Heaven is overrated — there's nothing there

UNCLE BOONMEE WHO CAN RECALL HIS PAST LIVES (2010)

Not too long ago I took a gander at Citizen Dog, the gaudy, heavy-handed romance from Thai “New Wave” director Wisit Sasanatieng that was perhaps a few steps outside of my usual boundary of weirdness, but intriguing nonetheless. However – I brought this up in my review for Citizen Dog and I’ll mention it again here – there’s often a cultural barrier in films like Dog that protrudes front and center, preventing me from fully grasping the story’s sum and substance, and ultimately taking away from whatever the director is trying to get across. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives – the slightly deceiving, but clever title from Apichatpong Weerasethakul – is my second venture into Thai film, and while I found myself hitting the same barrier that seems to be housing Buddhist customs and beliefs that are just beyond me, the contemplative tone of Boonmee is far more refreshing than Dog’s – although the two are quite different.

Since Boonmee won the prestigious Palme d'Or during this year’s Cannes Film Festival, I’ve been scanning through several articles about the film and its director, one in which Weerasethakul calls Boonmee a lamentation, one particularly aimed at the deterioration of cinema itself – but in a way, Weerasethakul is also lamenting on a more intimate level. From what I understand, Weerasethakul is a very personal filmmaker, so themes pertaining to his own life usually echo through his films. He’s also known for scrutinizing Western misconceptions of Thai culture. So with that bit of history, Boonmee becomes interesting, because one can then infer that a political message may have been tacked on behind the superfluous religious connotations, but that doesn’t seem to be what Weerasethakul’s going for here. Or does it?

The narrative structure of Boonmee itself is daunting, but not wholly unconventional. Uncle Boonmee (Thanapat Saisaymar) is nearing death, and upon reaching it is visited by his city slicker sister-in-law (Jenjira Pongpas) and her apathetic nephew (Sakda Kaewbuadee). But before meeting them, we’re momentarily introduced to an ox that may or may not be the vessel of one of Boonmee’s past lives. The unspoken angle of Boonmee is this: Uncle Boonmee, on his deathbed, is recalling his past “lives”, or – from my perspective – past memories of deceased wife Huay (Natthakarn Aphaiwong) and long-lost son Boonsong (Jeerasak Kulhong). Both have returned in – more or less – otherworldly forms to help Boonmee approach his fate peacefully.

The idea of Boonmee’s “past lives” translated as literal reincarnations is also touched on, but vaguely: specifically Boonmee as a catfish who performs cunnilingus on a disfigured princess; or is Boonmee the receiver in this vignette? Ultimately, the story meets the inevitable, but climaxes on two peculiar out-of-body experiences that hike up the film’s eerie, atmospheric tone and then proceeds to roll end credits against an unbefitting Thai pop song.

Cryptic as it may be, Boonmee has a message, and while it may reside within our own – perhaps flawed – theoretical conjectures, it’s there. Subjectivity reigns in this film to a sickening degree and it's truly absorbing. There’s so little to take from the characters themselves, but plenty offered in the film's pensive ambience. Usually when a film lacks character development it’s a failure in my book, but the characters here are – to be frank – dispensable; Boonmee’s governed by themes – the characters are merely tools used to propel those themes.

Weerasethakul’s introspective fantasy presents notions of loneliness and confinement, living and dying, all engulfed by whims of reincarnation and visions of talking catfish – making it appear more obscure and enigmatic than it needs to be, but fascinating enough to command your attention. For the most part, Boonmee is a cerebral piece on the human condition, and although it promotes dull protagonists and meanders along a fairly uneventful path, I relished the pleasure of actually being able to take something away from it.

7.5/10

The only person standing in your way is you

BLACK SWAN (2010)

I suppose audiences were drawn to melodrama during the Golden Age of cinema. Back when the big studios were just emerging, society craved the sort of histrionic kitsch we'd probably deem "dated" nowadays. These days it’s all about shock value and controversy; the raw elements of cinema. Personally, I’d take realism over formalism any day, but I do often miss those grandiose films of the postwar period – not to mention their over-the-top directors; Powell and Pressburger, specifically. In 1948, they released an impressive rendition of Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Red Shoes” that presented a stark, but vivid contemplation of ambition and obsession. That film, in my mind, is a masterpiece, because we’re immediately transported into a realm of mythos and intrigue that remains taut throughout, symbolic to a fault, has no bearing on reality whatsoever, yet still retains a timeless message.

Darren Aronofsky’s (Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler) latest film Black Swan – which, in many ways is congruent with Red Shoes, but also dabbles in darker motifs parallel to Dostoyevsky’s “The Double” and other doppelganger folklore – is a little trickier. It’s like a potent cocktail mixed with shots of reality and fantasy that leaves behind an odd taste. Like Red Shoes, Black Swan follows an obsessed dancer who strains herself mentally by trying to perfect her craft. However, while Red Shoes is aware that virtually every frame is there to convey some form of melodramatic effect, Black Swan sort of wavers between laughable theatrics and heavier themes one would expect to find in an understated drama.

The framework of this film is bewildering. Aronofsky’s style and direction are near immaculate, but he really drops the ball when it comes to tone and delivery. But I’ll give him this: I can think of few directors who would handle such an unusual plight in the remarkably ominous way he has; and he almost pulls it off.

Swan is told through the eyes of Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), a reserved, but inspired ballerina who yearns to be featured as the Swan Queen in her ballet company’s upcoming production of “Swan Lake”. Opportunity knocks when artistic director Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) decides to give prima ballerina Beth MacIntyre (Winona Ryder) the ax in order to steer “Swan Lake” in a more contemporary direction. And in spite of her demure and “controlled” method, Leroy chooses to reward Sayers with the esteemed role of her dreams.

The actual production of “Swan Lake” entails that the soft-spoken ballerina master dual performances as both the innocent White Swan and her malicious twin sister, the Black Swan. When Sayers – who's apt and well-suited for the White Swan – encounters a dash of rivalry in newcomer Lily (Mila Kunis) – who exemplifies the Black Swan’s sensual characteristics – her resolve is put to the test. Facing pressure from her fanatical mother (Barbara Hershey), Leroy’s uncertainty, and her inferiority to Lily’s effortless carriage, Sayers begins to suffer from violent hallucinations that ultimately hinder preparations for her big debut.

To say Portman delivers one of the most vulnerable performances of the past decade would be an understatement. She absolutely carries this film by employing herself with the burdensome task of transforming Swan into a dark meditation on perfection and individualism. She fully embodies Nina Sayers, allowing the audience to interpret her coyness and introvert qualities as an inner struggle to balance the good and evil necessary to personify both swans. As Portman tries to tap into her dark side onstage, Aronofsky thrusts Nina into an eerie world outside of the ballet studio by incorporating disturbing visuals that harshly exaggerate the troubled ballerina’s plight.

Darkening the mood and providing leeway for Nina’s sexual awakening is Kunis’ unabashed Lily. Adequately performed, Kunis manages to convince us that she is the Black Swan that Nina seems ill-suited for. Surprisingly, she’s handed the most challenging role in the film – fence-straddling between Nina’s tainted view of Lily and the genuine, presumably harmless Lily – but for some reason, Kunis doesn’t seem to broaden the character at all; and that's counting seducing Nina in a scene that – believe it or not – felt a bit tame if not completely uninspired.

A definitive verdict for Black Swan is difficult to hand down because the film essentially transcends genre. Not since Tarkovsky’s Solaris have I had this much trouble classifying a film, and perhaps that can be taken as compliment. Aronofsky seems to know what Swan is going for – be it a raunchy b-movie or provocative drama – but it's never clarified. His use of steadicam amplifies the gritty worldview we see through Nina’s eyes, suggesting a visceral approach, but then we see Nina experiencing some questionable – even silly – hallucinations that highlight a good portion of the film. The score’s orchestral whimsy only further complicates defining the tone here, but of course, being undefined isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Thought-provoking, but not in the way one would – or should – expect, Black Swan is by no means a masterpiece, but a head-scratcher. Aronofsky's bizarre angle on this all-too-familiar tale hampered my ability to take away anything remotely profound from the film, but the way it’s handled – technically – is worth commending. It’s the skeleton of a far more daring piece that, in the hands of Lynch or even Haneke, could have been spellbinding, but Aronofsky proves more than adept in offering a satisfying thrill ride that certainly leaves an impression.

8/10

Bread makes you fat?

SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD (2010)

I’ll admit. Diving headfirst into the colorful and eccentric world of “Scott Pilgrim” wasn’t exactly an experience I was looking forward to. For starters, I walked in knowing zilch about the source material – penned by Canadian cartoonist Bryan Lee O'Malley – and the mere presence of Michael Cera – who plays the titular character – was off-putting enough. Be that as it may, I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to video games; especially of the old-school Nintendo variety (I practically grew up with their franchises) so once the Mario and Zelda references began popping up left and right, I was sold. Even Cera, who usually grates on my nerves, was fairly tolerable here. Sure, the film may be catered more towards the graphic novel’s fanbase, but it’s also a picturesque ode to the side-scrolling classics of yesteryear.

As I mentioned above, I’m completely unfamiliar with the “Scott Pilgrim” series, but apparently all six of O’Malley’s graphic novels are covered in Edgar Wright’s (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) screen adaptation – however it's not difficult for "Pilgrim" neophytes to follow. It’s the typical “boy meets girl of his dreams” paradigm that we’ve come across in hordes of banal, cliched films over the past several decades, except here “dream girl” has a considerable amount of baggage capable of pulverizing her potential suitors.

The suitor at risk happens to be Scott Pilgrim (Michael Cera), a 22-year old slacker and bass-guitarist for a band called Sex-Bob-omb, which consists of old high-school chums Stephen Stills (Mark Webber), Kim Pine (Allison Pill) and substitute bassist Young Neil (Johnny Simmons). In a pretty desperate attempt to cope after getting dumped by his ex-girlfriend (Brie Larson), Pilgrim begins dating 17-year-old Knives Chau (Ellen Wong), but eventually loses interest in the high-schooler soon after meeting the elusive Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead). Quickly realizing that Flowers is literally the girl of his dreams, Pilgrim decides to break up with Knives; leaving her devastated and vindictive. However, once these two polar opposites are officially an item, a “league” of Ramona’s seven evil exes set out to destroy Scott and reclaim control over his dream girl's love life.

In all honesty, I loved this film. Cera and his charismatic cohorts managed to keep me interested throughout and the nostalgia fuel was refilled frame after frame. You have to respect Wright’s unfettered approach here; the visuals are insane and the lighting-fast editing only adds to the film’s high moments. As far as the acting goes, the battle sequences are where Cera really shines and surprises. Who knew the boy was capable of emoting? You can actually detect a sense of ambition across his face during these scenes. He trades in his bland, formulaic acting style for an unexpectedly expressive display of valor and pluck. Color me impressed.

My only qualm with Scott Pilgrim is its poor portrayal of women. Of course, I realize that Pilgrim’s universe is highly unrealistic, but the message this film seems to relay is that guys can basically cheat on their girlfriends and the cheated party will come out of the ordeal hunky-dory, perfectly amicable and having “never felt better.” That bit just rubbed me the wrong way, but of course, this isn’t the type of film one probes into. Bouncing off that sentiment, Ramona’s character seemed a tad underdeveloped; that is, in terms of further explaining the antecedents behind her – ahem – many relationships. Again, I haven’t read the graphic novels, so all sorts of little and/or significant details could have been scrapped for the sake of time.

All in all, Scott Pilgrim is fluff, but enjoyable fluff. It’s similar to playing Super Mario Bros. on speed with hints of mellow Beck riffs strumming in the background. I wouldn’t call it my favorite of 2010, but it definitely meets the standards of your quintessential popcorn flick.

8.5/10

Life is like a game of chess

EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP (2010)

I have a huge amount of respect for artists like van Gough who kept their work extremely personal; the type who never really cared much for fame or wealth and created art merely for the sake of creating art – allowing time itself to establish their importance. Then there's Banksy, who I’ll admit, is gifted, but also goes against some of the movements he’s claimed to support. I’ve accepted his debut documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop as a farce, an outlet he’s utilized to propagandize society’s more susceptible nature, but in turn he's also stained his artistic integrity by displaying a fascination with status, international distinction and controversy – let's not forget the pink elephant in the room.

While the idea of artistic liberation via street art intrigues me, it really all boils down to a desire for recognition, and perhaps what that recognition will eventually blossom into; and to be frank, Banksy has generated a fair bit of recognition, become a global phenomenon, and now he's laughing all the way to the bank. I’m not calling Banksy a hack – although for an “anti-capitalist”, he certainly doesn’t mind profiting from his empire – but his critical expose on pseudo-documentarian Thierry Guetta (AKA, Mister Brainwash) is almost hypocritical.

For a documentary that supposedly observes the lifestyle of the elusive Banksy, Gift Shop oddly surrounds itself around Guetta, the man behind the camera who follows, and in a sense collects documentations of several illustrious street artists from around the world. We learn that Guetta is a French immigrant, a family man with a wife and two kids, and owns a vintage clothing shop in Los Angeles. He also has a unique obsession with videotaping virtually everything he comes across. This “passion” is what ultimately leads him into the innovative world of street art.

He’s introduced to a number of prominent figures in the street art scene including Shepard Fairey – the man behind the “OBEY” campaign and those influential “HOPE” posters – and even discovers that his own cousin "Invader" is an infamous street artist in France. He begins filming these artists under the pretense that he’s compiling footage for a documentary; a documentary he has no intention of ever creating. But soon enough, his “weird” enthusiasm pays off and he finally meets the most private street artist in the field – Banksy. After becoming acquainted, Banksy spontaneously challenges the inexperienced Guetta to host his own exhibition of street art; street art that he’s suddenly capable of producing. Guetta undertakes the daunting assignment which surprisingly turns out to be a huge success. But has Banksy created a revolutionary artiste or a fame-hungry monster?

Trust me. I’m on the same page as Banksy when it comes to attaining the general “message” of this film. He does an incredible job at ridiculing society’s susceptibility to hype and word-of-mouth, but his social commentary here is somewhat of a double-edged sword. He’s essentially trying to suggest that many overnight-success-artists who enjoy premature fame aren’t creditable and are simply splattering paint on walls to get noticed and commercialize their work. However, Banksy – who, granted, is beyond creditable – is not only enticed by public spectacle, but he's also profiting from it. It’s almost similar to how we view dirty politicians. There’s a huge disconnect in trying to relate to an individual’s platform when said individual contradicts everything his platform stands for.

Gift Shop, despite my minor nitpicks, remains the achievement many have come to label it. It’s deeply engrossing and practically circumvents the conventions of typical documentary filmmaking. However, while I found the film to be brilliantly structured – vacillating between the ideals of both the subject and the filmmaker – there seemed to be a sort of grey area or inconsistency behind exactly why Banksy decided Guetta, of all people, should shift his focus on complex pop art, but I suppose if we’re to take this “documentary” as pure satire, then Banksy’s plot development there proved to be quite effective by the end of the film. Overall, Gift Shop is highly recommended, but not for those seeking a factual documentation. I’d suggest maintaining a certain degree of imagination while watching Banksy’s “street art disaster movie”.

8/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Seven

THE BAD SLEEP WELL (1960)

Bouncing off Throne of Blood’s Shakespearean bedrock, I decided to take a look at Kurosawa’s underappreciated The Bad Sleep Well; a film grounded in motifs akin to “Hamlet”, but told in a contemporary setting. As we all know, “Hamlet” entails themes of vengeance and corruption, and as it turned out – perhaps fatefully – corporate corruption was a fixture in newspaper headlines during the time this film was made, so Kurosawa found himself facing adversity and naysayers aplenty prior to the picture’s release. Not only that, the director’s biting commentary on Japanese bureaucracy underwent several rewrites from a total of five screenwriters, including Kurosawa himself.

Kurosawa apparently never trusted himself to pen any of his scripts alone; he typically solicited support from secondary writers to ensure that his own writing wasn’t used as a tool to make his directing easier. However, incorporating such a large amount of writers was bound to generate some difficulty, and that it did, as we can tell from the film’s somewhat erratic structure. Although sloppy toward the end – and even a bit rushed – the film still manages to be as engrossing as possible and the acting is hands down the best I’ve seen in any Kurosawa film.

The film’s opening is pivotal and really sets the vengeful tone that permeates throughout. It’s a wedding scene, but far from celebratory. Being my eleventh Kurosawa film, The Bad Sleep Well allowed me to finally pick up on Kurosawa’s recurrent use of choruses: groups of minor characters that fill the audience in on what’s occurring. In Throne of Blood it was usually a group of gossiping soldiers. Here, it’s a group of gossiping reporters. As we later learn, this is purely a marriage of convenience; the bride and groom being the daughter (Kyoko Kagawa) of a development corporation’s Vice President (Masayuki Mori) and that company’s President’s secretary Nishi (Toshiro Mifune, in a deceptively placid role). One would assume the “convenience” here is merely financial, but it’s far more sinister than that.

The reception encounters several noteworthy interruptions. First, the arrival of a mysterious wedding cake baked to resemble the company’s headquarters; with a single rose jutting out one of the windows. Following this peculiar event, Wada (Kamatari Fujiwara), a corporation employee, is arrested under suspicion of partaking in a bribery scheme and, following his inquiry, attempts suicide by jumping into an active volcano. Wada’s more or less “saved” by Nishi (who’s unveiled as a ruthless man bent on avenging his father’s death) but learns that the calculating secretary plans to use him as an accessory to destroy the corporation from the inside.

Not unlike The Most Beautiful, Kurosawa’s portrayal of Japan’s value system in The Bad Sleep Well would probably seem alien to most westerners. The notion of lower level employees vowing silence and even sacrificing themselves in order to veil their superiors’ unlawful activities sounds absurd to most of us, but in post-war Japan – and perhaps even today – many underling employees like Wada felt a constrained sense of loyalty towards their bosses – for reasons purely pertaining to principle – thus placed their lives on the line to protect them.

The most fascinating juxtaposition I’ve seen in a Kurosawa film so far is between Wada and Nishi. Both are victims of the corporation’s crimes in one way or the other, but only Nishi intends to exact revenge. Wada, even after discovering that his superiors essentially threw him under the bus, still adheres to that deluded sense of loyalty and remains reluctant about assisting Nishi. The most blatant difference between these two men is hatred. Mifune’s subservient demeanor is only a facade used to dupe his boss/father-in-law; the actor’s trademark ire – which Wada lacks – is revealed away from the corporation. He’s accepted the fact that the only way to conquer evil is to become evil. “It’s not easy hating evil,” Nishi confesses. “You have to stoke your own fury until you become evil yourself.”

Kurosawa’s taken several whacks at industrial demoralization (High and Low, Ikiru) but I found this to be his weakest blow. He sets the stage up brilliantly, but seems to have trouble structuring his acts. The concept of driving the corrupt insane paces the film nicely up to a point, but the film hits a dry area towards the end and starts to move unnecessarily slow; only to culminate with a cop-out ending. This filler space, however, is transcended by Mifune’s and Fujiwara’s captivating performances. Kurosawa, like Bergman, knows how to develop and examine his characters, so if the plot ever becomes drab in spots, you can always fall back on the man’s compelling characterizations.

Overall, the film’s tone is dark, bleak and coolly crosses lines most films of this period wouldn’t even consider touching. The inventive camera techniques and noir-esque cinematography – which accentuate the characters' grim qualities – are also worth praising. Often melodramatic, yet boldly expressive, The Bad Sleep Well depicts man at his most cynical.

8.5/10

NOTE: I have finals coming up, so I’ll have to postpone the series – and reviews in general – until the semester ends. I’ll pick it back up around December 6th or so.

Kurosawa Series: Part Six

THRONE OF BLOOD (1957)

There have been countless stage and film adaptations of William Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”, but many film critics hold Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood to be one of the most successful renditions of the classic tragedy. The film was developed during what some consider to be an experimental stage in Kurosawa’s career. Rather than executing a by-the-numbers adaptation of the Shakespearean play, Kurosawa essentially transposes the story of Macbeth to his own ends. While the parallels are obvious, much of the original play has been modified to correspond with feudal Japan. Even the Macbeth character – here referred to as Washizu (Toshiro Mifune) – has been altered to appear somewhat less vindictive; only corrupted after adhering to his lady’s artful persuasion. The entire film represents a sort of moral document on dehumanization really, and while having only seen ten of Kurosawa’s films, I think it’s safe to say that this is his most nihilistic.

Anyone who’s taken a high school literature course should be familiar with “Macbeth”, so I won’t bore you with details on the original. Blood, on the other hand, offers more in terms of cultural relevance – as far as medieval Japan goes – and the ominous elements that Kurosawa so masterfully applies here are worth discussing. More structured and direct than the source material, Blood is told in four temporal blocks, making “Macbeth” feel a little more prolonged – yet a few sequences in Kurosawa’s version still seemed unnecessarily dragged out, but I digress.

Washizu – Macbeth’s equivalent – and Miki (Minoru Chiaki) – Banquo’s equivalent – are two commanders who encounter an enigmatic spirit in a forest maze. The spirit prophesizes that Washizu will rule over a northern garrison, while Miki will command the main fortress. The spirit also foretells that, in time, Washizu will be promoted to Lord of the Forest Castle and Miki’s son will eventually inherit the castle’s throne. Once the first half of the prophecy is realized, Washizu’s ruthless wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada) advises her husband to speed up the rest of the prophecy by assassinating the current lord of Forest Castle and succeed the throne immediately. Influenced by Lady Asaji’s ambitious proposals, Washizu carries out a covert killing spree to ensure his reign over the Forest Castle.

Free will versus fate was typically what fueled our “Macbeth” discussions in high school, and here Kurosawa seems to imply that free will is purely idealistic and everything and everyone basically correlates with fate. Blood is first and foremost a portrait of Washizu’s indecisiveness, demonstrating how the future lord is ultimately pinned into a corner after Asaji fills his head with apprehension. If you really observe this film, you’ll begin to notice how integral the role of fog is to the plot; mostly as a symbolic implication of Washizu’s confused frame of mind, but also as a reference to the sometimes empty, heartless abyss of man’s soul. Blood also takes several steps further than “Macbeth” as a social critique of feudalism in Japan. As we’re all aware, Kurosawa has never been one to shy away from political agendas and he sums up the terror-filled customs of the feudal era quite clearly in this film.

One would expect an interpretation of “Macbeth” to feature its fair share of theatrics, but the stylization and handling of Blood felt more Spartacus than Olivier-esque. The scope is by far the widest of any “Macbeth” adaptation I’ve seen, yet in many ways just as claustrophobic as a stage version would be. Without completely omitting that dramatic Shakespearean allure, Kurosawa incorporates plenty of classical Noh techniques, largely evident in Mifune’s and Yamada’s – Asaji – facial expressions, which resembled Noh masks in certain scenes.

Certainly not my favorite Kurosawa film – although it's perhaps his most influential – Blood manages to do “Macbeth” justice without following any conventional pattern. It’s essential Kurosawa, and while I wasn’t able to fully invest in the film’s often hammy atmosphere, I couldn’t discount the almost perfectionist approach taken in every frame of this film.

8/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Five

IKIRU (1952)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Never before have I experienced a film that so beautifully encapsulates the human condition. “To live,” – which is the literal translation of Kurosawa’s Ikiru – is a task given to us all at birth, but how does one approach such a task when life itself seems so meaningless? Kurosawa never thought of himself as an existentialist, or as a director who probed the boundaries of existence, but with Ikiru, he does just that by employing an unfulfilled protagonist – who's on the brink of death – in order to emphasize humanity’s search for affirmation. I usually find films that hone in on old age and death to be unbearably somber, but when handled in a manner similar to Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, Ozu’s Tokyo Story and especially this film, I feel engulfed by a wave of optimism. The elderly protagonists portrayed in these films have attained peace of mind upon death, which gives the rest of us not something to look forward to, but one less thing to dread in life.

A narrator opens Ikiru by detailing the uneventful life of Kanji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura), a dull bureaucrat working the monotonous job of chief over a Public Works department. The corporate machine has essentially ruined Watanabe and his wife’s death certainly hasn’t helped in cultivating any form of active lifestyle. He’s unable to confide in his son (Nobuo Kaneko), who along with his daughter-in-law (Kyoko Seki) are oblivious to his despair and only show interest in benefiting from his pension. Making matters worse, the middle-aged chief has just recently been diagnosed – by a peculiarly vague doctor – with stomach cancer and, although uninformed, assumes he only has several months left to live. Watanabe’s cancer serves as the plot’s fulcrum, as it's primarily what drives the aging official on his quest for purpose. Faced with death, Watanabe is awakened to the doldrums of his existence, and from that point forward he seeks to live his life through others.

Similar to High and Low, Kurosawa’s Ikiru is separated into two introspective segments. The first half of the film, of course, summarizes Watanabe’s routine lifestyle and his eventual cancer diagnosis. It also sheds light on Watanabe’s relationships with two young people. The first of these characters is an uninspired novelist (Yunosuke Ito) he meets at a bar. The second is a young subordinate of his named Toyo (Miki Odagiri); who plans to resign due to the tediousness of her position. The loneliness Watanabe was subjected to over the years is momentarily appeased by these characters’ animated ways of life. However, the various activities he partakes in prove inefficient in aiding his journey toward individual purpose. In his old age, the bureaucratic drone begins to realize that he has lived his life in vain – contributing little to society – and no amount of boisterous activity with youngsters would change that.

Near the beginning of Ikiru, we’re shown several working class women who arrive at Watanabe’s department to complain about a sewage pit in their neighborhood. The women – mothers, factory workers, etc. – are given the runaround by virtually every department known to local government; failing to appeal to the better nature of these supposed “social” workers. By this point, Watanabe has finally come to his senses and resolves to vindicate his death by helping others with the power he’s held for years, but never implemented. Determined to accomplish something significant in life, Watanabe sets out to amend the sewage problem by initiating a proposed plan to build a park above the pit. The park is a godsend for Watanabe, and despite enduring severe illness, he succeeds at procuring that desired bliss he had long been searching for. In perhaps the most iconic scene in any Kurosawa film, Watanabe is seen swinging in the newly built park, presumably freezing, but hauntingly content and awaiting his inevitable demise.

Opposed to the first half of the film – seeing Watanabe in action and how he lived – the second portion of Ikiru exposes the aftermath of Watanabe’s death during his wake. The inner fortitude of his soul, expressed by his ungrateful associates, is displayed through flashbacks, mostly recounting his efforts to ensure the park’s completion. The wake scenes add a bittersweet touch on the film’s final moments, because in acknowledging Watanabe’s ambitious goals, all of his former co-workers seem incapable of giving credit to the man who made the park's conception possible. Only through alcohol are they able to understand the behavioral change Watanabe underwent following his “death sentence” and each of them vows to follow his example. Alas, sobriety annuls their dedicated spirits the next day, but the fruits of Watanabe’s labor do not go unappreciated by those who admired his determination the most.

Ikiru is more than simply profound. It’s a meditation on life and death that swells with human qualities capable of affecting us all in distinctive ways. I believe that, above all else – even critical acclaim – Kurosawa wanted viewers to comprehend the notion of living, and how the only way to truly live is by affirming one's place in the world. Life in general may in fact be meaningless, but what this film so vividly represents is man’s position as an individual and how the “meaning of life” is merely subjective.

9/10

Shut the front door

THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT (2010)

Indie films that are so overtly indie don’t usually bode well with me. They’re exhausting. This is typically the case with flicks like Juno that brim with “clever” quips and quirks; an effort to remind viewers that the film they’re watching is completely alternative to most of today’s mainstream trash. When that effort is strained, the film as a whole, story included, feel contrived. Unnatural vibes abound, eye-rolling commences, and I – personally – become completely detached. Lisa Cholodenko’s The Kids Are All Right came across as that sort of film in a few areas. From the hip music nods, to the “subliminal” environmental messages, the film seemed to have an air of forced bohemian quality. Luckily, unlike many of the mumblecore movies I abhor, the overall approach of Cholodenko’s Kids felt unexpectedly natural. I’d say this is mostly due to the presence of Annette Bening and Julianne Moore, two brilliant actresses who were able to exempt the film from the curse of hipster cinema.

The film follows Jules (Julianne Moore) and Nic (Annette Bening), a lesbian couple hailing from California, and their two children Joni (Mia Wasikowska) and Laser (Josh Hutcherson). Both kids were conceived via artificial insemination and once the eldest – Joni – turns eighteen, Laser requests that she arrange to meet their biological father, Paul (Mark Ruffalo) – who represents the film’s archetypal nonconformist. This little rendezvous with Paul is set up without their parents’ consent and goes swimmingly for the most part. The moms eventually find out about Paul and decide to invite him over for dinner – which creates an awkward atmosphere – in order to learn more about him and determine exactly where he would fit in family-wise. The dinner essentially opens a door into the kids’ lives for Paul, and with apprehension, the moms begin to realize that the freethinking restaurateur is inadvertently tearing their family apart.

I’ve read a number of criticisms on Kids, many of which slam the title for having nothing to do with the film at all. My take is this: the title isn’t supposed to insinuate that the kids are focal points. It instead serves as a message to overprotective parents who consider every possible precaution while raising their children rather than taking the time to ask themselves if those precautions are even necessary; that perhaps the kids are fine without the extra safeguards. Bening’s Nic character is strict by nature, making her the standard matriarch who takes every preemptive measure to protect her family from potential harm, yet by the end of the film she falls victim to her own overbearing ways. Cholodenko probably didn’t intend to imply any of this with the title – she actually derived it from a song by The Who – so the connotation is really anyone’s guess, but there’s my interpretation.

Morals and parenting tips aside, the performances are really what propel this film. Moore is tragically precise in her portrayal of an aimless, but admirable woman whose eccentricities are both delightful and understated. Bening, who God knows is overdue for an Oscar, delivers her second most accomplished performance of the year – the first being the less-talked-about Mother and Child – proving that she’s fully capable of harmonizing those neurotic tics of hers with pure authenticity. Ruffalo, stealing every scene he’s in with disheveled charm, is eerily candid; his character’s quirks seem complex – sadly unexplored – yet genuine and professionally honed to perfection.

Not too mellow, and not too melodramatic, Kids is a swell blend of drama and realism. Cholodenko truly has her actors to thank for this compelling look inside a fairly unconventional family dynamic. The writing’s adequate – a classy, but personal examination of lesbianism and sexual impulses – but the cast fuels the material presented. The sincere, affectionate interplay between Moore and Bening is something so rarely seen in contemporary romances and that's primarily what makes Kids one of the year’s best offers.

8.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Four

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL (1944)

Another wartime piece, The Most Beautiful serves as Kurosawa’s most propagandized, and perhaps most patriotic film. Following his successful directorial debut – Sanshiro Sugata – Kurosawa was eager to touch on the subject matter of war, specifically the toils of female factory workers and their outstanding resolve. The film was developed and released in the midst of World War II; three years after the attack on Pearl Harbor and a year prior to the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, so you have to consider the demographic here. This was Kurosawa’s ode to the female working class; a film made for the Japanese by the Japanese. A pseudo-documentary of sorts, Beautiful incorporates social realism in order to evoke the emotions of those who could directly relate to the women onscreen. While not his best film, or his most accessible, Beautiful signifies Kurosawa’s commitment to both his audience and his country.

Generally plot-driven, the film focuses more on situational aspects rather than the characters themselves. Before the film really began to flesh out, it felt reminisce of those History Channel documentaries teachers would use to bore students during high school. Kurosawa refrains from delving too deeply into the context of war, so the film isn't overbearingly didactic, but it's still propaganda. The story itself follows several women working in an optics factory during the second World War who are subjected to injury and illness, yet persevere as a result of their diligence.

To American audiences, the work ethic displayed in Beautiful is utterly foreign; these women are practically droids slaving away over their work instruments without complaint. The hard-working Watanabe – played by Yoko Yaguchi, Kurosawa’s wife – even opts to remain at the factory instead of visiting her dying mother. The women, proving to be the antithesis of corporate sloths, eventually crack under pressure and find their work quota in a slump. Luckily, through the power of song – and volleyball matches that would put Top Gun to shame – the ladies manage to boost their morale and their dropping quota.

In terms of character development, Beautiful disappoints, and even rivals Sanjuro’s forgettable cast. I mentioned above how these women are portrayed as robots essentially, but the performances are equally mechanical. I’m guessing this was intentional; to show the group as a singular unit hell-bent on carrying out its task. Void of identities, save Watanabe, the clan of women represent a body, each worker functioning as a limb; one worker becomes ill, the entire body is affected. From that perspective, the film succeeds as an informative look into Japan's industrial structure during the war. Not only that, the motif of teamwork is powerfully executed – not to mention globally familiar. So whether or not Kurosawa had Americans in mind while making Beautiful is irrelevant. The themes are timeless and there’s still much to be taken from this enjoyable and well-made tribute.

7.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Three

THE IDIOT (1951)

Staying with the postwar theme, I decided to take a look at what Kurosawa considered his most-talked-about film, The Idiot. Adapted from the novel by Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Kurosawa’s Idiot was met with a fair amount of adversity upon its release. The original cut of the film ran at a lengthy 265 minutes, but after an unfavorable screening, the studio forced Kurosawa to make drastic edits, ultimately botching the director’s original creation.

Since this original cut has been declared lost, I’m unable to judge whether or not the version I saw accomplished what Kurosawa intended to convey. I will say that the film succeeds at capturing the existential depths of human emotion via the film’s unbalanced hero, masterfully portrayed by an inscrutable Masayuki Mori, and at turning out an array of pensive character studies. Idiot seemed to bear the same impression as Being There in the sense of counteracting society’s norms with the mindscape of a mentally-challenged man, and how our perception of the world is possibly inferior to those we consider unstable.

Idiot tells the prolonged, oblique tale of Kinji Kameda (Mori) a former war criminal who has just checked out of an asylum where he was branded an “idiot” on account of his epileptic seizures brought on by a past ordeal. Mentally fragile, the presumed ex-con is taken in by friends of his family and eventually forms a platonic relationship with two women. The women, who eventually fall in love with him, are Taeko Nasu (Setsuko Hara), a “spoiled kept woman”, and Ayako (Yoshiko Kuga), the stern daughter of a wealthy landowner. He also befriends a man named Akama – played by Toshiro Mifune in another volatile role – who throws a wrench into Kameda’s love triangle after professing his love for Taeko, but is rejected after she chooses Kameda instead. Kameda’s reticent temperament in the matter is gawked at by everyone involved until he suffers an epileptic relapse, courtesy of the jilted Akama.

The overt theme of Idiot is innocence, brilliantly illustrated by Hokkaido’s wintry, majestic setting and by the virtuous Kameda. This “criminal” is considered a lamb by both his lovers and his enemies, and his behavior and mannerisms are uniquely childlike. His moral wisdom seems to exceed that of his peers, so much in fact that Ayako’s mother often tries to discern ulterior motives behind his Christ-like conduct. The greatest irony of Idiot is translated through Kameda’s effect on those around him and how that effect calls their own sanity into question; this is especially true for the love-addled Akama.

While Idiot is far from a technical feat – the editing is sloppy thanks to extensive cuts – it stands alone as an epic contemplation of empathy and affection. Admittedly, the film is a tad overlong, and I even cringed a little at the thought of experiencing the unadulterated version, but it didn’t necessarily feel like a chore to sit through. The performances are outstanding, Mori's and Mifune’s specifically, and the story, while slow, is emotionally riveting. Kurosawa’s hassles with the film are unfortunate, but his craftsmanship is impervious, immune to studio interference, and undeniably the key ingredient that makes Idiot a superlative entry in his catalogue of achievements.

8.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Two

DRUNKEN ANGEL (1948)

Postwar Japan was riddled with censorship following America's occupation of the country in 1945, but Kurosawa refused to let any of that hinder him from creating a subtle testament to the hardships Japanese citizens endured after World War II. With incredible tact, Kurosawa managed to breach the establishment’s censors without detection in his first project with then up-and-comer Toshiro Mifune. The film was called Drunken Angel, an influential triumph that would largely shape Mifune's "tough guy" image in many of his collaborations with Kurosawa.

The public’s demand for cinematic realism was high after the war, and Kurosawa, sensing this, delivered a meditative drama that touched on everything that was politically and socially debauched during the late 40s. Wary of, but not deterred by the censors, he handled his postwar films by merely implying Japan’s poor social conditions rather than highlighting them with bold colors. As Angel progresses, it becomes somewhat of a challenge to catch many of Kurosawa’s social references because they aren’t centerpieces or focal points, but sly implications amidst the sordid backdrop.

The plot, which actually has little to do with Japan’s contempt toward American occupation, addresses a topic I’m quite familiar with. Alcoholism. The story details the trials of alcoholic gangster Matsunaga (Mifune) who's recently been diagnosed with tuberculosis by Doctor Sanada (Takashi Shimura) who coincidentally happens to be an alcoholic himself. Realizing Matsunaga’s condition could be potentially fatal, and considering the gangster’s flagrant drinking habits, the doctor convinces Matsunaga to lay off the sauce for a while and commence rehabilitation. Despite the gangster’s volatile disposition, the doctor’s plan goes swimmingly. This, however, is until Matsunaga’s mob boss reappears and drags the newly formed criminal back into the district’s seedy gangland.

I suppose I have an unhealthy penchant for films that zero in on afflicted alcoholics. It’s almost instinctive of me to connect with these fellow barflies on emotional levels that most would disregard, so naturally I assumed Angel would coincide with my expectations. Alas, I wasn’t able to perceive any likeness between Matsunaga and myself because while our habits may parallel, our conditions differ. I couldn’t possibly place myself in the depraved social state Matsunaga lived under, nor the precarious criminal life he led. This isn’t to say there was an emotional disconnect. Don Birnam he’s not, but Matsunaga nevertheless represents one of Kurosawa’s most shrewdly developed protagonists, and it would be dishonest to say that Mifune’s powerful performance had little effect on me.

8/10

Fashion is never finished

THE SOCIAL NETWORK (2010)

“Every creation myth needs a devil,” says Rashida Jones’ underused, but sympathetic attorney during the climax of David Fincher’s Social Network. Ironically, this line – which I found to be the film’s most telling – wasn’t conceived by Aaron Sorkin, Network's screenwriter, but by a Facebook publicist after watching an unfinished cut of the film. The line is effective because it rings true for most works of fiction that underscore corruption, and in a way, reveals Fincher’s latest endeavor as a sort of parable rather than a definitive “true story”.

The most rudimentary of corruption folktales I can think of would be Washington Irving’s “The Devil and Tom Walker”, which illustrates a man’s appetite for wealth and the ultimate soul-exchanging deal he strikes up with the Devil. Fincher’s Network isn’t quite as mythical, but like fiction, it gives the impression of an embellished account of events, only here Tom Walker goes by Mark Zuckerberg – who desires notoriety rather than wealth – and the Devil is embodied by Napster founder Sean Parker. Or so we think. What’s fascinating about Network is that the roles of “hero” and “villain” could possibly be reversed – given your stance on the topic – because the line between the two is so radically blurred. The characterizations feel genuine, and while Zuckerberg’s sensational plight underwent the standard Hollywood treatment (histrionics and disputable plot filler included) Fincher’s framework redeems it from sleazy “based on a true story” territory by applying compelling realism.

Sorkin’s script may be quick-witted, but the story is fairly simple, minus the rapid tech-talk. The film is told through the testimonies of now-billionaire Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) and his former associate and best friend Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield) during their dispositions in two different lawsuits. Zuckerberg is first being sued by Saverin for betraying him in a deal that ultimately diluted his share of the duo’s brainchild company, Facebook. The second disposition involves twin brothers Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss (played by Armie Hammer and Armie Hammer) and their partner Divya Narendra (Max Minghella) who are suing Zuckerberg for intellectual property theft since they originally came up with the idea behind Facebook under a different alias, Harvard Connection. This judicial angle plays out in fragments segmented between the far more engrossing narrative of Facebook’s beginnings, which introduces us to our “Old Scratch”, Mr. Sean Parker (Justin Timberlake).

I was initially of the opinion that this role was handmade for Eisenberg, and anyone who’s explored his filmography would agree. It’s the geeky, uncouth type of character he’s practically gravitated toward most of his career, yet it's completely different. “Zuckerberg” offered Eisenberg something new: depth. He virtually epitomizes Sorkin’s idea of the Facebook founder; the insensitive, overambitious technophile who constantly feels threatened by the urge to trump his own friends and impress those who “doubt” his ability, all while making a number of enemies in the process. Network’s opening break-up number is sublime at conveying the catalyst for Zuckerberg’s desired notoriety. He feels impotent in a way, and immediately prioritizes success above everything else, including his friendship with Saverin, who he eventually backstabs.

I believe Armie Hammer mentioned in an interview that the production of this film was, at heart, a team effort; from Fincher’s near-flawless direction, to the actors’ sharp deliveries, to Sorkin’s irreproachable script – which harked back to screwball comedies and their fast-talking repartee (a la His Girl Friday) – everything works as a harmonious unit. The film is seamlessly structured, beautifully shot, and coldly authentic. Sorkin’s hard-to-swallow portrayal of women remains generally realistic despite critics’ grumbles over the lack of a “strong female protagonist” who more than likely didn’t exist; but let's not completely write off Rooney Mara’s sound-minded Erica Albright.

Some may find the timing of Fincher's topical feature somewhat premature, but the current technological milieu is absolutely ideal for it, and I couldn’t imagine the film having the same impact twenty, or even ten years from now. Whether Network becomes Fincher’s magnum opus remains to be seen, but if anything's certain, the film is bound to leave an indelible mark on the net generation.

9/10

Kurosawa Series: Part One

SANJURO (1962)

Whether you refer to him as Yojimbo or Sanjuro, you can rest assured that the wandering ronin is bound to intervene in matters far out of his jurisdiction. Not unlike his previous escapades in Yojimbo, Kurosawa’s sequel – which was originally slated to be a straight adaptation of Shugoro Yamamoto’s novel “A Break in the Tranquility” – finds our enigmatic antihero meddling in brand new affairs with his unique counterintelligence tricks. I suppose what mostly sets Sanjuro apart from its predecessor is tone.

Yojimbo is comprised of plot traits reminisce of violent spaghetti westerns whose characters typify pure hostility. Sanjuro, on the other hand, is far more delicate – Yojimbo-lite, if you will – and most of the characters aren’t nearly as high-tempered or bloodthirsty as their Yojimbo counterparts. The setting is docile and highly cultured, the characters are more refined in a sense, and the anti-violence themes are prominent. This doesn’t make Sanjuro any less of a great film, but next to Yojimbo, it falls a tad short. Not because it lacks an adrenaline-packed storyline, but because it achieves exactly what Yojimbo achieved with a more condensed formula.

I suppose the most common question regarding sequels and follow-ups is “do I need to watch the first such-and-such to understand the second such-and-such”. Not with Sanjuro – but Yojimbo is highly recommended – because the plot unfolds like an undated entry in the ronin’s diary that could have taken place before our after the first film; although the continuity is questionable considering Yojimbo's antagonist wields a gun. The story reintroduces us to the nameless vagabond (coolly played by Toshiro Mifune) who we find eavesdropping on nine samurai in a shrine. He happens to overhear them discussing upper-rank corruption and how they intend to counteract by consulting with a superintendent, who they have eliminated as a potential threat.

Now, apparently since the clan’s chamberlain resembles a horse and is generally unattractive, he’s considered a prime suspect – the logic there is beyond me – but once our hero emerges and debunks their assertions, the samurai become apprehensive. They begin to realize that their superintendent is the corrupt one, while their chamberlain may be in grave danger. Brash as usual, Sanjuro – as the integral hero is later referred to after dubbing himself with the name – offers to aid the samurai in their mission to thwart the crooked superintendent before he causes any serious damage.

Sanjuro's approach is a double-edged sword of sorts. The film is great at diluting the ronin’s hard-nosed charisma by highlighting several of his flaws and shortcomings. In Yojimbo, I almost assumed he symbolized the second coming of Christ or an embodiment of divine intervention, but here he’s utterly human. He’s placed in an unfamiliar environment that contrasts so brazenly with Yojimbo’s coarse setting, and when he’s told that his violent conduct is essentially his weak point, he silently agrees. I enjoyed that bit of character development, but it doesn’t compensate for the remaining cast’s lack of individuality.

To be frank, we're given a horde of samurai in the beginning, and they remain a horde throughout. Perhaps Seven Samurai was a highflyer; fleshing out its flock of samurai by giving them distinct personalities – which stretched the film out to a whopping three and half hours – but at least there was a sense of singularity amongst everyone. Sanjuro is an extraordinary film, without question, but it seemed plagued by a forgettable cast, whereas Yojimbo featured incredible characterizations, a gripping story and atmosphere, and a clever concept that wasn’t completely rehashed. My favorite of the two should be obvious.

8.5/10

In a mad world, only the mad are sane

KUROSAWA SERIES: OCT. 26 – NOV. 25

In a much needed attempt to breathe some life into this blog, I've decided to commence my first ever “series” dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa next week. The projected goal is to watch and review ten Kurosawa films over the next five weeks, and while that certainly doesn’t sound too ambitious, it’s the best I can do between school and work. So every, say, Tuesday and Thursday, I’ll post a new Kurosawa review.

Why Kurosawa? Because the man’s a genius and I’ve been absolutely transfixed by him lately. I also need to explore more of his work; I’ve seen a grand total of four of his films, so this is a great way to accomplish that. I’ve already selected the ten films I plan to watch/review, but depending on how this goes – and whether or not I amass enough followers – I may take requests for my next series.

You know what it cost you in the past

WILD GRASS (2009)

For some reason, I rarely come across films that kick off brilliantly, then gradually collapse. It’s usually the other way around: films that initially strike me as duds often have a way of surprising me in the end. The former is obviously more upsetting – becoming completely invested in a film only to see it slowly fall apart – but alas, the former is the case for Alain Resnais’ Wild Grass. The now eighty-eight-year-old Marienbad director, who I lauded with a considerable amount of praise in my last review, has sustained a productive career for over half a century, and while his filmography isn’t exactly teeming with an array of achievements, the modernist auteur has contributed beyond his share to French cinema. While Resnais’ work may span decades, he isn’t prolific, so selecting a film to follow-up Marienbad with should have been a breeze. Night and Fog was perhaps the obvious choice, but typical of my curiosity, I decided to check out his most recent effort. With Wild Grass, Resnais utilizes his unique approach of complex narratives featuring ambiguous characters, but unlike Marienbad, the setup here isn’t fully realized, or even successful for that matter.

Wild Grass opens with an existential narration that profiles a peculiar, zany-haired woman named Marguerite (Sabine Azéma) who has just been mugged on the street. The story’s narrator points out how in similar clichéd predicaments people feel compelled to call out for help, despite the slim odds of actually receiving any. She contemplates calling the police, but assumes her small dilemma doesn’t quite warrant involving the law enforcement. What’s interesting to point out here is that we never clearly see this woman’s face – even after following her home – until much later in the film. I suppose this is Resnais’ way of rendering the audience clueless regarding Marguerite's identity in order for us to see her the way the film’s second protagonist, Georges (André Dussollier), visualizes her – as a stranger.

En route to his car in an empty parking garage, Georges stumbles upon Marguerite’s stolen wallet and begins to obsessively psychoanalyze the stranger based on the contents inside. As he rummages through Marguerite’s papers, it becomes clear that the middle-aged man is a bit neurotic. Paranoid and tactless, Georges returns the wallet to the local police station and is clearly discomforted by the presence of officers; it’s suggested that Georges has a criminal past. Stuck on his irrational longing for the hapless stranger, Georges looks her up in a telephone directory and plots a way to meet her. After hounding Marguerite with fanatically detailed voice messages and even slashing her tires to convey his passion, Georges is finally approached by local officers, who advise him to cut all ties with the theft victim. In an unlikely turn of events, Marguerite begins to sympathize with Georges, experience guilt over the unforeseen impact she's made on both his life and marriage, and thus decides to pursue him – how comically ironic.

The narrative then begins to employ repetitive dialogue, deviating points of view, spontaneous, but integral character introductions, and dubious suspensions of disbelief. Oddly enough, this disordered method actually worked for Marienbad. So what did Resnais’ new wave critical achievement have that his latest feature lacked? Consistency. With Marienbad, viewers are generally able to determine the type of film it is from the offset. Wild Grass, however, unfolds as a seemingly ordinary story that boasts two innovative and realistic character studies which somehow get lost in the absurdity of the film’s final acts. Resnais offers two of the most complex characters I’ve seen in a film all year, then replaces them with vague mannequins of different ideals and frames of mind. In the film’s first half, we see Georges as a potentially dangerous, withdrawn archetype of severe neurosis while Marguerite displays an apprehensive woman who seeks to avoid crisis at all costs. These initial characterizations were amazing, but ultimately became lost in the story’s odd plot developments. I suppose I could interpret the title Wild Grass one of two ways: as a symbolic reference to Georges’ mental state or as a reference to the actual film, which is essentially as tangled and unkempt as wild grass itself.

7.5/10

The same conversations were always repeated

LAST YEAR AT MARIENBAD (1961)

Try to imagine David Lynch, Jean-Luc Godard and Giorgio de Chirico teaming up to remake Christopher Nolan’s Memento. The result could be convoluted, but captivating, and that’s essentially how I view Alain Resnais’ design for this drastically surreal tale of star-crossed lovers, upper-class spite, and pined-after liberation. Admittedly, I was fully prepared to dose off during the French auteur’s complex mystery – which is considered by many to be "one of the most boring movies of all time" – but once the characters were more or less introduced, I was too busy trying to dissect their history and comprehend the odd science of Resnais’ invention. His enigmatic setup is almost Kubrickian in detail, and of course while Kubrick came later with career landmarks 2001 and A Clockwork Orange, I couldn’t help but pick up on possible influences drawn from this film: the tracking shots, classical music, vast interiors and ambiguous imagery all struck me as tinges of Kubrick’s respective style. Sure, the film is incredibly artsy, but the pretensions eventually dissolve and we’re left with the framework of a familiar love story that I found quite accessible.

I suppose I should start off by tackling moviegoers’ misconception of Marienbad as “dull and pretentious”, because while the opening may be a bit off-putting – a near inaudible narrator fading in and out of repetitive sentences – and the plot may run exceptionally slow, the film has a lot to offer given the proper insight. Perhaps the “dull” remarks stem from the story’s drab interplay between our two unnamed characters; a man and a woman referred to as X and A respectively. The story is set within an extravagant chateau, presumably in Marienbad, decorated with baroque ornaments, elaborate furniture and soulless butlers. Our two main characters happen to be guests at a social gathering in this maze of corridors exclusive to the upper-crust and full of “fun and games” only these stuffy aristocrat-types could appreciate. The chief protagonist – Mr. X – finds his fellow guests shallow and uninteresting, so he pursues after a woman – Ms. A – who he claims to have trysted with last year at Marienbad – clever. Ms. A, however, doesn’t recall Mr. X or any affair with the man, yet the persistent X basically stalks A until she cracks and acknowledges their past. We’re later introduced to her husband, and like a number of prototypical love stories, Mr. X sets out to thwart Ms. A’s domineering partner in games of Nim, rescue her from the oppressive upper-class, and then run off to live happily ever after. Standard formula, right? Essentially, but the way it’s told is pretty off-the-wall.

Here’s the problem most people have with Marienbad: it’s dialogue-heavy. The narrative vaguely drags the audience through obscure shifts in time and space, and what’s worse is that most viewers aren’t likely to be invested in these characters’ plight because – quite frankly – their plight isn’t all that relatable. Fair enough. On the subjective end, this film is a mystery, and like most mysteries, I found it incredibly interactive. The entire point is to investigate the characters presented and discern their motives. Resnais has intentionally molded this story into a disorienting muddle of events in order to confuse the audience. The objective then becomes assembling clues – as indistinct as they are – to approach some sort of revelation. With Marienbad, Resnais is simply trying to give our noggins a little workout; while tossing in some soap-opera fluff to atone for the loss brainpower. As far as I’m concerned, it works.

Solving Marienbad may be problematic, but interpreting it is duck soup considering there's no definitive explanation. For instance, I could infer that the chateau epitomizes limbo with no means of escape and I wouldn’t necessarily be wrong. The snobby guests of this colossal mansion are essentially trapped by their haughty delusions of happiness and have nothing to absorb themselves in besides tedious gossip and bland card games. Then there’s Marienbad’s two lovers, who are disillusioned by this world, yet are unable to break free from it, and in a way feel destined to it. They mostly fear the doldrums that their lifestyle entails as well as the likelihood of being metaphorically frozen in time like their peers.

In many ways, Marienbad reminds me of my experience with Inland Empire; hard to fully understand, but fun to interpret. Obviously not as schizophrenic as Lynch’s freakish thriller, Marienbad offers adequate storytelling and grandiose cinematography. Resnais’ narrative may be the film’s Achilles' heel, but at least he handles the plot in a way that doesn’t completely insult our intelligence.

8/10

I'm a Dolly, bred and buttered

WINTER’S BONE (2010)

Cormac McCarthy’s stark “Outer Dark” was perhaps my first dreadful experience with the Appalachia-centric genre. The novel is brilliant and McCarthy’s structure is immaculate, but there’s something about cold, desolate settings like his that just unnerve me. It could tie in with my brief upbringing in the south; I was raised in Georgia for a couple of years, so when I read books like McCarthy’s and watch films like Deliverance – and now Debra Granik’s Winter's Bone – I can’t help but associate my childhood with such bleak surroundings. Of course, I’m not saying that all rural films that entail that “backwoods horror” element have zero redeeming factors – many, like Deliverance, are incomparable – but those factors prove difficult to appreciate, or even identify when the plot is engulfed by impoverished environments and gritty vernacular. This was my beef with Winter’s Bone. There are no saving graces outside the story’s wretched atmosphere and the film’s miserable disposition becomes taxing after the first thirty minutes or so. However, despite Granik’s Bone being dreary to a fault, you inevitably fall in love with Jennifer Lawrence’s steadfast portrayal of the film’s heroine.

When I first caught wind of Granik’s mystery thriller back during Sundance, it instantly became one of my most anticipated of the year. Films propelled by brave female protagonists usually do it for me because they’re a rarity these days, and Bone’s rousing story was enough to get me hyped. Hype is unfortunately what ruined my viewing experience, because throughout, I was eagerly awaiting the moments of “mounting tensions” and “raw poetry”, yet the tension was spent and the "poetry" was dry.

Granik’s vision is actually an adaptation of Daniel Woodrell’s novel of the same name that recounts seventeen-year-old Ree’s (Lawrence) desperate search for her fugitive father through the local criminal apparatus. With her father missing and her mother riddled with depression, Ree has been entitled with the demanding role of matriarch over the Dolly family, which also consists of her younger brother and sister. Matters are made worse after she discovers that her father – who’s infamous around town for his dealings in meth – has placed the family’s property up as a bail bond. Left with few options, Ree decides to track her father down, who presumably died while on the lam, in order to salvage her home and her family.

It becomes clear that Ree is an exceptionally strong-willed young woman, but as her burdens become too much to bare, she begins to find adulthood difficult to embrace. In one of the film’s many maudlin scenes, Ree consults with her mother – who’s practically mute – about the decisive steps she should take regarding the house and the pursuit of her father. She receives impassive silence in return, sheds a tear or two, and then burrows deeper into her own indecisiveness. It’s upsetting really, because right on the brink of overcoming these subdued personalities, the moment’s undercut by the next monotonous scene.

Overall, the film’s pretty – and I hate this word – bland, even fairly one-dimensional as far as character development goes. Lawrence’s performance is engaging, harrowing, etc., but we’re only shown one side of Ree; there aren’t any light shades to her temperament. It’s unfortunate – because I was really looking forward to this one – but the film lacks heart, and I can usually determine this simply from the dialogue, which in this film’s case, was written like lines in a drippy work of prose. The narrative is cold and misses out on a fluid, well-balanced structure that could have fostered a true masterwork, but luckily the ensemble’s quality performances and the film’s shocking conclusion aren’t completely impaired.

7.5/10

The sky is very wide, the way is very long

CITIZEN DOG (2004)
 

Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s whimsical Amélie has become an influential template amongst new-wave directors like Wisit Sasanatieng. The comparisons are unavoidable, but Sasanatieng’s Citizen Dog is successful in its own right by establishing itself within a separate, distinctive playing field. Unlike Jeunet’s French comedy, Citizen Dog was originally a novel written by Sasanatieng’s wife Koynuch. However, akin to Amélie, Sasanatieng’s contemporary take is pure eye candy – introducing us to a lovesick good Samaritan proportional to Amélie herself – and while the film’s inconsistent magic doesn’t quite exceed Amélie’s incessant novelties, the overall product provides for a remarkable concept.

I’m completely unfamiliar with Thai culture, so I can only assume that Dog is filled with explicit nods to the country’s myths and theologies that completely went over my head. From the outset, we’re able to distinguish Thai culture as one of the film's centerpieces. In the opening, Pod’s (Mahasamut Boonyaruk) grandmother (Raenkum Saninn) advises that he adhere to said culture’s doctrines upon his transition to Bangkok, where he wishes to make a living. Ignoring his grandmother’s warning – that he’ll grow a tail if he moves to the city – Pod settles down in Bangkok with a modest abode and factory job at a local sardine cannery.

Pod eventually meets and becomes infatuated with Jin (Saengthong Gate-Uthong), a peculiar young maid who’s perpetually engrossed in a foreign white book that fell from the sky during her youth. Pod swaps up vocations several times – security guard, cab driver, etc. – in order to better acquaint himself with Jin; who’s seemingly oblivious to the country boy’s advances. The story essentially intermixes Pod’s intense longing for Jin and his goodwill toward strangers in disordered, but comical fashion.

The significance of having a “tail” is touched on later in the film as a metaphor for success, and when Jin realizes that Pod lacks a “tail” of his own, their chances of marriage or even sustaining a relationship become slim. The irony lies in the idea that success is arbitrary – illustrated however we choose to define it – suggesting that personal ambitions are easily achieved based on one’s outlook. But Pod’s shortcomings are the least of Jin’s worries; her obsession with the little white book culminates into a myriad of misconceptions and stray paths that prevent her from seeing the answers laid out before her and nearly jeopardizes her potential love life.

Thoroughly enjoyable, Citizen Dog is a vibrant parable. Sure, as I mentioned before, Dog’s magic is erratic – some areas felt uninspired – whereas Amélie’s is seamless, but Sasanatieng’s fairytale prevails as a feast for the eyes. The arrangement of visual coups is satisfying in itself, but the story packs a fair wallop of its own that symbolizes the extraneous measures we take to seek fulfillment in life.

8/10