Zoo (2007) -

Hmm. An abstracted, ostensibly poetic documentary treatment of the sensational story of a Washington state man who died of internal injuries after his colon was ruptured while he was being anally penetrated by an Arabian stallion. The film takes a highly stylized approach to the subject, using heavily shadowed and obliquely filmed reenactments, overlaid with overlapping generally unidentified voiceovers, to sculpt a narrative portrait of both the situation and "the scene" of contemporary zoophilia. As a film, it's generally well done, and thoughtfully so. And yet I'm left wondering what the film actually accomplishes. The narrative styling shrouds the scenario in such mystery -- if I hadn't read the summary I don't know when I would have clued into what actually happened -- so that the film sorta gets off easy when the narrative (available from any newspaper account) finally falls into place: the narrative satisfaction of finally seeing the contours of the story ends up, to my mind at least, feeling more substantial than it actually is. Likewise, the voice of the horse rescue person (the single featured female voice in the film) ends up bearing a curious weight as she ponders what she describes as being "at the edge of understanding" zoophilia. The aural distinctiveness of her "normal" and female voice at the edges of this shadowy world of male perverts ends up lending a strangely substantial freight to her basically banal insight: they loved their critters and took that love farther than I would ever imagine. I find the film disappointing for the way it takes this fascinating story and boils it down to banalities. Are "zoo" folk kinksters? Or queers? Or predators? What of this subculture of kinship among erotic outcasts? How do these guys maneuver their erotic interests in relation to other more conventional sexual identities? What are the dimensions of "zoo" culture? Is it an exclusively male preserve? Are there refined distinctions between watchers and doers? (I'm especially struck by the fact that guys from the scene paid for "Coyote" to come out from West Virginia, as well as the fact that the one guy really needed MrHands to come out that night.) We get glancing glimpses of some of the dimensions of the subculture but the film's formal strategy does not oblige any real exploration. Instead, we get a ponderously pensive (and I would suggest blandly superficial) meditation on these themes, one which affords few insights. It's too bad, really. A fascinating story diminished by a skittish/squeamish documentary treatment.