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

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

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

Emptiness in the moonlight

THE SEVENTH SEAL (1957)

It goes without saying that Ingmar Bergman was a master at character development. The man had a knack for placing his characters in compromising situations, having them endure bouts of angst and misfortune, often resulting in bittersweet conclusions. The Seventh Seal is no exception to his brilliant existentialist take on humanity, and it is here I believe Bergman delves deepest into man’s quest for purpose.

The film opens with a passage from the Book of Revelation denoting the beginnings of the apocalypse, spoken by the knight, Antonius Block, who is arriving back home from a ten year Crusade. Shortly thereafter, he is not only confronted by the personification of Death, but also discovers that his homeland of Sweden has been crippled by the plague. In an attempt to reprieve himself from Death, the knight proposes a chess match against Death itself that will hopefully – if won – spare him from the threat of dying.

What is interesting to take note of is that this is no ordinary game of chess; Block eventually leaves the game after a short period to continue his mission in plague-ridden Sweden. However, he hasn't really left the match at all; Death intends for Block's decisions and revelations to serve as his moves on the chess board. The primary theme of Seventh Seal is death, and of course doubting one's faith prior to death. The story initially begins with two characters, the knight and his squire, who have spent ten wasted years away from home, only to return and find their land ravaged by death. This is a blow to the knight’s spirituality, as indicated by his relentless uncertainty of God’s existence. His excessive questioning gets him nowhere. Upholding his faith in God only becomes a torment, “It is like loving someone who is out there in the darkness but never appears, no matter how loudly you call.” He is ultimately abandoned in his quest for truth.

As the story progresses, Bergman incorporates a number of various characters into the plot: a happily married couple of actors and their lustful manager, a love-struck blacksmith and his promiscuous wife, and a seemingly mute servant girl. The most fascinating of these diverse characters would have to be the carefree married actors, not only because they provide an inkling of hope for humanity, but because they remain resilient through the pestilence and despair that has shadowed Sweden. The knight revels in their content and even benefits from it by proxy during his chess match with Death. One of the most poignant scenes in the film occurs when the pilgrimage decides to enjoy a tranquil picnic in the midst of the plague. The scene, simple, yet effective, resonates with the knight so profoundly that he promises to cherish the memory forever.

If anything can be taken from The Seventh Seal, it is the notion of how truly terrifying it is to believe that nothing – neither heaven nor reincarnation – awaits us after death, and Bergman powerfully embeds this horror into such an accessible story. It almost unfolds like a children's book with its slapstick situations and comedic dialogue. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, yet simultaneously sends us a message that leaves a lasting impression.

9.5/10