The Aura (El Aura, 2005)

Director/Coscreenwriter: Fabián Bielinsky

By Marilyn Ferdinand

For the ninth iteration of Noir City Chicago, the Film Noir Foundation (FNF) put together a program of heist films that included some classic favorites, like The Asphalt Jungle (1950), Kansas City Confidential (1952), and Classe Tous Risque (1960). There was one heist film of uncharacteristically recent vintage, however, that was as revelatory as it was unexpected. The Aura is the second and final feature by Argentinian director Fabián Bielinsky, whose life was cut short at age 47 when he died of a heart attack shortly after completing this film. For noir and crime film fans, “what might have been” is particularly distressing: The Aura and his premiere feature about two con artists peddling counterfeit stamps, Nine Queens (2000), show Bielinsky had a rare and original gift for depicting society’s underbelly.

Our host for the evening’s screening, FNF President Eddie Muller, explained that Bielinsky’s small, but significant output was the result of the long apprenticeships directors serve in Argentina. The polish of Bielinsky’s script and film reveals the benefits of this system; there is a literary quality to the way Bielinsky creates his characters, chooses his settings, and resolves his plot.

The film’s unnamed protagonist (Ricardo Darín) is a taxidermist. With Vivaldi playing on his radio, the camera focuses on his hands as they work on the figure of a fox, preparing the eye sockets with clay, carefully straightening and draping the skin, choosing from a drawerful of glass eyes for the correct pair and sticking them in place. We see the silhouette of a woman who is yelling and banging on the frosted glass of his locked studio door. In response, he reaches over to his radio and cranks the volume.

When he is finished, he brings the figure to the museum that hired him and meets fellow taxidermist Sontag (Alejandro Awada). As the two men wait in the payroll office to be paid, our man indulges his penchant for imagining robberies. He walks Sontag through his plan for the payroll office, with Bielinsky’s camera visualizing the hypothetical blood-free robbery for us. Sontag seems to feel little but contempt for the taxidermist, but nonetheless, asks him to go hunting in place of a friend of his who backed out at the last minute. Our man shrinks from killing animals, but when he goes home and finds that his wife has left him, he calls Sontag and agrees to the trip.

The two men find that Sontag’s regular hotel is completely booked—the belligerent Sontag complains to the hotel manager (Guido D’Albo), “I never needed a reservation before.” To placate his repeat customer, the manager sends him to a remote property of rustic cabins for serious hunters run by a man named Dietrich (Manuel Rodal). When they arrive, a surly teenager named Julio (Nahuel Pérez Biscayart) tells them there’s nothing for rent. He is soon contradicted by Diana (Dolores Fonzi), his sister and Dietrich’s much-younger wife. Once ensconced in their cabin, Sontag has our man equipped with a rifle and both get ready for the hunt. What follows is our man’s stark confrontation with what it means to be fully alive.

Like the dead animals he makes over into lifelike mannequins, our man seems to exist at a slight remove from life. His work is isolating, he ignores his wife, and in a macho culture that conflates masculinity with violence, he abhors killing animals or people; his fantasies reflect an intellectual, carefully humane violence.

But he has moments when he feels really alive—his occasional epileptic fits. Epilepsy has long been linked, perhaps erroneously, to religious ecstasy, and the ingenious film The Fits (2015) posits an outbreak of seizures among some teenage girls as a rite of passage into individuality and womanhood. While our man’s epilepsy plays a very crucial role in a climactic scene in The Aura, it’s more than a plot device. When Diana asks him what it’s like, we really understand how the pre-seizure aura and the heightening of all of his senses are delicious and incredibly important to him. This scene gives Darín his longest, most sustained bit of dialogue; it actually feels too long given his abundance of verbal reticence, and the sense that we’d rather not hear all he has to say—there’s something unsettling about how he communicates—is a credit to the masterful creation of this character by a man Muller feels is the greatest actor working today.

Bielinsky matches his shooting style to his main character’s personality. He favors tight framing that refuses us a view of actions that occur off the edges of the screen, and elegantly shorthands information in a single moment. For example, our man calls out to his wife when he returns home from the museum and, not receiving an answer, goes into the bedroom, where we see a closet full of empty hangers. He questions a little girl at a middle-of-nowhere establishment called El Eden; when she says something about her mother and the little rooms, we know instantly that El Eden is a brothel. In two related scenes, our man witnesses in long shot Diana arguing with a man in a pick-up truck. She tells him that the man has accused Dietrich’s dog of killing his sheep. “Does he?” our man asks, but gets no answer. Much later, our man, stumbling in the dark with a flashlight, briefly illuminates the dog; its face is covered with blood.

Bielinsky provides subliminal clues about our man’s essence, why such a seemingly ordinary, even sweet man makes us uneasy. It’s not his fantasy life as an armed robber, not even his neglect of his wife—he has a very unpleasant exchange with Sontag over the latter’s physical and emotional abuse of his own wife. It’s the fact that the dog, after earlier growling at him, adopts him when Dietrich fails to return from wherever he’s gone. Our man has crossed a line into a real-life adventure that he is so loathe to give up that he is willing to risk the lives of others to achieve it. Of course, the seminal moment that put him on this path was a blood letting, and every moment after this event is one of our man living by his wits and finally listening to his instincts to survive.

I’m not familiar with Ricardo Darín’s previous work, but I’m inclined to agree with Muller about this man’s talents. There is one scene in which his character is caught having to improvise his way out of a life-threatening situation. Bielinsky moves in on his face, and observes his eyes darting quickly around trying to think his way to a solution. I’ve never seen an actor concentrate so much information into a short series of eye movements. His supporting cast, particularly Pérez Biscayart and Fonzi, provide full-blooded characters with whom he interacts believably; even two stereotypical thugs create a relationship with each other that feels real.

The last scene echoes the first. Our man stuffs a small mammal with a cottony material as the camera shifts to the nameless dog sitting in a corner and closes in on its inscrutable, wild face, the perfect avatar for our man, and by extension, for what’s wild in all of us.

The film can be seen in its entirety here:

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