Seen by units, the wonderful British film of the unknown Roy Bowling definitely falls into the category of paintings, which, despite the lack of regalia, must be familiarized with inquisitive fans of cinema, not disdainful of cross references. It is easiest to stumble upon “Twisted Nerve”, being an ardent fan of Disney star Hayley Mills, wanting to see who grew up this mischievous snub-nosed girl, or an admirer of the composer’s genius Bernard Herrmann, who decided to find out where Tarantino used in “Kill Bill” pestering, and, at the same time, not devoid of tear melody with the same name of our film.
Having found the film in the vast ocean of world cinema, the main thing is not to be afraid of its genre component. After reading the synopsis, it is easy to confuse the picture with some bloodletting slasher. But the director’s fixation on the characters, the deep image of the protagonist and the general artistry, quite comparable to Hitchcock’s later works, does not allow him to put “Nerves Broken” on a par with the dull-headed “Halloween” and “Friday the 13th”.
The protagonist of the story - twenty-one-year-old Marty - a nice guy with a pleasant appearance, hiding behind which the demons are much worse than the typical transitional age, burdened by the presence of a stepfather, and promise things more serious than a banal escape from home. At a time when some of his peers by this period, if not firmly on their feet, then at least go in the direction of their goal, Marti, under the tireless patronage of literally idolizing his son mother, all the time idle, learned nothing and only multiplied his already numerous complexes and neuroses. But what would normally turn an individual into a spineless slob, combined with an inherent flaw, gave birth to a monster. Of course, I would not like to bother the reader with the pseudo-scientific detachment and depth of his ignorance to irritate people who have devoted many years to the study of psychiatry, but so pulls to philosophize.
And in fact, are the most terrible of human vices to blame only external factors: upbringing, position in the family, childhood experiences, relations with society, physical deviations, etc.? And how important, in turn, is the importance of heredity, the data originally laid down? How to explain that the same moral blows experienced by different people only temper the personality of some and undermine the normal state of others? And where is the invisible line beyond which self-pity, coupled with resentment for the whole world around, mutates into the obsessive impulse to kill. Let’s take at least serial killers, in conversation about whom often refer to cases of sexual abuse in childhood, which took place in their biography. But think about how often these things happen all over the world, and despite the serious psychological trauma, not every child grows into a murderer. I remember the denouement of Hitchcock’s “Rope”: a stunned and heartbroken hero of James Stewart, despite similar views and former friendship, suddenly finds an abyss that shares him with his student, who decided to kill his good friend and arranged a dinner party for the sake of demonstrating his superiority right on his makeshift grave – a large chest.
Just as frightening is the thought of how fragile the illusion of our security is. Every day we meet new people, and where, tell me, is the guarantee that this humble, polite guy won't cut you to pieces in your own kitchen by saying he was ordered to do it. The film is very clearly demonstrated how ordinary virtue can turn into a tragedy: often we ourselves let killers into our house with a warm and friendly smile, in every possible way driving away eerie images provoked by the instinct of self-preservation and malicious memory from the news and newspapers: “Well, no, this can not happen to me.”
It's an extraordinary movie. Bowling turned out to be a diligent student of not only the same Hitchcock, but also Michael Powell with his ahead of time Peeping. The director treasures his characters very much, writing their replicas at the level of dialogues of social dramas, thereby allowing the viewer to get along with the characters, providing genuine drama and genuine suspense in the final. And how good the music is... I think it is not difficult to catch another parallel with the work of the great Alfred.
A separate pleasure to see Hayley Mills turned into a girl of such a class that not to whistle in her direction would be equivalent to admitting indifference to the weaker sex. Add to this a sarcastic detective, without which no British thriller is inconceivable, as well as subtle author’s hints, similar to the scenes in which Marty is mistaken for the boyfriend of the heroine Mills, exposing the simple truth about the imaginary nature of the inferiority complex, the seal of which was not bypassed by Marty.
Of course, if you wish, you can scold the film for the roughness of the rhythm and free attitude to the scientific part, but no one says that we have an impeccable masterpiece, but only a worthy representative of the genre, categorically proving that a good movie can be stumbled upon in any part of the treasury of the tenth muse.