Ivan (Brian Adrian Koch) looms over a desk, meticulously cleaning an assault rifle. The room around him is shrouded in darkness, an artificial hue illuminating the workspace. In his mind, Ivan rattles through a vulgar tirade of sexual frustration, his internal dialogue like a mantra of resentment. As Ivan wipes the stock and blows dust from the barrel, his diatribe continues. A thin line is being walked between sexual frustration and physical violence; it’s only a matter of time before Ivan steps over that line.
Ian Berry’s Marry, Fuck, Kill follows Ivan throughout his daily routine. We watch him take the bus to work, grab a morning coffee, nervously chat with co-workers, go grocery shopping, and prepare dinner. Through it all, we are privy to an endless stream of vile misogyny, perversion, and self-hatred. Ivan can’t look at a woman without thinking about her sexually, and can’t see a man without lamenting his own inadequacies. This is juxtaposed with Ivan’s outward persona, his monologues occasionally interrupted by normal, day-to-day interactions. Here, Ivan’s tone softens and he appears, for all intents and purposes, normal. It’s through this stark contrast that the film highlights a horrifying reality: things aren’t always as they appear.
The camera favors tight shots with the background blurred, making the viewer’s perspective as narrow as Ivan’s. We watch only Ivan and those he interacts with or, more often, who he watches from afar. This facilitates an uncomfortable intimacy between Ivan and the viewer. We watch as he nervously bites his lip and fidgets with his zipper. When he stares down an unsuspecting passerby, objectifying them and ridiculing their every move, we have no choice but to follow along. Flashes of Ivan’s computer screen show he works at an Oregon university. Though the landscape is blurred, the film's cool, grey color scheme evokes the northwestern environment. It’s a fittingly drab backdrop to a decidedly grim narrative.
The sound design boasts an equally unnerving tangibility; it sounds like Ivan is whispering directly in our ears. The chatter in a crowded coffee shop is reduced to a low murmur as Ivan’s inner dialogue takes over. His every thought is on full display, an unfiltered stream of consciousness that narrates an otherwise mundane routine. As he ogles female bus passengers, we are forced to listen to his sexual fantasies about each of them. We aren’t merely watching Ivan’s life, but experiencing it through his eyes and, disturbingly, through his mind.
A friendly colleague, Teresa (Isabella Buckner), is Ivan’s quarry. She presents a distraction, a fantasy Ivan can build in his head, only for reality to come crashing down: “I can make her laugh. She loves when I make her laugh.” Sat in his cubicle, Ivan rehearses the joke he later tells her at the office party. When he finally musters up the courage to ask her out, and she very politely turns him down, Ivan begins teetering dangerously close to the edge. His monologues grow increasingly aggressive and the violent undertones begin bubbling to the surface. Pausing on a social media photo of Teresa, Ivan begins spewing vile, deviant rhetoric. As Ivan’s incessant bumbling turns into guttural growls, the camera slowly zooms in on the image, the blackness of Teresa’s pupils engulfing the screen.
The film is a pure, unadulterated portrait of a mind broken beyond repair. It exhibits not only one man’s mental depravity, but how it can be so easily concealed from the outside world. The use of claustrophobic visuals and biting, intimate dialogue places you firmly inside the head of a monster. It evokes both the exploitative voyeurism of Maniac (1980) and the contemplative dread of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986). Watching Marry, Fuck, Kill is an experience, one that’s just as eye-opening as it is unnerving.
Review by Shane McKevitt
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