It takes two to love, as it takes two to hate

THE LAST METRO (1980)

Overlooking its penchant for melodrama and formalism as well as its domineering theatrics, Francois Truffaut’s The Last Metro strikes a personal, humanistic chord that rang more introspective than I had anticipated. Perhaps the prevalence of war motifs helped anchor the nuances of realism found underneath Metro’s gaudy color palette, but the way confinement is perpetrated as this powerful central theme is poetically human.

What’s most fascinating about Truffaut’s approach in Metro is the way he perceives the foreboding grip that Germany held on France during their occupation in World War II; it’s subtle, yet simultaneously intense. The cliche of Nazi Germany’s menacing ways also isn’t illustrated quite the way you’d expect in Metro; in fact, it’s virtually absent. However, the hostilities that France was subjected to during Germany’s occupation echoes loudly in Truffaut and Suzanne Schiffman’s script. But the nature of war and marginalization eventually take a backseat to a more romantic tale.

The Last Metro documents the trials of Theatre Montmartre, a French theatre struggling with censors and other torments during Germany's occupation of Paris. Marion Steiner (Catherine Deneuve), the director – and in some senses matriarch – of this theatre somehow handles distressful predicaments with calm and ease, including the sheltering of her Jewish husband and former theatre director Lucas Steiner (Heinz Bennent) from the Nazis. From the theatre’s cellar, Lucas begins to use Marion as a conduit to oversee production of an upcoming play via notes, suggestions and even light criticisms toward Marion herself. The integrity of their marriage is ultimately tested by Bernard Granger (Gerard Depardieu), an aspiring resistance member who plays Marion’s romantic opposite on stage.

Metro accomplishes all the standard truisms you’d expect to find in a melodrama centralizing on the theatre; backstage elements, scandalous affairs, etc. But what separates Metro from films like To Be or Not to Be is the painstaking detail imbued into Truffaut’s script. A great portion of this detail can be accredited to Truffaut’s childhood, which saw accounts of black marketing and the like on several occasions. Subtleties like women drawing stocking facades on their legs or Parisians smuggling black market hams in cello cases – instances all witnessed by Truffaut – serve as a distinctive border between Metro and his other melodramatic works; see The Story of Adele H.

The strict confinement of action to Theatre Montmartre is my only quibble with Metro, yet this sense of confinement has a way of alienating the viewer in the same way Lucas is alienated in his cellar, so perhaps it’s simply clever symbolism on Truffaut's part. Deneuve, Depardieu and Bennent all play their roles convincingly enough to pull off a rather complex love triangle, but the element of romanticism is undercut by the vagueness of this triangle; which is especially vague in Lucas’ sudden familiarity with Marion’s affection for Bernard. There’s also a little resistance subplot involving Bernard that materializes infrequently alongside the central plot; an exciting angle wasted.

Although I don’t view Metro as an actors’ film where mesmerizing performances take center stage – though Deneuve performs wonderfully outside her element – it does manage to convey the climate of occupation realistically as well as the conditions that Jewish civilians in France lived under during the war. The notion of displacement and the subsequent pathos that emerge is a remarkably profound subject, and the script is more than effective in getting that across. Having only seen a handful of Truffaut films, I’d rank Metro amongst my favorites.

8/10

Why deny the obvious necessity of remembering?

HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR (1959)

Far from my favorite nouvelle vague director, but equally far from the ones I abhor, Alain Resnais’ individual approach to themes of memory and forgetfulness has never seemed quite as fundamental as it does in Hiroshima mon amour. Where Last Year at Marienbad was cleverly abstract and even a bit daunting, Hiroshima seems to cater more to the layman unfamiliar with Resnais’ work. Its atmosphere is also more accessible in the sense that it envelops a crisis we’re all familiar with – the atomic bombing of Hiroshima – and analyzes the notion of how similar events often have a way of re-socializing individuals for better or worse. At heart, Hiroshima is a story of love and intimacy, but layering that is a trial between two lovers burdened by traumatic pasts, somehow managing to cope with life after tragedy.

Like Marienbad, the lovers followed in Hiroshima remain unidentified throughout the course of the film. The opening sequence is not unlike a documentary in detailing the morbid devastation caused by the Hiroshima bombing in 1945. Narrating this sequence is an actress, referred to as “She” (Emmanuelle Riva) by most critics, filming in Hiroshima who becomes embroiled in an affair with a married Japanese architect referred to as “He” (Eiji Okada). After their brief fling, the two prepare to part ways, but find themselves constantly gravitating back to one another. Through poetic vignettes and reminiscent dialogue, they begin to reflect on the bombing’s aftermath, gradually reaching a sense of Riva’s past and how it juxtaposes the terror witnessed by the victims of that fatal August morning.

The structure that Resnais employs in Hiroshima has a more conventional feel to it than the hodgepodge of contradicting scenes in Marienbad. The memory motif is also more effectively realized here, as flashbacks to Riva’s past are introduced with lucid, but subtle cuts. Perhaps all that was innovative and uniquely disorienting in Marienbad is lost on Hiroshima, but the unambiguous path from beginning to end is far and away more reassuring. In fact, many of the concepts Resnais attempted to convey in Marienbad seemed more deliberated and thought out in Hiroshima. The idea of forgetfulness, a theme returned to occasionally in Hiroshima, reaches its boiling point in the film’s climax as Riva’s character becomes a symbol of love’s forgetfulness and the brevity and dismay that culminates after a compelling affair.

Hiroshima is largely successful in depicting the mythos of memory on-screen on a personable level, making it easier for viewers to relate to the story in some individual sense. The lovers here aren’t statues or phlegmatic puzzle pieces we’re forced to jam into some convenient slot in order to understand. They’re carefully developed individuals who, for lack of anything else, demonstrate the draining of self and identity more powerfully than I’ve witnessed in any Resnais film thus far. Hiroshima is certainly a landmark of its genre and traces of its influence are notable in the works of many classic and modern filmmakers. For me, it’s one more step towards fully appreciating Alain’s craft.

8/10

Welcome to the live funeral party of Mr. Felix Bush

GET LOW (2009)

A concept that has Robert Duvall contemplating a living funeral with Bill Murray as the ceremony’s overseer suggests a nice dosage of dark humor, but save for Murray’s predictable follies here and there, Get Low – cinematographer Aaron Schneider’s debut feature film – posits a more meditative experience than one of satirical proportions. Just imagining what the Coens could have produced with this material sort of spoils Schneider’s work, because by Duvall’s second or third vague rumination, you begin to wonder how those ingenious brothers would employ some of their wry comic relief to spice up the script. Sure, it’s nice to mull over the story’s many nuances, but the notion of “what could have been” remains taut throughout the bulk of Low. The performances are on point, the cinematography is stellar, but the meat of this stew is standard at best.

The year is 1938 and Felix Bush (Robert Duvall) is introduced to us as an elderly hermit whose will to live is waning. Bush is the stuff of legend around town and his history is surrounded by wild allegations, most of which he has little interest in addressing. Instead, he decides to orchestrate his own funeral prior to actually dying in order to hear what his fellow townsfolk have to say about him. Without divulging his full intentions, Bush hires huckster funeral director Frank Quinn (Bill Murray) and his protege Buddy Robinson (Lucas Black) to promote the ceremony and attract a huge crowd for the roasting. The only problem with Bush’s “get out of jail funeral” is his reluctance to actually face the transgressions that have locked him away in solitude for the past forty years.

The redemption motif has been explored exhaustively in cinema, so to explore it further in uninspired detail without any quirks or deviations makes for a bore. Since Low guns for pensive drama opposed to cynical romp, I wanted to see a bit of revelatory progression, a shift from focusing on the funeral’s preparation – and every arbitrary story arc in between – to focusing more on the enigma that is Felix Bush.

There isn’t nearly enough runtime to split equally amongst the cast – especially with such a multifaceted character like Bush on the table – yet Schneider tries to make scant room for everyone, foiling the film’s pace and depriving Duvall of his rightful spotlight. But I suppose these flaws can be compensated by the cast’s magnetic chemistry; they’re all believable in their roles sans any melodramatic contrivances.

A tad forgettable, but pleasant enough to sit through at least once, Get Low provides a slew of interesting themes that are only lightly touched on. But with performances from seasoned pros like Duval and Murray, it’s hard to completely write off Schneider's first effort.

7/10

Games are for people who don't care enough

SUMMER WARS (2009)

Mamoru Hosoda’s Summer Wars finally made its way to the top of my Netflix queue and its timing couldn’t be more appropriate. In the midst of Japan’s recent disasters, it’s hard not to reflect on themes pertaining to family, and the relationship between the quake and Wars correlates not only in the importance of pulling together as a unit, but also – coincidentally enough – in the way of a nation faced with a nuclear crisis.

That is where Hosoda eventually navigates this family-driven drama, and although the events that lead up to its finale seemed a bit arbitrary, I suppose watching Wars in the thick of the mess overseas sort of raised my appreciation for Hosoda’s second feature film. It’s as cliché as they come – which was to be expected from an anime of this nature – and the family in question was more often than not unbearable to put up with, but all in all Hosoda’s harbinger of the pitfalls of a ubiquitous social network is simply a heartwarming treat to experience; now, perhaps, more than ever.

Wars could possibly make a case for being the more relevant social networking film of 2010 – in the states – because unlike Jesse Eisenberg’s star vehicle, Hosoda’s allegory actually takes aim at the consequences a society dependent on technology could potentially face in the near future. It’s a great concept executed in the most refreshing way, but beyond the spectacular eye candy that is OZ – the story’s endangered social network – lies the rather poor execution of themes; they’re heavy-handed thanks to the characters’ melodramatic handling of family matters. If only the brilliance that lied dormant somewhere in this innovative plot could have flooded out the constant preaching imbued in the dialogue, we could have had ourselves a top-shelf anime classic.

What we have is a scrawny, mathlete protagonist named Kenji (Michael Sinterniklaas) who’s taken up a summer job as an IT guy for the interactive computer world OZ. When summer crush Natsuki (Brina Palencia) bombards him with a second “job opportunity” that entails traveling to a historic estate in Ueda – a city in Japan – to celebrate her grandmother’s 90th birthday, he accepts the proposal failing to realize that said proposal happens to be one of marital proportions.

After catching on and considering opting out of the agreement, Kenji is introduced to Natsuki’s family consisting of a couple-dozen strong, including her no-nonsense grandmother Sakae Jinnouchi (Pam Dougherty). Growing an attachment to the Jinnouchi clan compels Kenji to follow through with Natsuki’s scheme, but after solving a mathematical code sent to him via e-mail, Kenji becomes a public enemy overnight when an A.I. program called Love Machine hijacks his account and begins orchestrating a large-scale assault within OZ’s mainframe that puts the network’s several million users at risk.

The film’s Achilles' heel comes in the form of Hosoda’s staggeringly poor representation of women. I can only assume that he was inspired by traditional perceptions of gender roles and perhaps by how he found his own family particularly “hard to deal with” – as he stated while promoting the film – but the women of the Jinnouchi clan are just insufferable; especially in their coarse attitude toward Kenji.

An uncle of Natsuki’s (or perhaps a cousin; keeping track of them all is a chore) mentions that the family is brimming with “take charge women”, yet when the technological world is on the brink of collapse, we find these bold ladies watching baseball games and making catering plans. They’re so distracted in their materialistic pursuits that they remain oblivious to what’s happening right up until the very end. Without exaggerating, I can genuinely say that the lot of them make up the most frustrating, self-interested group of characters I’ve ever seen put on screen.

Obnoxious elements aside, the story arcs that unfold in Wars are solid enough in structure to hold one’s attention for the film’s two hour runtime. I found myself more irritated by the world outside of OZ than bored with it. The sequences that dazzle colorfully on screen within OZ serve as gorgeous throwbacks to Hosoda’s Digimon days, but viscerally, the film as a whole doesn’t quite meet the bar his debut film The Girl Who Leapt Through Time set back in 2006. The amount of product-placement seems wildly misplaced and the overt anti-American connotations may not sit well with the Western crowd, but the message behind Wars remains genuine and heartfelt despite the story’s shortcomings.

7/10

Why do we ask so many questions?

L’ECLISSE (1962)

Part of me regrets not taking in more of Michelangelo Antonioni’s filmography before tackling L'avventura and now L’Eclisse – the head and tail of a trilogy that includes La notte – because in retrospect I'd say these films belong in a class of their own, a class that perhaps requires a special taste only acquired after viewing and really appreciating the Italian director's prior films. The territory that both L'avventura and L’Eclisse cover is so alien and almost barren of human emotion that investing interest in the sparse developments that occur becomes a bit exhausting. Having not seen La notte, I can only assume that it breathes the same air of emotional indifference, and considering the period these films were released – in the throes of the Cuban Missile Crisis – it’s not hard to understand why optimism seemed absent on Antonioni’s agenda.

It was a bleak period not only for the working class, but also for the bourgeoisie and unlike most neorealist directors who focused on struggling proletarians, Antonioni chose to scrutinize the upper crust of Italian society. The final act in Antonioni’s trilogy examines social alienation in the modern world and while certain moments are hauntingly meditative, for the most part the story's quite simple. L’Eclisse introduces us to Vittoria (Monica Vitti), a woman who finds herself at the end of an affair that her significant other makes little effort to reinvigorate. Unable to make a connection, she leaves him and eventually falls for an enterprising, but shallow young stock broker named Piero (Alain Delon). After relishing momentary flashes of bliss and passion, the two eventually realize they have nothing concrete to offer each other.

There’s this sense of isolation that swells in L’Eclisse and although that sense is at its peak during the finale, the bulk of the film is essentially one large metaphor for being alienated by the looming modern world. The two scenes that take place in the stock exchange are absolutely primitive, depicting a mob of brokers and investors as jostling pawns of the capitalist machine. Vittoria responds to both the hustle bustle of the exchange and the effect it has on its dependents – one being her distant mother – with a curiosity denoting a growing fear that isolates her further from the fast-paced society she lives in.

Antonioni holds no reservations when it comes to forcing his arctic cold atmosphere upon the audience. It’s the antithesis of classical romance, in stark accordance with reality, but not quite authentic enough to pass for a documentary on failed relationships. Delon and Vitti exhibit these characters in ways that convey pure heartache and a desire to break free from routine, but they seem far more interested in preserving their individualism than seeking refuge in someone else. They’re lost, and as viewers we find ourselves lost in their digressions throughout the film – which ends on an obscure, sort of open-ended note. It’s a common dilemma only made disturbingly eerie and real by the utter loneliness Antonioni subjects these characters to. What Piero and Vittoria seem to be after in life is a question Antonioni fails to bring up, but perhaps it’s a question that's impossible to answer.

7/10

Who says Santa's pants have to be red?

HAPPYTHANKYOUMOREPLEASE (2011)

In an age where it’s practically the norm for actors – both highly and just moderately successful – to try their hand behind the camera, I’ve become virtually unfazed when I hear word that the likes of Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Love Hewitt are planning to helm their first feature film. It’s become a pattern in Hollywood and if an actor has the funds and means necessary to realize a script, why not take a stab at directing it as well? Will it result in a sloppy, lumbering mess? Probably, but credentials aren’t often taken into account when actors experience these whims of inspiration and creative impulse. Audiences don’t seem to care either as it’s the name on the poster – directed by insert-overexposed-celebrity-here – that tends to garner their interest, the very same interest studios need come opening night. But who would be interested in seeing a film directed by Ted Mosby?

I’ve seen less than a handful of How I Met Your Mother episodes and the material honestly does zilch for me. So when Josh Radnor, who plays Mosby on the show, decides to follow in the footsteps of his credential-less peers, I’m not exactly overwhelmed about what he has to offer. If anything’s getting my attention it’s an interesting script with fleshed out characters, which the trailer for Radnor’s debut film Happythankyoumoreplease appeared to boast. Unfortunately, while watching Radnor’s ridiculously scrambled presentation of plotlines, I slowly began to realize that this first effort of his was the furthest thing away from the indie comedy I anticipated and more along the lines of mainstream melodrama.

Happythankyoumoreplease tries to sell itself as an ensemble piece, but clearly Radnor – who is the Jerry Seinfeld of his own Seinfeld show here; the indisputable weak-link – is our focus. I say “ensemble piece” because not unlike those sappy romantic comedies that revolve around some commercialized U.S. holiday, Happythankyoumoreplease moves several related, but unrelated (story-wise) characters down a very obscure path made even more obscure by the film’s slew of disjointed themes.

First up is Radnor who plays Sam, a freelance writer in a rut who’s suddenly burdened with the responsibility of caring for an abandoned foster child named Rasheen (Michael Algieri); a rather absurd concept that just becomes less conceivable as the story progresses. Through Sam, we’re introduced to his best friend Annie (Malin Akerman), a loveless, but animated young woman coping with alopecia – a form of hair loss. Her arc is the typical “true love standing right in front of you” archetype that we’ve seen plenty of times, but lucky for us her “true love” is played by the spectacular Tony Hale – there's an outstanding monologue of his towards the end that reaches unexpected dramatic territory for an Arrested Development alum. The least interesting, but most genuinely performed arc finds a twenty-something couple (Zoe Kazan and Pablo Schreiber) soldiering through an emotional disconnect after Schreiber is offered a lucrative partnership that would force him and Kazan to relocate to Los Angeles; something Kazan, a proud New Yorker, is openly averse to.

About a quarter way through Radnor’s uneven attempt at wheedling sympathy for these characters, you begin to realize that separately these stories could have possibly succeeded as standalone films rather than a mishmash of arcs, especially Hale and Akerman’s. Alas, Radnor chose to go with what seems to be the rage these days – ensemble films – and compress these outwardly complex individuals into such a short timeframe that they're ultimately served up as two-dimensional cutouts of three-dimensional characters.

Take Radnor’s love interest Mississippi (Kate Mara) who’s been “feeling a little fragile.” You'd expect that remark to develop into something, but being pressed for time, Radnor bypasses this profound angle to concentrate on his other players. Why is she so emotionally fragile? Why should we care? It’s the ultimate foil and my single greatest irk in films: poor characterization. It riddles this film, and instead of growth and introspection, Radnor’s cast is subjected to the most banal clichés and romantic comedy conventions, making it difficult to take any of the film too seriously.

6.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Nine

THE LOWER DEPTHS (1957)

Comparing Kurosawa’s Lower Depths to Jean Renoir’s is like comparing apples to oranges. Despite having come from the same origin – Russian author Maxim Gorky’s political play of the same name – the two are vastly different. Renoir’s more romanticized take feels a bit mainstream and accessible compared to Kurosawa’s bleak, yet comedic vision, but the play itself isn’t meant to be taken as an accessible piece of entertainment. In a way, it practically circumvents what audiences expect from this sort of genre, so in that respect Kurosawa’s adaptation falls more in line with what Gorky was probably trying to present.

While Renoir handles the plot the way films are conventionally handled – implementing key plot developments, back-story, character growth, etc. – Kurosawa handles it more theatrically, but genuinely, confining the action almost claustrophobically so and treating the characters as standard, immoral outcasts rather than plot devices that push the story forward. In fact, there’s little progression, if any, in Kurosawa’s adaptation; we’re introduced to a group of destitute individuals wrapped up in their own concerns and ideals and they never really develop in any remarkable way. But I suppose this sobering portrait of the proletariat lifestyle is what Gorky had in mind.

Instead of spotlighting a single character – like Renoir mostly does with the thief – Kurosawa has created more of an ensemble film that lapses between the eccentric conversations of lower-class denizens living in a shabby tenement during Edo-period Japan. The members of this complex include a gambler, a prostitute, a tinker, an alcoholic actor, and a thief named Sutekichi played by Toshiro Mifune in what many consider to be his finest performance. At the core of their miserable lives is the tenement’s depraved landlady Osugi (Isuzu Yamada) who Sutekichi is secretly having an affair with. There’s also a wandering priest who drops in to serve as the “wise old sage” figure or mediator in this case, but once things go awry and Osugi discovers that Sutekichi has been unfaithful, drama ensues, hysteria breaks out, and the priest hightails it, realizing the tenants are beyond help.

Trying to distinguish tone here may turn off a few viewers, but I believe Kurosawa knew exactly what sort of atmosphere he wanted to establish in Depths. It's a tragicomedy, and although it has the air of a theatrical play, the way Mifune and his co-stars behave comes across far more authentic than their French counterparts. Their indifference is precise and unabashed, yet comically dispersed throughout the film. Kurosawa also incorporates cruelty as a function to examine these characters and peel them wide open, ultimately revealing very little, if anything redeeming about them. He certainly has the edge on Renoir when it comes to characterization, because instead of getting wound up in the romanticism of it all, we’re constantly learning more about these individuals through dialogue. The ending – which is the most chilling I’ve seen in some time – especially typifies how indifferent these people are toward human compassion.

Ironically enough, faith is the only substance these characters have in seeking greater things life, yet their unwillingness to reach out from the lower depths and actually make something of themselves is what hampers their resolve. Naturally, the priest is the sole presence of “faith” or religion in the tenement so he makes several attempts at imbuing optimism into everyone's lives, but fails on almost every level. Then there's the manner in which these characters strive to strip away each other's faith, which is a bit saddening considering faith is essentially their only means of living.

In the end, the idea of faith poses a question of realizing illusion – making dreams reality – and I found that to be the deepest aspect of Gorky’s play that Renoir failed to properly touch on. Kurosawa makes it fairly clear that most of Gorky's characters have this deluded sense of satisfaction in life and have no intentions of reforming the way they live. It’s depressing to watch, but the light moments tend to edge out the more somber ones.

Again, I don’t see much point in comparing Kurosawa’s Depths to Renoir’s because they’re two entirely different beasts. But if I had to choose the better film, I’d probably go with Kurosawa’s mostly because he seems to hit the mark where Renoir misses cerebrally. Renoir’s Depths sort of panders to the conventions of cinema, but it’s still quality filmmaking; just not thought-provoking. Not without its faults, Kurosawa’s can be unbearably slow at times, but at least he makes an effort to remain faithful to the source material.

8/10

I've started something I can't control

EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE (2010)

Unreliable narrators seemed to be a fixture in film last year. From DiCaprio’s delusional Teddy Daniels to Portman’s disquieted Nina Sayers, a handful of now prominent films featured stories told through the eyes of their unhinged protagonists. Christoffer Boe’s Jacob Falk is no exception. The Danish director's fourth feature film is one that caters to our curiosity and forces us to look beyond the scope of normalcy.

Much like Swimming Pool and even Memento – to an extent – Everything Will Be Fine offers more than a fair amount of interaction – films with enigmatic structures usually do. Minds race, questions are asked, clues are assembled. Films like Pool and Memento are fun to watch because they involve the audience; when our narrator is clearly unsettled, it becomes our job to separate fantasy from reality. There’s no singular path provided, thus we’re left to draw our own conclusions.

We’re initially led to believe that the events unfolding in Everything Will Be Fine are based in reality and that the contradiction of this would turn out to be the “twist”. As a firm hater of spoilers, I’ll just safely confirm that the real “twist” – if you can even call it that – has nothing to do with the psychological aspect Boe promotes in this film. In fact, the clues given throughout are presented so overtly that it’s not all that challenging to discern a large sum of the plot as pure fantasy.

 

Appropriately enough, our lead character’s – Jacob Falk’s (Jens Albinus) – strong suit centers on fantasy; he’s a director/screenwriter faced with a deadline and the pressure to meet it is taking toll on his mental health. Adding additional pressure is his wife (Marijana Jankovic) who nags him about the adoption papers he’s failed to fill out and capping it all off is the soldier (Igor Radosavljevic) he runs over – who happens to be carrying photos of Danish soldiers committing atrocities against POWs. This little finding incites a spiraling descent into paranoia, a descent that serves more as a guilt trip than anything else and one that ultimately finds Falk wallowing in regret over his past.

If any film deserved the label of “mind bender” last year, it was Boe’s thriller. Inception may have pulled out all the stops in the dream department – with a hefty amount of exposition, I might add – but it never once allowed me to determine the logic behind what was happening for myself; mostly because explanations were doled out so generously to the audience. With Everything Will Be Fine, audiences are rendered just as clueless and disconcerted as Falk.

The disorienting effect Boe employs through Falk is the essence of “mind bending”, the remnants of classic psychological thrillers unearthed in brilliant form. What also makes Falk’s journey so transfixing is the capability of the actor portraying him. Albinus quickly transforms from a seemingly composed director into a man influenced by fear. He comes to distrust his own sister (the talented, but wasted Paprika Steen), loses his grip on reality and begins rambling on about government conspiracies and secret agendas that fit better in his script than they do in reality. Albinus really slips into the psychosis of this character, delivering a disturbed, but natural performance.

Boe’s structure causes some minor concern – as we follow Falk on his wild goose chase for answers we’re simultaneously following Ali, the soldier Falk mows down in his 70s model Grand Marquis. What’s bothersome about this is the interweaving of story arcs. We hear Falk mumbling to himself about penning a script on war; enter Ali. Ali’s arc begins, we shift between his and Falk’s, Falk eventually runs Ali over, snags his sensational photos and heads off on an aimless quest for answers. Ali’s arc technically ends there, but Boe continues to recount the soldier’s story alongside Falk’s. So instead of contributing anything crucial to the plot – Ali’s arc really has nothing important to say – this tactic mainly interrupts flow. I suppose one could always consider Ali’s back-story necessary in visualizing Falk’s script, but what a distracting way to execute such an idea.

On the technical end, Boe’s cinematography and camerawork are absolutely spellbinding; the way he captures Denmark’s modern aesthetics – the country’s obscure architecture specifically – is laud-worthy. His decision to display external scenes as film set dioramas rather than actual locations further confirms the falsity of what Falk perceives as reality. All in all, an ambitious film with ambitious performances that sits high on my list of the year’s best foreign features.

8.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Eight

NO REGRETS FOR OUR YOUTH (1946)

After a prolonged hiatus, the series is back in full swing to discuss one of Kurosawa’s heaviest character studies: his first and only female protagonist who's also the most compelling character I’ve seen in any of his films to date, transitioning from intolerable brat to aspiring activist. Yukie, masterfully portrayed by Setsuko Hara, is a rare breed of protagonist – whose character traits run the gamut from heedless and manipulative to spoon-fed and juvenile – and I initially wrote her off as an unpleasant hindrance serving only to spoil the film’s atmosphere, but when she’s finished taking pleasure in the clear, rhythmic sounds of gunfire, boasting her piano skills, and challenging potential love interests in areas of passion and resolve, we’re treated to a fascinating analysis of a woman bereft of identity who eventually puts aside her childish ways and matures into a revolutionary whose perseverance is captivating to watch flourish on screen.

No Regrets for Our Youth is a profound story on the ideologies that spearheaded World War II, not to mention gender roles and the resurgence of leftist views in Japan. Faced with censorship woes – which his wartime films were usually subjected to – Kurosawa remained firm, capitalizing on his artistry as a filmmaker to convey a message on the “sacrifices in the struggle for freedom.”

No Regrets opens under idyllic pretenses with students whistling and singing, frolicking on grassy hills reminisce of those Julie Andrews pirouetted across in The Sound of Music, only smaller, and enjoying the simplicities of nature that seem to diminish as the film progresses. This majestic air of beauty and tranquility that our heroine Yukie seems to value more than politics and social issues is soon disrupted by gunfire, which excites Yukie, but worries her male cohorts; it’s 1933 and the Manchurian Incident has many students riled up in revolt. The setup for No Regrets parallels The Kyoto University Incident of 1932, where law professor Takigawa Yukitori was relieved of his teaching duties due to supporting Marxist philosophies; which led students to protest for academic freedom. In the film, Professor Yagihara (Denjiro Okochi) – largely inspired by Yukitori – faces suspension for advocating leftist views against fascism and, aligning with actual events, the students stage mass protests against the system.

In the midst of this conflict, Yukie finds herself juggling two suitors: Ryukichi Noge (Susumu Fujita), who’s driven by his ideals and is steadfast in putting an end to fascism, and Itokawa (Akitake Kono), who’s more reserved, subservient and adheres to the government’s practices. More inclined toward radical traits than those of a push-over yuppie, Yukie is wooed by Noge’s self-esteem and strong-willed nature so much that when he’s released from jail years later – for participating in an anti-militarist protest – and has noticeably changed into a caricature of Itokawa, she loses all interest in the man he's become. But after a romantic run-in with the former protester in Tokyo, she discovers that his ideals are still very much in tact.

Kurosawa offers an ample amount of characterization in No Regrets, more than any of his other films, and this isn’t merely hyperbole because Yukie’s search for selfhood is by and large – at least it should be – the standard for developing a character from the ground up. What’s most impressive is how Yukie feels that, as a woman, the only way to feel validated is to stand in the shadow of an enterprising man who takes risks rather than a pen-pusher who lacks ambition and bravado. The latter seems to be the case for Itokawa, who’s dull and bureaucratic, and upon realizing this, Yukie sets her eyes on Noge. Unlike Itokawa, Noge is capable of challenging Yukie, and although this intimidates her – “If I were to marry him, my life would blaze so brightly that I might be blinded” – she also finds it enticing. There’s little to gain intellectually from a relationship with Itokawa, but Yukie reveres Noge and settles to adapt to his principles, sponging up the zeal he exhibits so effortlessly. She’s a woman seeking growth and introspection, both of which she attains by the end of her relationship with Noge.

I’m usually transfixed by Kurosawa’s near-flawless direction and attention-to-detail, but here, it’s all about Setsuko Hara. Yukie's tale is one soaked in political messages – maybe even propaganda – but underlying all that is a story of individualism and empowerment. While the same documentary-style quality that riddled The Most Beautiful is apparent in the beginning of No Regrets, the way in which events ingeniously unfold puts to rest any doubts about Kurosawa's knack for storytelling. The final half of No Regrets is staggering because we’re finally introduced to an adult Yukie who displays a complete shift in character, and the way Hara bares herself emotionally on screen is utterly human, tragic, and makes for a monumental performance.

8.5/10