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I was ready to give up on Peckinpah. After watching, about three years ago, The Wild Bunch, and then, almost two years ago, The Getaway, and finding myself unappreciative of both, I was ready to discount him as one of those directors whose work, despite the praise, I can not get into. He may still be such a director, perhaps if and when I see a new (to me) Sam Peckinpah film I will be as disinterested as with the previous two, but Straw Dogs—whether the exception or an indication that the previous movies were the exceptions, I can not yet discern—was an experience not soon to be forgotten, nor to be discredited.

How this movie is not classified strictly as a horror film, I do not know, it is horrific in the barest and most accurate sense, eschewing easy thrills for the rumination on man, as much a monster as the monsters he faces, displaying for all to see the horrors inherent in our selves even as we project them onto the world at large. There are no innocents here, only sinners or those waiting for their excuse to sin; yet, there are no villains, either, or, if that is too strong, everyone is a victim, who also has already been victimized or is culpably waiting to become one, having already resigned themselves to the realization that avoidance is not possible within this world of Straw Dogs. If you are not the perpetrator today, you are the perpetrated; If you are not the oppressed, you are the oppressor. Tomorrow the roles may flip. Only through self deception are these characters able to live a semblance of idyllic life—one of the many ironies in an irony-packed picture—despite the idyllic setting.

Transplanted to rural Britain, Dustin Hoffman plays an American mathematician who has been offered a grant to analyze the equations related to astronomic phenomena. He is married to a British woman, physically younger by several years—perhaps she is a former student of his, perhaps they met by chance, I do not recall such a description, and it is hardly necessary, as that they are together is more important than why—and playfully, even younger. The audience is introduced to her breasts, her nipples casting shadows from beneath her sweater as she walks through the burg, before anything else, signifying this (perceived/evoked) immaturity and (conveyed) sexuality, her carefree connection to a time of innocence in childhood when not a thought needed to be given to such matters. But again, the illusion of innocence even when still young is just that, and through her early conversation with a former acquaintance Charlie Venner (Susan George’s character, Amy Sumner, is from this town where they “take care of their own”, one of the more obvious and foreshadowing ironies) we learn that her past is not clean.

Dustin Hoffman’s David is likewise introduced through his physical appearance and demeanor. Embracing groceries close to his chest, he is clearly guarded; there is a great deal of fear in him, fear that shows in his jealousies (Hoffman emotes constantly and consistently in this film, playing, as is so often tried and rarely with success, to portray his feelings within the enigma of the character without words—sometimes, he tries a little too hard, and the expressions become almost caricaturish, but even when this happens, such as during an early argument with his wife, the persistence and totality in his expression conveys a certain sincerity that, although it does not undo the distracting nature of the theatrical response, it eases it, making the transition back into the reality of the film effortless.) and reluctance to get too involved as much as his physical attempts at distance. Yet, there is something deeper there, the aforementioned readiness to victimize is as much a part of him as anyone else, he shows it in the way he stares at those for whom he harbors suspicions—the hard glance, the ready stare—and, especially, in his pleasure at the humiliation of the town drunk, Venner’s uncle Tom Hedden, his wry little smile signifying what he could hardly ever unveil to himself (a smile which ironically returns at the end of the film, where it is transformed into one without mirth—watching frame by frame, it seemed I could see the moment his eyes changed from the sardonic knowingness to the melancholy nothingness as his character’s realization evolved within that moment; his last words, about not knowing his way home, was, again, an obvious phrase, but Hoffman’s [to my eyes] subtle transition in this scene saved what, on another face, might have become kitsch.). Again, there are no innocents here.

Like what are generally the best, i.e., truest, (or, at least for me, the most enjoyable) horror films, this one begins slowly, building up the tension, in part, through the duplicities of the characters that each tries to hide, but mostly through the interaction of Mr. And Mrs. Sumner. Hoffman and George portray one of the best married couples I have seen in a movie, seamlessly transitioning between playfulness, tenderness, love and selfishness. Each is their own person, each needs connection and distance, and each needs both at different times, according to their internal motivations. When they spar with their wits or in the bedroom, their love is revealed through their mutual understanding, and when they spar in order to complete some task—whether it is to finish his book, or to provoke an accusation, a call to action—they show their moments of selfishness and how the selfishness alienates each from the other, despite there being reason for that selfishness; these moments of disagreement are not put on display as empty moments, gratuitous in their manipulation of the audience, rather, they demonstrate how even in disagreement, opposing sides may both be right, and even in their rightness they may also be wrong, and it is this wrongness which causes the harm, despite the right inherent in the same action.

It is not until the halfway point that the first bit of violence emerges from the sub- to become text in the form of a rape. This horrific act is made even more unbearable with the inclusion of, if I recall correctly, the Peckinpah tendency to interleave moments of slowed motion, both recalling the true phenomena of slowed perception time during moments of seemingly avoidable terror and to disconcert the viewer by disrupting the rhythm of the film, creating a feeling of stop and go, a seasickness, of sorts, for the mind which is used to solid ground, to 24 frames per second of approximate real time which must suddenly not only contend with a new time, but with the back and forth. And like seasickness, a mental nausea overtakes the viewer, interacting with the awfulness on screen. And yet, even here, there are no innocents. Even in our horror we are culpable, even in our battle against the intractable, we can not escape our responsibility; every action made before influences what comes next. There is no justification for the action, the emotions which are revealed to be either true, or nearly perfect simulacra during a later scene, do not negate the perversion of the act, nor do the choices of the woman, but they create further complications within the mind of the viewer willing to see; they recognize that no one is free so long as anyone is around, and that to ignore this does not protect one from the consequences (after complaining that certain men are ogling her, Hoffman remarks that she can not expect to walk around without a bra and avoid the stares from disreputable men—this statement is not so much made out of judgment or chastisement as it is observation, Hoffman almost carelessly drops the line, except that he does care—that the men treat her this way is by no means right, but in a world where everyone is a predator, no one has the privilege to remain free of predation, or to expect it.)

Then, there is another lull, where the violence returns below the surface, only it is now boiling, ready to scald anyone, and again viewers are shown the empathy between the couple: even if he can not discern what is her concern, David recognizes its presence, and tries to help even as he is helpless to change what has already occurred. Certain other events transpire which inspire the raid on the Sumner home—a battle for security and simultaneous mastery as potent, if not more so, than any zombie or other attack in any other horror film. As it begins, Hoffman remarks that this is his home, it is him, and the audience is again reminded of the ultimate depravity of his character—like the house, David was home to violence even before he knew it, in the house it was revealed the rape, in him it was revealed in his shadenfreude earlier in the pub, and in both cases, the violence to come is only possible as a direct result of what was already shown, neither edifice was as idyllic as the facades made out, and the myriad violences which have happened inside each—the house is earlier revealed to be where Susan George’s, Amy spent at least some of her childhood, and we know that she has some history with Venner, even if she won’t admit this to her husband—remains mostly unknown to the viewer. Unfamiliar as I am with the rest of Peckinpah’s ouvre, I don’t know if he directed any other horror, but if he did, I surely must check it out; maybe where his other sensibilities do not meet my own, they intersect in this genre.

Sob o domínio do mêdo, título no Brasil desse suspense onde Dustin Hoffman está ótimo.
Assisti esse filme nos anos 80’ e comprei o dvd pois tenho colecionado a filmografia de Dustin Hoffman de quem sou fã com direito a foto autografada.É um filme perturbador com pessoas esquisitas fora do seu normal, com seus vícios aflorados, ora escondidos de sí mesmo. O próprio lugarejo e as pessoas não parecem gente normal, a esposa num misto de inocência e maldade aflora a sua sexualidade, ao meu ver provocando todos ao seu redor e não se importando com consequências.Será que ela gosta de sofrer? E ele (David), parece que tbm foge. De sí mesmo? Política? Filme tenso que te deixa grudado do começo até o final arrebatador.

Almost everybody I’ve talked to about Straw Dogs seems to misinterpret what Peckinpah was trying to do. Even many of it’s defenders seem to think of it as a macho film where Dustin Hoffman’s character finally stands up for himself and defends his home. Actually, Hoffman’s character is driven by more sinister forces than simply defending his wife or home. In fact, he could care less about her. He is fascinated by violence, but is also repressed and takes out his feelings on his wife. He is as barbaric as his foes, only he hides it under a hypocritical perception of himself that he is a man of science who is above violence. By the end, after his violence is unleashed, he is satisfied with himself, rather than repelled at what just happened. He knows he can never go back to the way things were, yet he doesn’t know what to do with himself either. The film is a brilliant look at how our repressed and inner most feelings lie beneath our public personas and that we’re capable of doing things that seem unimaginable. This and Peckinpah’s Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia are two of the greatest and misunderstood films ever made.

Sam Peckinpah’s Darwinian masterpiece is every geek’s nightmare: how are you going to defend your home when the demons are at your door, there aren’t any cops and witty, civilized banter just won’t cut it? That’s the quandary David Sumner (Dustin Hoffman) finds himself in after he and his hot little wife Amy (Susan George) move to the provincial English village she grew up in. David, an American mathmatician, lives the life of the mind — all numbers and logic — while his neighbors tend to be crude English louts who live strictly by survival of the ugliest. David is not a man of action in any sense — there’s some indication he came to England to get away from all those divisive battles that were ripping apart his homeland in the 1970s — and he doesn’t like confrontation, but he soon finds himself having to deal with it after hiring a group of young men to work on his house. The men, who have designs on Amy, proceed to take advantage of David’s goodwill and circle like vultures upon his wife, who actually encourages the attention, possibly because she wants to force David to find his inner animal.

Brutal, disturbing and often extremely unpleasant, it is also masterfully shot and directed. From the beginning it builds like a nightmare, and gradually erupts into a furious climax between one man waging war against his own repulsive environment, calling to mind the kind of passionately engaged and brilliantly composed action sequences you see in the greatest Japanese cinema.

This film is a deep study about what it is to be a man in a violent world. Dustin Hoffman plays a character that could be catalogued as a villain because of his hypocrisy. He wants to be violent, but he doesn’t have the courage or the power to be so, so he mistreats his wife (a spectuacular Susan George) slightly, but gradually enough to make her acknowledge the men who eventually rape her, not as scary as her husband when he decides to follow their rules and engage in violence to defend what’s his in a fierce battle at the ending. This film is to be seen more than once, since it is hard to understand Peckinpah’s statements without having seen it already, and it is a strong one, but highly recommendable if you can take a rape scene.