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.