In a scene deep into the second act of Australian comedy anthology The Little Death, a man and his girlfriend walk back to their car in a parking garage following a romantic dinner. They’re stopped by a pair of thugs who glower at them, take their wallets and phones, and then smash the gentleman over the head with a glass bottle. The thugs grab the woman and drag her into a secluded corner…and anyone who reads the news can guess what comes next. But when another man steps in to complete this woman’s rape, it becomes clear that what initially appeared to be a crime is actually a sincere expression of devotion, commitment and love.
The woman in “danger” is Maeve (Bojana Novakovic), and she has a rape fetish. Her boyfriend Paul (Josh Lawson, pulling triple-duty after directing and scripting this delightful, warm film) has gone to extensive lengths to orchestrate this scenario despite the fact that his lover’s boldly un-PC kink repulses him, because that’s what lovers do in The Little Death. (Among this film’s chief virtues is its understanding of the massive gulf separating rape jokes and jokes about rape.) Lawson’s film jumps around between five different couples united in their assortment of sexual deviancies, the suburban block that they call home, and poorly timed visits from a friendly sex offender legally mandated to introduce himself to his new neighbors. The vignettes revolve around the need to service sexual desires that fly in the face of logic and propriety, and Lawson deftly spins each one into a poignant illustration of romantic love and the communication, honesty and compromises that nourish it. You’d have to really love someone, Lawson suggests, to buy different cologne so that your blindfolded girlfriend can’t tell you’re the one raping her.
While this hypersexualized riff on Wild Tales is at its best when depicting the tenderness and sweet intentions of Maeve and Paul, most of the remaining sketches also capably put a clever concept into practice. With title cards that define the sexual terms coming into play—some, like the card that explains “dacryphilia” as a crying fetish, prove more educational than others—the sketches illustrate how the base, utterly human need to get one’s rocks off can drive a wedge in or solidify a relationship. That term factors into the relationship between Rowena (Kate Box) and Richard (Patrick Brammall) when she realizes that expressions of sadness from her husband really flip her switches, and consequently begins subtly pressing her husband into despondency. Spouses Dan (Damon Herriman) and Evie (Kate Mulvany) give role-playing a go, and Dan takes to it with the brio and dedication to craft of a regional theater director. Before long, he’s constructing sets in their garage and pulling all-nighters parsing out character motivations for his scripts.
Elsewhere, a henpecked older man (Alan Dukes) learns that the only pleasant time he spends with his shrewish wife (Lisa McCune) happens when she’s asleep, and begins dosing her evening tea with a shady Thai night-night pill. Finally, a woman employed by a service that uses Skype to mediate phone calls for deaf people must have secondhand phone sex on behalf of a handsome young man. It’s a clever hook, but uncharacteristically drippy sentimentality as well as an abominable song choice mark it as the weakest of the bunch. As the final sketch in this loose anthology, it give the film a sickeningly saccharine finishing note.
Still, that weak link only underscores the strength and maturity of the previous four. Even though the film’s mind has long since been nailed down into the gutter, The Little Death plays it light with actual obscenity. Private parts are seen in fleeting glances, and the dirty talk generally sticks to polite terminology. Lawson’s not aiming to scandalize audiences; he’s directing a rom-com. His sketches illustrate relationships functional and dys-, but in both instances, selflessness bonds or breaks the couples. The willingness to put a partner’s sexual preferences ahead of personal comfort (within reason—Evie pulls the plug on her role-playing when she learns Dan has dropped thousands on a sophisticated camera) is the highest expression of love in Lawson’s world. Conversely, those characters sneaking around to get their unconventional kicks only find salvation when they open up about their erotic predilections. Healthy relationships, it seems, can be built around some nasty shit, so long as the foundation is affection. Love means never having to say your safeword.
