PURE O begins with its protagonist, Cooper (in an arresting Daniel Dorr), alone in his car and in emotional extremis, listening to his own voice describing how he will murder the love of his life with the knife that is sits with an unnatural glow next to him. It is the stuff of horror films, and in this case that is what writer/director Dillon Tucker has given us, but not the usual type. The demon that has Cooper by the throat isn’t supernatural, rather, it is a type of OCD that plays and replays disturbing, sometimes violent, thoughts in his mind until he is sure that he will go insane, if he hasn’t already. By comparison, being possessed by Pazuzu might seem a welcome relief, requiring a straightforward exorcism rather than the deeply stressful personal work Cooper will have to do in the course of this film.
Cooper is lucky, relatively speaking, by having a therapist (Theresa Hayes) that finally diagnoses his depressed state as a symptom rather than condition; a perfectly logical side-effect of what is termed Pure O, a variant of OCD that does not manifest itself in rituals, but instead with impulses and thoughts that not only unsettle, but also cut the sufferer off from a world that he or she is convinced would be, ahem, horrified by what is going on in his or her head. Cooper is also lucky in having Emily (Hope Lauren), the fiancé who has been with him for 8 years and is ready to see them both through this challenge. Something she proves in one of the film’s most discomfiting sequences involving that knife and the therapist.
Told with a semi-documentary style that juxtaposes the naturalism of la vie quotidian with the all-consuming inner conflict at work, it follows Cooper’s struggles with a steady, unsentimental eye. It makes his breakthrough moments exhilarating, while the vulnerability of absolute honesty with those he loves most takes on an emotional intimacy that is almost too much to bear. The performances, particularly by Dillon and Lauren, are natural and unfussy, but are emotionally resonant and immediate, drawing us into their lives with their gentle rapport that allows for the reality of squabbles that intrude in even the best relationships.
Tucker, who has Pure O himself, uses small moments to drive the narrative rather than moments of high drama, but those moments add up. When Cooper has an emotional outburst, he’s earned it, and the script has earned the right to show him screaming alone in his car, pounding the steering wheel as an outlet for the pain he is experiencing for situations out of his control. Thanks to Dorr’s sense of immediacy, Cooper is no less affecting when channeling his own struggles into counseling clients at the rehab center where he found work when his screenwriting career stalled. Offering hope and validation to a teenager (Landry Bender) who’s relapsed, there is nothing perfunctory in his delivery of the standard advice with a conviction that shows his investment in helping people even if he can’t quite believe that he can help himself.
PURE O ventures tentatively into the land of convenient coincidence, but it does nothing to lessen the impact of this raw look at a condition that can debilitate so completely, and the lifeline that community can extend. It makes itself universal, too, by subtly interweaving a theme of control, illuminating even for those of us not on the spectrum, the power of both taking charge and letting go. And of the necessity.
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