Consistency in theme and direction has steered Steve Buscemi’s vision behind the camera well. He has plundered any real chance to cement himself as a great of the camera. Buscemi’s legacy in front of it is unparalleled, but behind it? He is still finding his footing. That is where The Listener leaves him, finding his footing. It is where it will leave audiences attempting to understand the theme or consistent messages Buscemi hopes to craft with his work as a director. There is no denying that his work with Tessa Thompson in this one-woman showcase presents a strong opportunity, as Trees Lounge did, to understand the movement of the camera and the flow Buscemi wishes to create. The Listener comes close to figuring out that unique vision, but Buscemi still holds his cards close to his chest.
Holding firm on that unrevealing process serves The Listener extremely well. It is a feature that relies on intonation and performance just as much as it does on the slow-burning direction. More of the home Beth (Thompson) resides in is revealed as more is revealed about her life and work as a helpline screener. Buscemi’s direction focuses on the right moments, leans into the fears of the world outside of Beth’s home and creates a world of his own inside just one room. Information delivered through a headset. Audiences hear the problems that plague late-night callers but also the issues that harm the world around them. They are cogs in the machine and Buscemi does well to blur the line between accessing politically charged messages without having a comment to make on them.
In turn, it makes The Listener the perfect post-pandemic feature. A series of conversations between strangers who are unflinching in their fear or anger toward one perspective or another. Buscemi simplifies it, a little too much at times, but the constant back and forth is justified by the outcome. Whatever Buscemi and Thompson personally believe is never found on the screen, they draw themselves away from commenting truthfully and manage to find the right line. Poor arguments and processes will out themselves for the poor-quality ideas they are, and that is where Thompson’s performance as Beth holds so strongly. Much of the impact of this film comes from reaction shots or the actual act of listening. Thompson’s work adds that layer of understanding or interest in the various notes Buscemi wishes to impress with, and that he does.
By skirting the line of what is and is not political commentary, Buscemi crafts arguably the best lockdown piece. There are times when its dialogue errs on the side of ridiculous, a final-scene rap about the New World Order feels like a strange sucker punch of generalities, but the gist of it is a welcoming one. Thompson and Buscemi rattle away through the plagued minds and lonely souls of those dead-aired calls, and they do so with such intricate beauty. Scattershot memories plaguing a woman using listening as her own brand of therapy. It is as touching as it is intense, and Buscemi grounds himself in well-lit moments that highlight how strong a range Thompson has to offer. A phenomenal solo experience that verges on theatre. Buscemi and Thompson’s chemistry moves just as well as any electric stage performance.
