Given their interest in depicting lonely people in isolated places, involved in bizarre situtations, it was only a matter of time before Paul Schrader and novelist Ian McEwan collaborated. Less destined is that Schrader, whose fame as a writer preempted his directorial career, would work on an adapted screenplay for a second film in a row after writing five of his first six pictures. Yet, the types of characters in Patty Hearst and The Comfort of Strangers are the main attraction for Schrader, and adapting their screenplays allows him to explore his themes in vastly different ways than his own writing style would permit. In this case, the setting of Venice and the spatial elegance of the production design seems far removed from Schrader’s usual urban underbellies and flashes of extreme violence, although both of these elements exist in McEwan’s novel, albeit psychologically. In an interview about the film, Schrader noted that McEwan’s work follows a literary tradition in which British characters visit exotic locales, where their experiences shake their beliefs to the core. This must also have been an exciting prospect for Schrader not only to expand his directorial horizons, but also to understand how people from different backgrounds and cultures react to foundations of their world crumbling beneath them.

The Comfort of Strangers focuses on a young, unmarried couple, Mary and Colin, who are vacationing in Venice and who have been together long enough that there is a certain reassurance in their relationship. Not much, in their eyes, appears to threaten them; this can be both a relief and a boredom. As they stroll through the ghostly alleys and vast canals of Venice, the eerie beauty of the city sets the tone as both a peaceful and malevolent force. When the two visit St. Mark’s Basilica, Mary remarks how beautiful its structure is and Colin passively comments that she made the same remark last time they visited the famous church. Mary takes offense at this, thinking Colin unfeeling and indifferent toward her, which he does seem to be. This seemingly insignificant exchange shows the first spark of true discontent between the pair, a discontent that will continue to grow as they wander somewhat aimlessly and without passion. What exactly are they doing in Venice and can their views of the other be improved in any way? The force that changes the course of their vacation and relationship is as unexpected and unsettling as possible, although it takes time for this threat to be revealed after it first presents as a gift.

Schrader has explored the idea that something helpful can also be a major hindrance before, most notably in Mishima. That film’s main theme was that beauty is such a powerful force, it can corrupt and pervert the very thing it intends to ameliorate. Yukio Mishima’s obsession with beauty in terms of political and personal potential led him to self-harm as a result of understanding how far short of his own standards he would fall. In Comfort, McEwan’s explores this notion by how beauty can create and destroy relationships between men and women; at first bringing them together and, in the end, driving them apart. In the film, this opposition is personified by Christopher Walken’s mysterious, oddly captivating Robert, whose bizarre accent and uncanny ability to show up right when the young couple needs a jolt elicits in the audience a sense of uncertainty, intrigue and menace. Inititally he charms them with private nightclubs, friendly conversation and the opportunity to rest at his oppulent home. The menace is slowly revealed when he tells Mary and Colin stories about his father and grandfather, which are repeated throughout the film as a sort of philosophy that is the bedrock for Robert’s relationships, especially with his wife Caroline. As he speaks proudly and defiantly, those who listen are both perplexed and fascinated — they cannot quite ascertain whether Robert’s stories are a threat, or an attempt to correct those who might disagree.

Walken’s weirdness is made palatable by the young couple’s acceptance of him as simply an English-speaking Venetian willing to help them navigate their way through the city. However, what Schrader soon reveals is that he is more interested in using Walken and Helen Mirren, who plays his wife, Caroline, as both counterweights and impediments to the supposed goals of Mary and Colin. Our reasons for liking the young couple may stem from their physical beauty, their emotional vulnerability, their hesitancy in committing more strongly to one another, or some combination of all three. To most people, their situation is more realistic, but interactions with such unusual people like Robert and Caroline are destined to be impactful. Given the inevitability of this plot structure, Schrader is able to focus more on the set design and camera style of Comfort than almost any film he has ever made, except perhaps Mishima. Opening shots of what we later learn is Robert’s apartment are luxurious: the camera slowly glides under the ornate ceiling tiles, across the massive Renaissance paintings and murals, and through the deliciously-colored, spacious rooms that are so big they eventually open up to either a canal or enormous terrace overlooking a body of water. It truly does feel like paradise, and as Walken tells us about his father in the opening voiceover, one gets the feeling that perhaps all we are seeing is merely eye candy meant to distract and keep us from focusing on the real issue at hand: domineering parents and a palpable fear in children that leads to strange behavior in adults.

If such a theme does lie at the heart of Walken and Mirren’s eccentricities, the question to ask is what does all of this behavior mean? Is there a larger point McEwan is attempting to get across to the audience other than kinkiness is a form of normalcy for those unable to relate to others in a more civilized way? As Schrader has noted, the main theme of McEwan’s novel is that men and women are more incompatible than not, and there is no rational way to correct this. Whether or not this is true, the idea does give this film a real gravitas regarding how men and women should behave with the opposite sex. Walken’s character declares this most astutely when Robert declares men like his father and grandfather were taken seriously by women because they lacked ambiguity and had strong-armed sensibilities. In many of his monologues, one gets the faint feeling that Robert is directing these ideas at Colin, as if there is something uncertain about him as a man. Rupert Everrett, who portrays Colin, is and was at the time openly gay, although it is not exactly clear if there is a correlation between these two ideas. Still, the thought that this could be one of the subtle themes of the film makes it all the more interesting. What remains at the forefront, quite overtly, is how two very different couples’ views of sex, intimacy, conversation and relations collide and, in this case, implode with dire results. It is difficult to decipher just what McEwan, Schrader or even screenwriter Harold Pinter, intended. All three had strong opinions not just on the interpretation of the story’s events but also how those events should be laid out and the larger points those would make to the audience. In the same interview, Schrader noted that working on Comfort was a unique opportunity for him as a filmmaker; a risk he was glad to take because he does not believe another script like that would come his way and doubts he could make a film like this again. As different as it is in many ways from Schrader’s previous works, it does tie in with regards to the isolation and self-destructive nature of the characters and their lack of understanding their individual roles in the larger scheme of society. Such issues most likely will never be fully resolved — complexities not even Venice can make clear — and can only raise questions rather than answer them.