It’s a situation we all know too well – we’re in the presence of a couple who have been together for a considerable amount of time. Once the pleasantries and small-talk have concluded, the tensions start to rise, and the underlying animosity that exists begins to simmer into a potent combination of angst and awkwardness. This situation is evoked early on in Black Bear, the ambitious psychological thriller by Lawrence Michael Levine, which dives into the minds of a trio of characters who are gathered at a remote chateau somewhere in the woods, and forced to endure the company of people who they grow to despise. The inconsequential banter becomes enormous arguments, and they begin to question whether what they’re seeing around them is reality, or if its just some warped construction of their minds, playing tricks on them all for the sake of dismantling their preconceived notions of the world. Levine truly makes quite a statement with Black Bear, a film that feels so effortlessly fresh and fascinating, and much like Always Shine, a film made by Sophia Takal, the director’s personal and professional companion, we’re given glimpses into the minds of characters who seem ordinary, but conceal such a sinister streak, simply seeing their brutal games of manipulation on screen is enough to chill any viewer to the core, and instantly makes Black Bear one of the year’s most bewildering works, a postmodern excursion into the inner depths of a broken relationship and the outsider who weasels her way into their lives, then subverting this story and presenting it as a masterful satire that may be thoroughly polarizing, but keeps the audience guessing right until the final moments that stand out as both terrifying and oddly cathartic, proving how independent cinema can sometimes touch on certain themes that will leave anyone reeling in despair, and entirely captivated on the journey they’ve been invited on.

It’s a very peculiar but common trope that works very well when done properly – a stranger finds their way to a secluded location, normally a countryside manner, where they’re greeted by the occupant(s) of the home, who is initially very inviting and prove to be infallible when it comes to hosting guests – but it isn’t long before the truth of the visit becomes clear, and the communication descends into chaos, normally flirting with truly nefarious content, and often even outright getting there. Perhaps the work that consolidated this was Antony Shaffer’s Sleuth, which made the concept of telling a story through the mental games of two characters so thoroughly compelling. It inspired a range of other films, and as we’ve seen in recent years, there has been a rise of films, mostly aligned with the independent movement, that seems to be inspired by such stories, adding in elements of gritty realism aligned with John Cassavetes, and the psychological despair of Ingmar Bergman, to create vivid portraits of mental instability and malice. Black Bear is certainly part of this sub-genre, and it often makes a legitimate case to be one of its finest entries, since its slow-burning complexity and refusal to resort to placating the unsettling atmosphere inherent with this kind of story, makes it fertile ground for an insightful investigation of some harrowing issues that don’t normally find their way to mainstream film. Some have categorized this as a dark comedy, which does hold some credence, but only if we’re looking at this amongst the small group of psychological thrillers with a hint of humour, which only serves to incite even more despair, and occasionally outright confusion, into the unsuspecting viewer, who may be at a complete loss in determining where this story is headed – but you’d struggle to find a film that presented you with such a compelling journey along the way.

The concept of the journey being more captivating than the destination is another great entry-point into understanding Black Bear and other films of its ilk. Levine isn’t someone particularly concerned with providing answers, instead caring more about giving the viewer an experience. As a result, logic is almost entirely dismissed in favour of capturing a particular atmosphere, with the paced narrative (which is divided into two segments, “Bear in the Road” and “Bear in the Boathouse”, both of which are incredibly compelling short-films on their own, and work incredibly well in contrast with each other) unfolding quietly and steadily. It does require some degree of suspension of disbelief, since there are some broad artistic liberties taken in the endeavour to challenge some primordial notions of existence – and where else can we find a dialogue-driven drama that manages to question the very fabric of our lives and how we perceive reality, than in the world of independent filmmaking? Ultimately, Black Bear isn’t going to be to the taste of every viewer, since it can be quite disconcerting and has a concerning amount of disdain for humanity, since not a single character in the film comes across as likeable. However, it manages compensates for this through a very particular set of stylistic and narrative curios that make this such a thrilling, encompassing journey, we can easily dismiss the feelings of discomfort – or if you’re truly invested in what this film is selling, then you may just embrace those sensations and go along for the ride, which is certainly a great way to venture deep into the demented world that Levine and his collaborators were putting together with this wonderfully insidious little drama that has some incredible heft that we may not expect based on a cursory glance.

Integral to this film are the characters – and Levine casts three very promising stars that have found a lot of success in independent filmmaking, despite each one having done more mainstream work, which perhaps didn’t always make the best use of their talents, but at least gave them enough leeway to allure casual viewers towards this film. It’s not common that we find nearly the entire central cast to be on equal par, but the combination of Aubrey Plaza (abandoning the dry, deadpan persona she is most known for, and instead embracing a very strong dramatic performance that shows how gifted she is with more serious material), Christopher Abbott and Sarah Gadon, is simply too strong to ignore, each one delivering masterful performances that are far beyond the kinds of roles they often tend to play. Plaza is the central figure in the film, playing Allison, an actress-turned-director (or in the second segment, vice versa), with a conviction that even the most ardent fans of the actress may not have expected. Her incredible expressivity and willingness to descend into complete anarchy with the character makes this a truly impressive performance, with her self-awareness being used very creatively and with a dedication that is often quite bewildering, considering allegations that she tends to play the same kind of character across all her projects. Gadon plays her polar opposite, a cheerful and lovable young woman who brings light wherever she goes – but as the film progresses, we see that there is something very sinister about her, which not only piques our curiosity but gradually forces us to address a very unlikeable character that may be the cruellest in the entire film. Between them is Christopher Abbott, who is perhaps the sole factor keeping the conversation that Black Bear is a dark comedy alive, since he gives two wildly different performances, both of them incredibly funny in an otherwise dark and brooding psychological thriller. The personification of these characters is truly compelling, and immediately makes this film worth watching, since not only does it have an incredibly strong story, but is clearly willing to characterize beyond the confines of what was expected, which is always a tremendous merit when it comes to independent filmmaking.

Black Bear is certainly not an easy film – in fact, it has a tendency to be quite uncomfortable, with its very peculiar sense of humour being overtaken by a dark and unsettling portrayal of the human condition. It’s not a film that lets the audience off the hook very easily, refusing to give us what we expect, or even what we feel we deserve. It goes in many different directions, and can often be entirely impenetrable, with its plot – divided into two segments only loosely related – being a bewildering jumble of moments that converge into something quite polarizing. However, like any complex work of art, we simply can’t look away when submerged in this world, venturing deeper into this story that may only be marginally related to reality, constantly on the precipice of being something significant, and achieving it only in the final few moments, when the message embedded in the film becomes increasingly clear. The film meanders quite a bit, but never feels aimless – instead, it takes up the necessary space to convey its peculiar meaning, doing it through oscillating equally between highly-intellectual ramblings and harrowing, vaguely-horrifying demonstrations of the human mind gradually deteriorating. Substance abuse, the lives of artists and infidelity are all resonant themes woven into the fabric of this film, and a wonderfully irreverent portrayal of the limits of our imagination, and how sometimes (as I’ve said many times before), the boundaries between fiction and reality may not be as clear as we’d expect.