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"The Big Shave"

A little past close.

At the start of this six-minute Martin Scorsese film: a bathroom. White enamel. Stainless steel. Scorsese flickers through an assaultive series of insert shots of taps and drains. The first noteworthy detail of it all is that while it’s clean, it’s not spotless: we see dingy tiles, water spots, scuffs, a bit of soap-scummy grime. The faucet drips. We get all that before we move to the sink, where pops of color emerge: a red scrub-brush, a blue toothbrush and a yellow one.

“The Big Shave” will move into a nightmarish surreality, but at first, it’s only strange by virtue of intensity. Years of cinematic experience have taught us that bathrooms don’t get filmed with this kind of hypnotic pile-on of detail; there’s a stressfulness to how Scorsese hammers in the insistence that this is worth the audience’s attention. Look at it. Look at it.

It’s an ordinary bathroom, not an almost science-fictional space of eerily polished whites and chromes. (The jazzy tune, “I Can’t Get Started,” is a bit homey, like it could be pouring out of a radio.) The camera then insists this is someone’s ordinary bathroom, implying character before any real introduction.

And then, with the camera aimed at the mirror, everything goes white, just for a moment.

An ordinary man (Peter Bernuth) walks in, and with no frills, the film establishes—or pretends—that it’s an ordinary morning, one that comes with a yawn and a stretch.

Our man washes his face, takes his shirt off—we get several angles of this—and then he starts to shave. There’s an almost humorously lucid quality to this first shave, especially with Bernuth’s calm concentration. Add a mid-Atlantic voiceover, and this part feels like it could be an excerpt from some educational film teaching boys how to shave. One of the other titles of the film is “Viet ’67.” Think of all the things boys have been taught.

The man finishes his shave, but there’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead as he luxuriates in rubbing in the aftershave—and the suddenly the camera jumps to him rubbing in shaving cream all over again. If you forgot about that mirror going white, about the build-up of dread, it’s back with that nauseating lurch. Right: this bathroom is important. Something is going to happen here.

Another lather, another shave, and blood starts to flow. Nicks become unfurled ribbons of red running down Bernuth’s chin and into the drain: spot, spot, spatter, gore. It’s methodical work, and Bernuth’s character goes about it unflinchingly and with great concentration. He had his normal shave in his normal bathroom, but it wasn’t enough. He was compelled to go further, to bleed the way all this needed him to, to bleed enough to justify it. To bleed enough to not have to go out from the ordinary bathroom into the ordinary day, maybe. If it’s in part a metaphor for depression, self-harm, and suicidality, it’s bleaker than a pitch-black one: it’s red. The music stops, but the input doesn’t. It’s blaring and bright. Bernuth puts down the razor, but he is, as far as we know, still standing. Grotesquely, it feels like he still has places to go and people to see, even though he’s a bloody mess.

One of the last shots is of blood running down his bare chest, and it feels like a dark payoff for him removing his shirt. There won’t be any mess, except to him. Bathrooms are easy to clean. He can probably get it back the way it was before. (Those dingy tiles.) It also feels like a dark parody of eroticism, and that makes it as good a time as any to remember that second toothbrush. Somewhere off-screen is someone also affected by all this, someone who never even got a chance to stop it.

“The Big Shave” is streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.

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