Trauma

Marc Evans’ third opus horribilis sees Colin Firth awaken from a coma to discover that his wife may or may not have survived their car-crash, that he may or may not have stalked and killed pop-star Naomie Harris, and that he may or may not live across the hall from Mena Suvari. But don’t take my word for it.
One thing is for certain, though – our confused protagonist is absolutely barking. What with the ant-farm hobby, the imagined hooded figures and the flat located directly above a disused morgue, he’s a grisly murder scene waiting to happen (or is he? etc, ad infinitum). By act two, one can’t help but hope, nay pray, that said grisly murder scene will involve Mena Suvari’s do-gooder neighbour, if only to shut her up about auras and healing crystals.
Obviously, in so far as anything about Trauma is obvious, it’s quite arrestingly baffling – after all, you can’t spell sub-Cronenbergian without Cronenberg – but the film’s wilful (or at least we hope they are) ambiguities ultimately become grating and ludicrous. It’s one thing to reflect a diseased psyche by mucking about with the sense of time, place and plot, but Trauma’s tenuous grasp on reality proves far more profoundly illogical than the gibbering delusions of its demented hero. I mean, how could a bloke with an ant fetish pull any bird, let alone two?
Things are thankfully kept visually, er, interesting through the same queasy generic craftsmanship that characterised Evans’ similarly disquieting efforts Resurrection Man and My Little Eye, and the director insistently piles on the atmospherics like Robert Wise on LSD. Every scene features gloomy lighting, incessant ticking sounds, ominous cups of tea, freaky distorted visions and flickering post-reality TV surveillance inserts (or I’m guessing that’s what they are, but as someone who doesn’t really know who Nadia is, I’m perhaps not authoritative enough to comment).
Yet, amidst all the excessive shock factor and weird incongruities, Trauma’s most unwelcome surprise comes from a fleeting glimpse of one of Mr. Firth’s body-parts. Surely, even the most ardent admirers of his Darcy-nian charms will be left aghast at what lurks beneath his ankles. Truly, he has feet only a mother or specialised internet pervert could love. Traumatic, indeed.