In “Rumours,” the theater of the absurd meets the cinema of high fantasy. The story begins with the premiers of the G7 nations attempting to draft a consensus statement in a foggy German forest resort while dining on steak and wine under an opulent gazebo. When a series of increasingly strange events leaves them stranded at their getaway without cell service, they struggle to understand the situation: Is a supernatural apocalypse afoot, or are environmental protesters to blame, as they first believe? But the source of their trouble is less important than their bungling collective response, which over the course of the film builds into an increasingly bizarre, razor-sharp satire of the fearful, status-quo-oriented elites running seven of the world’s biggest economies.
Co-directed by a trio from Manitoba — Guy Maddin and brothers Galen and Evan Johnson — “Rumours” takes special aim at the handsome and highly sensitive Canadian prime minister, Maxime Laplace (Roy Dupuis), who serves as a thinly veiled send up of Justin Trudeau. The film’s other heads of state lack real-world counterparts but are equally sharply defined. German Chancellor Hilda Ortmann (Cate Blanchett) plays the group’s gracious if overbearing host. French President Sylvain Broulez (Denis Ménochet) and Japanese Prime Minister Tatsuro Iwasaki (Takehiro Hira) display a polite unctuousness. All engage in a modern doublespeak littered with buzzwords as if suffering from political Tourette’s — “Growth!” “The private sector!” “The present crisis!”
As the hours tick by, the leaders’ paranoia festers and their speechwriting session is continually interrupted, both by emotional outbursts — Maxime is troubled by his romantic feelings for British PM Cardosa Dewindt (Nikki Amuka-Bird) — and off-screen phantasmagorical happenings. Their imaginations (and vulnerability to “fake news”) soon get the better of them, as they begin to suspect they are being haunted by iron age “bog men” — gelatinous, jet-black bodies whose bones have decomposed, but whose skin remains intact — from a nearby archeological dig. Before long, the presidents and prime ministers decide to escape their unseen tormentors through the woods. The result is a comedy of errors lit like a gaudy horror giallo, scored like a television soap opera and told through esoteric dialogue worthy of Eugène Ionesco.
The self-importance of the G7 leaders is demolished in stages, as the film’s absurdist dial cranks the ridicule to new breaking points. When they chance upon the head of the European Commission (Alicia Vikander), disoriented and speaking in riddles, they also discover a giant brain whose significance they struggle to discern. The awkward Italian Prime Minister Antonio Lamorte (Rolando Ravello) pulls charcuterie from his pockets. Sylvain, after taking ill and being forced to use a wheelbarrow as a makeshift wheelchair, becomes fixated with mysterious textual symbolism all around him. Although the characters often verge on self-aware, they never quite make it over the hump.
The movie’s tongue-in-cheek casting is impeccable. British thespian Charles Dance makes no effort to disguise his posh English accent and demeanor in the role of narcoleptic American President Edison Wolcott, and so evokes the aged King Charles in a not-so-subtle dig at modern American political dynasties. As the group escapes deeper into the forest, the expressionistic use of moonlit canopy is reminiscent of Peter Jackson’s “The Fellowship of the Ring,” an amusing choice given the presence of fantasy mainstays like Dance (Tywin Lannister, “Game of Thrones”) and Blanchett (Lady Galadriel, “The Lord of the Rings”). Subtle are the moments when Maddin and the Johnsons make visual reference to Jackson’s Middle Earth trilogy, such as when the modern political fellowship escapes a shadowy threat by taking a rickety ferry to safety.
The movie’s tongue-in-cheek casting is impeccable.
The deconstruction at play is clearly reversing the question posed by the fantasy genre: If magical tales of middle earths are meant to tackle war, power and courage without the baggage of modern referents, what would an epic, supernatural quest teach us if conducted by yellow-bellied 21st century technocrats? The answer lands most forcefully in its uproarious depiction of Maxime’s heroics. Initially looked down upon by his fellow leaders, the Canadian prime minister attempts to rise to the occasion, his hair flowing in the wind like Aragorn, son of Arathorn. But his ascension is a wink at the audience, given the numerous Trudeau-esque scandals that seem to follow him. His loftiest speeches — delivered at pivotal moments with rousing passion and scored with orchestral strings — closely resemble the real-life Trudeau’s vapid and mealy-mouthed political statements.
Forcing a group of modern politicians on a fantastical adventure proves a deft comedic device for reminding us, if any reminders were needed, that our heads of state are all too human, and do not possess the mettle to slay dragons, real or imagined. In trying to spin their timidity as heroism, they reveal themselves to be as spineless as the reanimated bog bodies they fear.
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