Review - Let the Right One In

Let the Right One In is a recent vampire movie, but it’s also one of the better melancholy films I’ve seen. It’s set in a small Swedish town that lies in the shadow of the Iron Curtain and under a foot of snow. Oskar, a withdrawn and bullied 12-year-old, lives in a small apartment with his mother, an unconcerned parent. (In a clichéd, but nonetheless poignant, scene, she asks him how he got a cut on his face and unhesitatingly accepts his answer, admonishing him to be more careful on the playground.) Oskar dreams of exacting violent revenge on his tormentors, going so far as to act out scenes with a pocketknife. He also covertly collects newspaper clippings about murders and other grisly incidents. But the most troubling thing about him is his apparent detachment from his predicament. It’s not that he’s underconcerned or perversely content with being bullied; it’s that, outwardly at least, he responds dispassionately, as if he’s come to terms with hopelessness. He doesn’t ever run, cry, or raise his voice, even though he’s clearly suffering and has been engaged in an internal struggle over whether, and if so when, to strike back. Notably, we have every reason to believe that he regards striking back as the ideal. It is not compassion or an aversion to “lowering” himself that stays his hand, but rather something else, such as the inherent gravity of revolutionary action. Perhaps he is also concerned with the physical act of revenge, for he takes up weight training under the tutelage of his amiably eccentric gym teacher.

One night, in the snowfield outside his apartment building, Oskar meets Eli (rhymes with "deli"), who recently moved in next door. She is also 12, in her words, “more or less.” Though Oskar maintains his emotional flatness in her presence -- even after she confirms her sanguinivorous nature -- he is obviously fascinated. He begins, shly, to let her in. He tells her about the bullies, and she advises him to hit back. He questions her willingness to kill, and she points out his. Eli and Oskar are both sympathetic characters in that they are constantly victimized by circumstance, but they are not innocent characters. They are both outsiders, but they must confront the conventional world. Naturally, they are drawn together, certain irreconcilable differences be damned. The subsequent plot developments are largely unremarkable, but their execution is wondrous and moving.

Often, the film successfully resonates by economizing on the explicit, in the same way that a lingering shot of a snowscape can say more about doleful desolation than could even a Roy Batty voiceover. For instance, there are two scenes in which I recall Oskar expressing childlike delight in contrast to his usual aloofness: one where he goes sledding while visiting his dad, and another where he and his mom start brushing their teeth in unison and turn to each other with amusement in their eyes, perhaps engaging in a nightly ritual for the thousandth time. These glimpses of realistic domesticity -- a rare treat in film -- flesh out the viewer’s psychological portrait of Oskar; they suggest that he is not entirely consumed by his bullying and not always so removed from the viscerality of emotion -- that he feels his pleasure and therefore his pain. In another telling domestic scene, a man arrives while Oskar is hanging out at the dinner table with his dad, and the relaxed mood immediately shifts: Oskar stiffens, and his father, invoking the obligation of hospitality, gets the door and pours a couple of drinks. Oskar quickly leaves, and we are left to wonder what prompted his anxiety. His dad comes across as a genial, easygoing man, but is he a horrible drunk? Is the other man his lover? Was Oskar simply crushed by the disruption of his fragile tranquility? Such moments bow my heart strings as much as the bullying, because they convey the tortuous inner life of a tortured child. And like the wordless scenes of delight, they do so in a way that leaves unnecessary details to the richness of imagination.

Let the Right One In also succeeds atmospherically. From the opening fade-in of a gentle flurry, snow plays a prominent role in the film. Fittingly, there is something about snow that complements the vampiric. Perhaps it is that snow signifies short, dark days. Perhaps it is that in its presence we cling bitterly to the very warmth that the vampire craves. Perhaps it is the lifelessness of a whited-out landscape. Perhaps it is simply our association of cold and death. At any rate, the omnipresence of snow contributes to the town’s air of remoteness and repose. There is little vivacity in the dead of winter, and the moonlight, reflected and amplified by the snow, bathes the town in a subdued, blue-tinged glow. Practically, it is hard to argue that a vampire wouldn’t be better off in a big city, where victims are anonymous and hideouts are plentiful, but aesthetically Eli has come to the right place. Overall, the film’s atmosphere is in harmony with its pacing -- the exposition of important plot developments is unhurried, and the viewer is given time and space to reflect on characters’ experiences. Thus, while the film has its share of violent and passionate events, its intensity is never at odds with its contemplative tone.

I am compelled to discuss Let the Right One In’s take on vampirism, because a review of a vampire movie isn’t worth its weight in blood without such a discussion, and also because the film presents a particularly compelling account. Most significantly, Let the Right One In does not glamorize vampirism. Many vampires, particularly the more recent creations, are charismatic creatures who -- bloodthirst and daylight curfew aside -- have transcended their physicality in the manner of ageless superheroes. We are inclined to envy them, especially in this age of blood banks and limitless indoor stimulation. Not so with Eli, who, in the vein of Nosferatu, elicits an uneasy sympathy. She is trapped in a child’s body, so she is limited in her ability to function independently and feed ethically. She possesses preternatural physical prowess, but she is unable to seduce or entrance her victims. When she is underfed, she smells of death. She derives no apparent pleasure from the taking of life. Yet take life she does, wantonly at that, so we cannot comfortably sympathize. She is still childlike in many respects, despite her apparently great age, so perhaps her responsibility is diminished. Indeed, with the selfishness of a child, she has rationalized her murderousness as a need, and is apparently unburdened by the arguable moral imperative to end her life. Moreover, we cannot help but perceive her as a child, for fundamental elements of her identity have been frozen in time. But there is no escaping the fact that she is a serial killer, albeit probably not the first one you’ve rooted for.

Oskar certainly seems to have few qualms about this fact. After all, he is 12 and troubled, and he is in love, or something like it. But so is Eli. At first, she prudently attempts to dissuade his efforts at friendship, but it is clear that she, too, is suffering from loneliness. (For how long has she endured a life of permanent juvenility, perpetual night, forced seclusion, and desensitized murder?) Soon it is not just Oskar who is opening his heart.

It is wonderful to watch their love unfold, but it is also tragic. The romantic endeavors of 12-year-olds do not ordinarily inspire such gravity, but in this case it feels appropriate. Together Oskar and Eli have found a happiness it seems they had never known, but it is a happiness that cannot last. Oskar will become a teenager, then a man, and they will have to let each other go. But all is not lost if they never regret having let each other in.

Rating: 8/10