MAN BITES DOG

by Kevin Koehler

"Black comedy" is one of the more overused expressions in media criticism, so much so that the description ceases having meaning. Dr. Strangelove is a dark comedy but so, apparently, is The Whole Nine Yards. Where Kubrick's masterpiece uses ironic humor to illuminate the absurdity of life in the shadow mutual assured destruction, shallow films like The Whole Nine Yards do the very opposite - laughing at wanton death and murder, giving us permission to guiltlessly wallow in our own pernicious whimsies like pigs in mud. At best, this look-at-how-naughty-I-am-style filmmaking is cheap, cowardly exhibitionism; at worst, base social irresponsibility.

Man Bites Dog is a black comedy. Before "mockumentaries" became the genre of preference for uncreative types with credit cards who want to tell people they made a movie, there was this little Belgian gem. Subversive in all the right ways, Man follows a camera crew and their subject Benoit, a psychopathic serial killer with a weakness for enlightened conversation, topics ranging from poetry to existential philosophy. Ultimately, the camera crew graduates from documenting Benoit's crimes to participating in them side-by-side.

In this world created by filmmaker Remy Belvaux, murder is not something that is particularly funny. Deaths are shown in unusually graphic detail, book-ended by humorous monologues by a killer and daring us to laugh. Man is particularly prescient and insightful in the manner it reveals the symbiotic relationship between and media and violence/those who commit it. Glamorizing violence is violence in and of itself, even when we couch it in laissez-faire pretensions. The camera crew does not seek to understand evil but indulge in it (by proxy and otherwise) without culpability.

It's the less obvious ways in which they perform as accessories that are perhaps the most interesting. At multiple points in the film, Belvaux (appearing as a version of himself) complains about running out of financing for his picture; the subject Benoit offers to put up the money himself. He wants, even needs an audience for his crimes - the media happily obliges (a point later cemented in a hilarious shoot out with an assassin, his own tv crew documenting his every move). Like a tree crashing in a vacant wood, one is left to wonder how many of these killings would occur if no one were there to film them. No one acts less normal than when a camera is pointed their way; charming, homicidal Benoit is no exception (for further examples, see practically every reality series participant in television history - The Real World couldn't be further from the truth). Media doesn't simply reflect who we are - it tells us. It is the mirror but so are we.

Interesting footnote: The film's original French language title is C'est arrive pres de chez vous, roughly translated as "It happened in your neighborhood."

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