Nawapol Thamrongrattanarit’s “Human Resource” is a sedate drama whose fissures can be felt curling just under the surface. The pacing is glacial, and we have to prise meaning and intentionality out of what the film postures as unruffled. There are deep chasms, fault lines running through, rendering a web of complicity and moral dodginess. Fren (Prapamonton Eiamchan) is absorbed in her HR work, screening candidates for an opening. But there’s something that’s tugging her. In a late capitalist economy, satisfaction and happiness are all but illusory, forever suspended and inciting a deepening disillusionment.
Fren has crossed a few weeks of pregnancy. As much as she tries to mask it and keep her cool, it roils up. We observe her as she goes about a string of interviews, the gaze steadfastly mundane and muted. A colleague hasn’t been coming to work without prior intimation. She cannot be reached either. So, the pressure on Fren compounds. Then, there’s her married life with Thame (Paopetch Charoensook), who forcefully pushes his sexual pleasure, almost indifferent to her. She is compliant with everything he stresses, staying up late to pick him up from work.
He’s the talker in the relationship, blind to his casually controlling impulses. Charoensook is terrific at tapping an odious entitlement entirely lacking in self-awareness. A drive through a one-way lane recurs often, underlining the stark differences between the couple, flashing the tension in the two’s opposing approaches. While she’s more than happy to cede space, he wants them not to budge. He is insistent on holding onto their position, whereas she stays obliging.
At no point does “Human Resource” take a declamatory stance in expressing what’s on its mind. There are grave, sobering preoccupations and anxieties here, much to do with how the world is and where it’s headed. The protagonist’s passivity, her espousal of an unwavering, unreadable front, compels us to fill in the blanks ourselves. The agency of intuition is very much left to us. What exactly is Fren feeling at a given time?
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Eiamchan has a complex role. There is a precise ambit within which Fren expresses. She keeps herself controlled and contained, placing a firm lid on the churn within. But you can sense the strain, an emotional vortex insisting on exerting itself. Her responses come across as a mystery to be decoded, a puzzle to untangle. Layers of tight concealment hold within a persona that gradually reveals itself. Fren hides the pregnancy from her husband as well. It’s only when an urgent crisis hits them that the fact emerges.
He is enthused about the child, but she’s conflicted. The world is vicious, unrelenting, demanding an intense toll on a daily basis. There’s no mercy or redemption to be found. The harshness and disconsolation sweep through every waking encounter. Each interview she and her colleague conduct brings them into bristling contact with all kinds of vicissitudes. The quest for an ideal candidate involves finding one who’ll be ready to slaver and throw themselves into endless exploitation.
At the office, Fren struggles to keep up with an unpleasant boss, the kind that puts everyone on the constant edge of a breakdown. But unlike her colleague, she doesn’t lash out or vent. She’s perennially subdued, perfecting the art of stoicism. She tries to whittle out all emotional facets of herself, the way the boss would like it. There’s also a thick wrapping of loneliness she’s cast in.
This fundamental isolation gnawing at her is so private that she cannot really convey it. Thamrongrattanarit is averse to handing out a psychological key, but a telling scene with Fren’s mother succinctly suggests a more detailed behavioural outline of her. Fren is advised not to be a people pleaser any longer for the sake of her child, if not anything. Her reticence springs from absolute submission, muffling any resentment and grievance she must be having. Even when the colleague she hangs with most is done caving to a tyrannical boss, Fren doesn’t twitch.
There are these abscesses at the heart of “Human Resource,” wherein lie triggers for us to look through and unravel. Fren goes about the day listlessly, disconnected despite appearing invested in what’s asked of her. Her husband looks past what she may actually seek to convey. His self-absorption drives up invisible walls between them. At times while watching the film, we may be edged out into drifting, but Thamrongrattanarit never lets his sharp, austere focus drop for cheap, exaggerated drama. This unblinkingly sober film drills effectively into a psyche in a balance between watchfulness and rigorous, implicit pushback.