100/100Opens with the view through a one-way mirror, which turns out to reflect the film's very structure. As a young man I was enthralled by the way Egoyan withholds information, encouraging you to make assumptions that turn out to be significantly less twisted than what's actually going on; arguably no other movie has woven so many arresting, initially inexplicable strands into such a richly satisfying narrative tapestry. But that sort of gamesmanship, however brilliant, doesn't explain the full-body chill I still get from the final shot, 18 years and at least five viewings later. "You have to ask yourself: What brought the person to this place?" And while we eventually find out all about Francis, what gives Exotica its unique power is Christina's all-but-unacknowledged role in their symbiotic relationship, the entirety of which is implied by her slow, reluctant walk up to the path to her house in the closing flashback. Only cinema can create an effect like this—any attempt to put the shot's troubling implication into words would render it instantly banal. (I suspect Egoyan put a lot of work into finding just the right house; something about the way it's framed by those two trees creates the impression of No Escape.) And then there's the whole denial-codified-by-demented-ritual aspect, which speaks directly to my nervous system for reasons I'm frankly too scared to investigate. And Mychael Danna's astonishing score, with its discomfiting mixture of familiar and foreign instrumentation and rhythms. And Bruce Greenwood investing a seemingly unplayable cipher of a character with heartbreaking spasms of raw emotion. Shout-out to Sarossy, keepin' it unreal. There might be four or five movies I love more than this one. There might be fewer.
