Review: Christine

Who was Christine Chubbuck? Amongst many things, she was a daughter and a sister, a woman with a history of depression, inexpert in matters of romance or even basic human interaction, a driven television reporter for a local Sarasota, Florida UHF station, and the first known person to commit suicide live on air and in living colour.

That moment occurred on July 15th, 1974 - a time when Vietnam and Watergate dominated the airwaves and the period when journalists were yielding to the "If it bleeds, it leads" mandate to hold on to or increase their ratings - and Chubbuck, who had so railed against demeaning fender-bender reporting in favour of more issue-oriented, character-based pieces gave the powers-that-be and the people exactly what they wanted. If her gesture was a means of making her voice heard and a wake-up call to her industry to maintain its integrity, then it was only mildly successful considering our own contemporary era of sensationalism, fake news, and reality TV.

Yet she has made herself heard as two films, Kate Plays Christine and Christine have brought her back into the spotlight. Directed by Antonio Campos and written by Craig Shilowich, Christine explores how Chubbuck's fractured psyche led to her radical act. First seen sitting in an empty studio and conducting a mock interview with Richard Nixon, the scene instantly establishes Christine as a determined and ambitious 29-year-old career woman, a perfectionist who analyses tapes of herself to figure out how to make herself more relatable to the viewing audience. Yet for all of her intelligence and intuition, it's bracingly evident that she is not a broadcast natural. She puts forth too precise a constructed facade - every movement, every emphasis is too thought out.

Off the camera, she is just as awkward and abrasive. She's constantly butting heads with with her station manager (Tracy Letts) over the stories she wants to do; she has a cordial working relationship with segment producer and camerawoman Jean (Maria Dizzia), whose supportive words and friendship she constantly refuses; she has an unrequited crush on suave anchorman George (Michael C. Hall), but can neither work up the courage to ask him out herself nor react accordingly when he invites her to dinner. Even her relationship with her mother (J. Smith-Cameron), with whom she shares an apartment, is fraught with her defensiveness over her moods being overly monitored.

There are allusions to an incident in Boston and suggestions that Christine should perhaps see a psychiatrist again, all of which reinforce the fact that Christine is in need of help. Even she is aware of this, but is incapable of reaching out other than through the puppet shows she does for a children's hospital or a to-do list ("...ask team for help?"). The one time she does allow herself to be helped - during a surprise group therapy session - results in Christine feeling more alienated than ever. The scene is wincingly painful in how fully Christine exposes her yearnings for personal and professional satisfaction and also how the era's "I'm OK, you're OK" mentality often hinders those it tries to heal.

Though directed with sensitivity and written with perception, the film is nothing without Hall's masterful performance. With her waterfall of dark hair and eyes bulging from a face that seems a breath's away from sinking into its skull, she resembles nothing less than a wraith corroded with wrath and self-delusion. Stripped of sentimentality and deeply frightening in her rawness, Hall charts Chubbuck's journey not so much as a downward spiral as a self-cannibalisation. It's a superlative performance that places not only Chubbuck in sharper focus but reminds audiences of Hall's immense talents.

Christine

Directed by: Antonio Campos

Written by: Craig Shilowich

Starring: Rebecca Hall, Michael C. Hall, Tracy Letts, Maria Dizzia, J. Smith-Cameron, John Cullum, Timothy Simons