anwar’s memory with Anwar as the victim. His follower, wearing a dress again, strokes Anwar’s severed head, licks the fake blood, and laughs. Anwar Congo and his companions dress like gangsters and recreate Anwar’s method of strangulation for the camera. Memories of the afore mentioned Indonesian youth organization, Pancasila Youth, are used to recreate the massacre of a village. Hordes of teens wearing orange camouflage storm a staged village while children and women, hired extras, scream and flee. Many of the children break out into real tears. One of the participants in the actual massacre recalls a fond memory –raping underage girls. He scratches his belly like Homer Simpson when he talks about it.

“I saw Roshiman bring me a machete…Spontaneously, I walked over to him and cut his head off… All I could think about was why didn’t I close his eyes?… And that is the source of all my nightmares.”

“Take no prisoners! Destroy them all! Burn down their houses!”

Anwar Congo reminisces and directs the hordes of Pancasila Youth.

Touched by a masterpiece, a person begins to hear in himself that same call of truth which prompted the artist to his creative act. When the link is established between the work and its beholder, the latter experiences a sublime, purging trauma. Within that aura which unites masterpieces and audience, the best sides of our souls are made known, and we long for them to be freed. In those moments we recognize and discover ourselves, the unfathomable depths of our own potential, and the furthest reaches of our emotions.

“There’s an interesting phenomenon that occurs with documentaries. So long as they broach a significant enough topic or attempt to “put across” significant ideas, or thoughts, or even a significant enough example they tend to get a critical pass. Often it doesn’t matter if they’re well made or present more than a healthy Googling could unveil. They’re about something significant, so they must be “good” art.”

The reason The Act of Killing will only become more renowned is simple – it doesn’t just present the facts. It doesn’t just present its chilling and utterly unique interviews. It doesn’t just present the image of governmental corruption it captures. And it certainly doesn’t attempt to serve as an example. The reason the film can only amass more acclaim is the simple concept at its core – the strange utilization of the power of film itself. Joshua Oppenheimer made this documentary under the guise of making a movie with Anwar Congo and other perpetrators of the Communist Genocide in Indonesia. He lets Anwar and his compatriots tell their own story on the big screen, through any style they want. And so Anwar dresses as a gangster. Stands in front of a waterfall during a musical number. Anwar even dresses like a cowboy in one scene. Anwar plays himself and plays his victims. This concept sets The Act of Killing apart from the throngs of automatically respected documentaries and puts it firmly into the realm of completely unique art.

Anwar Congo fishes with a fellow killer. Killer. That’s literally the term most of the people in the film, including the killers themselves, use to describe Anwar and his companions. This particular killer asks Anwar if he’s ever thought about what it would be like to be a Communist. Wouldn’t Anwar be angry if someone executed his father? They fish and Anwar mentions his nightmares. The other killer assures him that he should go to a psychologist. He assures him that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. Doesn’t mean what he did was wrong. It just means there’s some off-kilter wiring in his head that some pills would sort out. Anwar dyes his air, gets false teeth, and picks his costumes for the film. At one point he considers wearing a pink cowboy hat for the gangster scenes, but seems to decide otherwise eventually.

“All this talk about human rights pisses me off…But I’m a gangster. A movie theatre gangster.”

Anwar Congo, literally dressed like a cinematic gangster, lights a cigar dramatically while he says this. He’s in the same room he will later play the victim in a strangulation scene.

The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.

Touched by a masterpiece, a person begins to hear in himself that same call of truth which prompted the artist to his creative act. When the link is established between the work and its beholder, the latter experiences a sublime, purging trauma. Within that aura which unites masterpieces and audience, the best sides of our souls are made known, and we long for them to be freed. In those moments we recognize and discover ourselves, the unfathomable depths of our own potential, and the furthest reaches of our emotions.

It’s the power of cinema that ultimately makes a difference in The Act of Killing. It’s this testament to the art of cinema that truly makes Joshua Oppenheimer’s film a masterpiece. The effect that seeing the images they create has on the Movie Theatre Gangsters is incredible. There’s a fascinating phenomena that seems to occur. It’s almost like Anwar Congo can’t truly gain perspective on his War Crimes (what he did was completely against the Geneva Convention) until his actions are contextualized through a cinematic lens. Only then does it really start to break through.

Anwar is haunted every night by his victims. We get to see footage of him toss and turn as he sleeps. We see him try to recreate the terror of his dreams, and watch that slowly rattle him. He orchestrates the imaginary slaughter of a village and seems decidedly thrown off by it. It’s not playing the victim of decapitation, the source of all his nightmares, that really gets to him. It’s playing the victim of his standard, humdrum, method of execution that truly cracks his shell. Dressed like a gangster, flashes of lightning illuminating his face and rain splattering outside, a wire is placed around Anwar Congo’s neck. He pretends to be strangled. Then he tosses the wire off himself, clearly upset. He’s given water and looks almost in shock. He doesn’t move and he seems like he’s trying not to cry.

“What I regret…Honestly, I never expected it would look this awful.”

Anwar on orchestrating the imaginary slaughter of a village at the hands of Pancasila Youth.

Within that aura which unites masterpieces and audience, the best sides of our souls are made known, and we long for them to be freed. In those moments we recognize and discover ourselves, the unfathomable depths of our own potential, and the furthest reaches of our emotions.

The Act of Killing is going to be considered a masterpiece. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever forget watching it. Forget watching the eventual break down of Anwar Congo. Forget listening to him describe killing Communist after Communist. Anwar Congo seems to believe he’s making a masterpiece. A phantasmal ballad celebrating his actions. It seems deeply ironic that it is this project that eventually forces him to confront his wrongs. At least as much as he ever does. That’s what really provides The Act of Killing with its masterpiece status; the purging trauma it causes. Not just as a viewer, but the purging trauma and self-examination it forces Anwar Congo to go through.

After watching the footage he filmed with Joshua Oppenheimer, Anwar Congo asks to see the scene where he’s strangled. He calls his grandchildren over to watch. As it progresses, his beaming smile and enthusiasm fade and he sends the kids away. He begins to look increasingly disturbed and upset. Increasingly broken.

“Did the people I tortured feel the way I do here?”

“Actually the people you tortured felt far worse – because you knew it’s only a film. They knew they were being killed.”

“But I can feel it, Josh. Really, I feel it. Or have I sinned? I did this to so many people, Josh. Is it all coming back to me? I really hope it won’t. I don’t want it to, Josh.”

So Anwar Congo reacts after watching himself as a victim onscreen.

In those moments we recognize and discover ourselves, the unfathomable depths of our own potential, and the furthest reaches of our emotions.

The Act of Killing uses the power of film to unveil corruption. Shine a light on genocide. Shine a light on the psyche of the perpetrators of that genocide. And force their figurehead to confront his actions. Not only is this the sort of real effect from a documentary that most could only dream of, it simultaneously elevates it. It becomes fantastic art, a masterpiece of the highest order.

Joshua Oppenheimer, after Anwar Congo’s breakthrough, leads him back to the roof where he committed the executions. The same ones that upset him so. The ones that only took a wire, some wood, and caused very little blood. Joshua Oppenheimer doesn’t say anything. Anwar tries, once again, to describe his invented method of execution. He can’t do it. Every thirty seconds or so he bends over, wrenching and gasping in the same spot he ended so many lives. The same spot he talked about ecstasy and danced the cha-cha before.

“I’m disturbed in my sleep maybe because – when I strangled people with a wire I watched them die.”

Anwar Congo talks earlier in the film about the dreams haunting him, and the killings he’ll never forget.