The last few years have been particularly fruitful for Abel Ferrara. Long associated with the city of New York, whose violence he depicted in cult films such as Ms. 45, bad lieutenant and the aptly named King of New York, he is now based in Rome.
There, the fiercely independent filmmaker seems to have found a second wind, chaining, with derisory budgets, films sometimes autobiographical, sometimes obscure, always intriguing. Zeros and Ones (Mercenary Brothers) is his most recent.
For the occasion, Abel Ferrara has replaced his muse of recent years, Willem Dafoe (4:44 Last Day on Earth, Pasolini, Thomas, Siberian, Sportin’Life), by Ethan Hawke. The actor plays JJ, an American mercenary sent to Rome in the midst of a pandemic to investigate a terrorist threat that will long remain abstract, narratively speaking.
In parallel with his mysterious mission, JJ tries to elucidate a more personal mystery: that surrounding his twin, a revolutionary held prisoner. In Valeria, the latter’s lover, JJ finds an ambivalent ally. However, far from clearing up, the situation becomes more complicated as the two (in)quests merge.
As in the previous films of his Italian period, Ferrara opts for an impressionist and allusive approach: it is up to moviegoers to deduce, decode, project… This bias, however, has the defects of its qualities.
On the positive side, we actively participate in the progression of the story, however vague it may be. On the negative side, this vague aspect, precisely, sometimes resembles narrative casualness. At one point, Valeria asks JJ, “Did you find out what you’re doing in my country?” To which he replies: “I’m working on it.” If we asked the filmmaker: “Have you discovered what you want to tell with this film? he could probably answer the same thing.
From visceral to meditative
In any case, we are miles away from the more classic and more rigorous constructions of the productions of the American period. Which productions are distinguished by their panache with baroque accents (apart from the titles mentioned in the intro, or even in addition Body Snatchers and The Addiction), their visual fieriness, their religious motives and their outbursts of violence.
The European exile, at the beginning of the 2000s, imprinted a different sensitivity and rhythm on Ferrara’s cinema. The violence is still there, but it hardly explodes anymore; it is latent, deaf. The shadow of Catholicism dissolves for its part in larger spiritual considerations (Ferrara converted to Buddhism). Existential questions are recurrent, even pressing: time flies, life too…
Without means or almost henceforth, the minimalist invoice is, so to speak, imposed. However, Ferrara, who seems to be inclined towards contemplation with age (and sobriety, as the main interested party willingly admits), makes this mown dimension a strength, forging images of harsh poetry. What was once visceral is now meditative — even when a sense of urgency prevails.
Zeros and Ones, which disconcerts as much as it charms with its myriad of question marks, is no exception.