A History of Violence

Review by Zachary K. Parker

A filmmaker distinguished most by his sinister exploration of various diseases and afflictions in horror, David Cronenberg has built a reputation, which has often polarized audiences. Personally, I think Christians have rightfully ostracized most of his work, which tends towards debauched exploitation and unforgiving existentialism.

However, in A History of Violence, Cronenberg painstakingly explores the most destructive and universal disease to afflict man: his violent nature. Unique to this film above most others though is Cronenberg’s extraordinary picture of redemption.

An ordinary man, Tom Stall (Viggo Mortensen), lives peacefully with his family in small town Millbrook, Indiana where he owns and runs a small diner. Nonetheless, he had no way to stall the impending danger to not only his life, but to the life of his family and community.

Two callous criminals, who impatiently sauntered into his establishment, tried to rob him and harm the diner’s customers. Only once he killed both and received so much media attention, attracting mobsters accusing him of a false identity, did he realize the negative consequences. 

The mobsters’ lead man, Carl Fogarty (Ed Harris), persists in confronting Tom about some previous mob life Tom supposedly led before Millbrook as “Joey.” Fogarty’s doggedness and the unanswered questions concerning Tom’s breathtaking (pun intended) deed in his diner that historic night begin to arouse suspicion in the community, including the sheriff. 

Even more disastrous is the increasing distrust between Tom and his wife, Edie (Maria Bello), which even bleeds into his relationship with his son, Jack (Ashton Holmes).

Addressing relationships and violence on many layers, Josh Olson’s deftly written screenplay (even a likely Oscar contender) at one point relates the story of one of Tom’s employees, describing a woman he slept with, who, during the night, would often thoughtlessly stab him in the back with a fork. When asked the result of his relationship with her, he told them he married her.

Hence, even in the simplest moments, Cronenberg directs our attention to violence, forcing us to grasp how easily we indulge violence (a more specific symbol of sin). Thus we might think indulging sin is like our second nature, except in A History of Violence, it’s our first.

Cronenberg goes even further, not merely suggesting how it seems easier to lash out than to forgive, but insisting people would rather lash out than forgive. It is only forgiveness, which can redeem them from this destructive proclivity.

The movie’s portrayal and hope for forgiveness is not some abstract spiritual essay but a concrete experience strengthened by the unadorned contrast between violence and redemption.

On this note, esteemed Southern novelist, Flannery O’Connor once said,

“Today’s reader, if he believes in grace at all, sees it as something which can be separated from nature and served to him raw as Instant Uplift. This reader’s favorite word is compassion. I don’t wish to defame the word. There is a better sense in which it can be used but seldom is—the sense of being in travail with and for creation in its subjection to vanity. This is a sense which implies a recognition of sin; this is a suffering-with, but one which blunts no edges and makes no excuses.”[1]

Unlike countless movies, A History of Violence does not present characters who can overcome their weaknesses or achieve innocence/virtue of their own strength.

Instead, Cronenberg gives a rare picture of truth, which shows people who yearn for innocence lost, and are only restored to it in spite of their weaknesses.

These weaknesses sometimes agonizingly manifest themselves as characters inflict pain, calling it a solution to their problems. However, A History of Violence never avoids the necessity of consequences. 

When one of the protagonists asks, “I’m here to make peace. Can I do anything to make things right?” One of the antagonists somewhat mistakenly answers, “You can do one thing . . . You can die.” Consequently, it is hard to forget “The wages of sin is death.” The protagonists cannot fulfill their core needs by violence, but through sacrifice.

Their sacrifices are the ultimate expressions of love, and it expresses itself in multiple, though not always obvious ways. Accordingly, A History of Violence takes great care to show Tom and Edie as one of the most convincing, mature, and profound marriage relationships ever brought onscreen.

Likewise, Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello respectively, give their best performances yet, both of which deserve great praise (and maybe, but especially for Bello, Oscar nominations). The potential deceit and the desire for trust conflict with each other in an unforgettably moving way, which never once seems contrived to fit the story.

In the story, right before the character, Richie, exits the screenplay, listen carefully to his words, and the corresponding echo. It’s a subtle indication of the remedy to the violence, which Cronenberg maintains that infects us. 

    Cronenberg, even if mistakenly, duly reminds us of Christ’s grace, which totally forgives us, and calls us also to repent, forgive, and sacrifice ourselves daily. 

A History of Violence is David Cronenberg’s tour de force, brutal and poignant, one of the best films of the year. He gently reveals his compassion for the characters, while yet compellingly asserting the violent nature of people, and the beauty of forgiveness in light of it.

Moreover, even though we might first disregard it, A History of Violence never preaches, instead every plot and character action embodies its meaning.

While we might find it easy to ostracize A History of Violence for this-and-that, when watching it, we cannot help but consider that there is great worth in understanding and valuing one’s truth and beauty despite their flaws.

For in Christ, violence is history.