Two years after racking up seven Australian Film Institute Awards (their Oscar equivalents), Angel Baby sweeps majestically into U.S. theatres heralded by rapturous reviews calling it one of the best Aussie imports since Bruce Beresford and Peter Weir’s early Eighties heyday. However, after seeing Michael Rymer’s intense, lavishly stylized tale of love between two young schizophrenics, I find myself in the awkward position of wallflower at the critical orgy. Angel Baby does, as advertised, pack a mighty emotional wallop thanks to powerhouse lead performances by Lynch (Bobby Sands in Some Mother’s Son) and McKenzie. Unfortunately, Rymer displays only a rudimentary feel for the art of storytelling and little faith in his actors’ ability to convey mood and sense to the viewer. Almost every crucial scene is larded with gimmicky visual treatments and an overbearing musical score that dictates, rather than enhances, the ambience. To Rymer’s credit, though, his film shows courage and insight in its startlingly realistic portrayal of madness. The story begins in earnest when Harry (Lynch), a computer programmer whose schizophrenia is controlled by medication, meets fiery, laser-eyed Kate (McKenzie) at a group therapy session. Passion arcs like static current, and they plunge into a searingly erotic love affair characterized by a great deal of athletic outdoor copulation. The effects of their illness are benign at first — both find oracular meaning in Wheel of Fortune word puzzles and believe in a guardian angel named Astral. However, things quickly spin out of control after Harry decides they should stop taking their medicine. Years ago I had a close friend who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, and I still vividly remember her terror and despair over night voices, irrational fears, and radical mind-body dissociation. Angel Baby gets that quality of anguish dead perfect, as Harry and Kate watch their hard-won grip on reality vanish with the suddenness of dust blown from a windowsill. There’s no need to embellish these gut-wrenching scenes, but Rymer can’t seem to resist student-filmmakerish urges to make every scene a tour de force movie moment replete with baroque camera angles, music-video editing flourishes, and sundry other cinematic hot licks from the Adrian Lyne school of compulsive over-directing. The script, by Rymer, also fails to support Lynch and McKenzie’s brilliance. For all its provocative content, it’s oddly devoid of any sense of revelation or resolution that would give any meaning to the harrowing experiences we’ve endured with the characters. It’s clear that Michael Rymer has a heart and is a prodigy of sorts at manipulating viewers’ emotions. But artists shouldn’t be overpraised for that limited talent. Great moviemaking consists of a lot more than just artfully pushing our hot buttons.
This article appears in April 11 • 1997 (Cover).