Nakedness Which Wants to Die Too Much
Let's-Make-the-Teacher-Have-a-Miscarriage Club
(Double Bill)
A selection of two fairly typical low-budget Japanese films focused on the rampant problem of teenage bullying. It was the first time that Nakedness was shown outside of Japan while Club had already hoped from festival to festival, starting from Yubari to the Nippon Connection (Frankfurt), then across the pond to the New York Asian Film Festival. Here are my thoughts about each film individually:
Nakedness Which Wants to Die Too Much
Heralded as a future household name by the hyperactive programmers at Fantasia, director Hidenobu Abera was a college student when he completed the present film. And it shows. Not just because of the low-budget aesthetics of the ensemble, but because of its subject matter as well, teenage bullying, which Abera has experienced firsthand like so many of his peers. I can draw you a portrait of the narrative, but it probably won't sound very exotic to those familiar with contemporary Japanese cinema, and especially the All Night Long series. While the latter focuses intently on vindictive bloodshed as an extreme expression of the self, Nakedness almost totally eschews the recourse to vindictive violence in order to use helplessness as the paramount dramatic value of the film, bringing the narrative to an emotional climax as the protagonist is shown wriggling in pain on the sidewalk, after his female friend failed to appear on the fateful night of her birthday...
Order breeds chaos: All Night Long and its
therapeutic outbursts of violence.
Michiru is an average victim of Japanese society. He is skinny and unpopular, the victim of many cruel taunts, including many that feature some sort of sexual humiliation. Distraught by the death of his grandmother, the only person that seems to have ever been nice to him, the young man eventually derives a sense of peace from seeing her body in a coffin. Hence, he decides to build his very own cardboard coffin in which to sleep, like the solitary romantic (vampire) that he is. The flashback during which he explains the genesis of the coffin is distressing in that it shows a child who would prefer the quietude of death to the raucous bitterness of youth. What's more distressing is how the coffin eventually becomes a staple of his lonely life, a constant reminder of his estrangement with the society of the living, including his unconcerned parents, who would rather see his snooty younger brother as their true heir. Suicide play is also a staple of his life, a way for him to enact the phantasm of death (and the liberation that it entails) without having to really suffer. Hence, he brushes his wrists with red paint covered with a layer of gauze, which lets the paint flow after it is slashed with a blade. This causes his parents to scream as they peek at the reddened bath water around him. Obviously, they can't understand the simultaneous drive and repulsion with death that their son entertains, and which the film vies to depict. Luckily for Michiru, there is a pretty young woman out there who shares his angst. Sayaka might be wearing a school girl uniform, but she is not an actual student, merely a phantasm for the dirty old men who pay for her company. Feeling alive and loved only in the act of sex, Sayaka is another pariah who has contemplated suicide as a way toward liberty from the prison of flesh. While the two manage to help each other shed light on their shadowy lives, theirs is also a hurtful relationship in which passions become self-devouring and disastrous.
Despite the final ray of hope that sheds through the dark clouds covering the Tokyo landscape, where individuality is drowned by conformity, Abera's film is characteristically bleak. The actions undertaken by Michiru and Sayaka's tormentors are downright shocking. Forced to undress, Michiru then becomes the subject of a sordid photo shoot that leads to blackmail, theft and a beating from mom and dad. And that's when he is not tied to a pole and thrown rocks by punks... As for Sayaka, she gets videotaped by aggressive old men while they're having their way with her. Hence, sexual bliss becomes pathological dependency and the protagonists' puppy love thing is dragged through the mud extensively. Their coming-of-age is downright brutal, and a powerful reminder of what the Japanese culture of sameness has allowed to develop in terms of viciously weeding out the chaff.
Using a diminutive filming apparatus, the director creates an uneasy sense of intimacy with the protagonists, making exemplary use of locales to create an empty world in which the characters are left to fend for themselves. Actually, the very presence of others in the frame usually entails some form of humiliation to come. Hence, the cardboard covered walls of Michiru's room acts as coffin walls in entrapping him and Sayaka. As for the diminutive family apartment, it has him entrapped with unfair, uncaring parents. Even the places where the two protagonists hang out ooze with hopelessness and a sense of entrapment. The emergency stairs, with their intricate metal bars and proximity to cluttered apartments, have all the charm of a prison cell. Even the beach is herein used as a dirty, dangerous place where one's freedom is constantly at odds with that of bullies. Alternatively devoid and overflowing with human life, the beach is not a safe haven, but a catalyst for bitter realizations. Finally, there's the empty Tokyo alleys which Michiru roams endlessly without a soul in sight to take pity on his ordeal. The indifference of the street is clear as the camera closely tracks his movements through mere concrete and neon, the two faithful companions of the stricken city slicker.
Michiru is truly one to be defined by
bullying. Here, he is labeled a pervert and
forced to shoplift porno mags.
And then there are props, each more depressing than the last, symbols of the twisted teenage angst which has come to replace hope in Japanese society. Immediately, Sayaka's pocket knife comes to mind. Concealed in a pouch hanging from her neck, this eventual gift to Michiru has dire implications in both their suicidal lives, making friendship and euthanasia run shockingly nearby courses. As for the plaster angel which Michiru purchases as a gift to Sayaka, it works very much like the plastic model cherished by the protagonist from All Night Long 2: Atrocity. It is a sign of static, and very ethereal beauty. It is a hopeless desire for beauty in the face of overwhelming ugliness and as such, it is featured prominently during the film's opening sequence, along with a series of coke bottles that litter the shoreline. Providing no sustenance to the protagonist, who crawls pitifully up to them only to realize that they are all empty, these coke bottles turn out to be mere litter, or crumbs which the bullies have left behind for Michiru. In the hands of Sayaka however, they take on another meaning. They become signs of youthful carelessness and unadulterated joy... until they are replaced by the whiskey bottle, which involves a violent passage from youth to adulthood. Finally, there's the cake, a lovely piece of cake hand-picked by Michiru to celebrate Sayaka's birthday. Upon realizing what she does for a living, Michiru gets angry with her friend, violently force-feeding her the cake, mimicking rape and suddenly taking the hard stance of her clients. When the runny cream dirties her face, something gives. The sweetness of youth is obliterated as its most prominent symbol is crushed. Everything around is immediately engulfed in a maelstrom of despair.
With all these elements colliding, Abera's film seems absolutely hopeless in its depiction of teenage angst. The honesty of it all is so glaring as to elicit heart burns and many muscular aches. Luckily, there is an opening in the end, which allows the transition between the crass realism of the ensemble and the slightly impressionistic account of Michiru's liberation by a spectral Sayaka and the ritual burning of his coffin, which symbolizes his liberation from the very crass realism in which he is entrapped by the director. In the end, while teenage bullying in Japan is not a novel subject in any sense of the word, Nakedness is honest and personal enough to give it a universal quality that allows the film to reach across cultures and deliver a heartfelt message. The low production values on display are merely a necessary drawback from the situation in which the film was made.
**1/2 The violently honest account of teenage life in Tokyo is limited by an overdetermined subject matter and some very limited means of production.
Let’s-Make-the-Teacher-Have-a-Miscarriage Club
Featuring what is perhaps the worst tracking shot in the history of cinema,
this low-budget Japanese shocker features exactly what you’d expect from a
low-budget Japanese shocker: unruly girl students, impersonal acting,
atrociously dubbed sound effects and a surprisingly mean streak. While equally bleak and thematically similar to Nakedness, it ends with a far more uplifting message about the power of forgiveness and mutual understanding, if only one would care for that stuff after he falling for the title...
When five
teenage girls, the leader of which is a cold-hearted monster who enjoys killing
baby rabbits, hear of their teacher’s pregnancy, they immediately start the
titular club. After a few unsuccessful attempts from their part, the teacher in question becomes savvy to their objective, which prompts her to slap the girls and get into hot water with their parents. When she finally manages to confront her enemies with their dire design, this unleashes nastier, potentially lethal attempts at disrupting her life. The vicious circle of vengeance then runs its course until the inevitable happens and something gives. Then it's all a matter of appraising the lesson learned.
Conformity kills: Club insists on showing systematic violence.
Based on true events, the present film is but the umpteenth
Japanese attempt at making a naturalistic depiction of atrociously nihilistic youth crimes. Strangely, the immediacy of the hand-held camera and virtual absence of music, which contribute a great deal to the realism of the ensemble, aren't backed with either naturalistic sound or acting. The result is a happy discrepancy between intentions and means, which mars whatever message was left to be said with the material on display. With each onscreen hit resulting in a resounding "plop" on the soundtrack, one feels miles away from the real world. And while the absence of background information on the girls tends to universalize the matter at hand, it also results in a plethora of one-dimensional characters involved in a nearly Manichean ballet of selfish intentions. In the end, what we get is a virtuous young heroine who manages, after many trials, to reform an unruly schoolgirl and deflate the nefarious influence she has on her peers, sort of like A Dangerous Mind set in Japan. Tormented by students and their parents alike, the poor teacher soon becomes a martyr whose ordeal is a common attack on the rising nihilism of youth, the waning authority of parents and the hypocrisy of schools as businesses: far too many themes to develop within the restrictive framework provided by the narrative (and the limited runtime).
If nothing else, the film is interesting in its depiction of conformity as a Foucauldian process of influence and acceptance. Without their unrepentant leader, the four girl members of the club wouldn't have attempted anything. And that is how violence becomes endemic, as part of a system that casually accepts it as the result of leadership. The very idea of a murderous "club" implies systematic violence in a very disturbing way. Unfortunately, shock value and social message are virtually indistinguishable here and we are ultimately treated to a mere piece of forgettable entertainment. A simple splash of gray paint to complete the portrait of a humanity...
*1/2 A forgettable piece of entertainment made of ugly images depicting an ugly reality.
If nothing else, the film is interesting in its depiction of conformity as a Foucauldian process of influence and acceptance. Without their unrepentant leader, the four girl members of the club wouldn't have attempted anything. And that is how violence becomes endemic, as part of a system that casually accepts it as the result of leadership. The very idea of a murderous "club" implies systematic violence in a very disturbing way. Unfortunately, shock value and social message are virtually indistinguishable here and we are ultimately treated to a mere piece of forgettable entertainment. A simple splash of gray paint to complete the portrait of a humanity...
*1/2 A forgettable piece of entertainment made of ugly images depicting an ugly reality.
.........................
The Ambassador
For those who are discontent with the complacency of Michael Moore,
for those who wish that Sasha Baron Cohen would be more political, and
not simply an iconoclast, for all those people out there, there is Mads Brügger. The inquisitive Danish
prankster strikes again this year with The Ambassador, in which he probes the lives of foreign diplomats on African soil. After offering us a privileged look behind
the North Korean curtain with The Red Chapel, Brügger now offers us a privileged look into the world of
African diplomacy. But once again, he goes way beyond investigative journalism.
He literally goes undercover. He becomes part of the events he is trying to
portray, a character if you will, in the universal ballet of humanity. As such,
he also creates a story for us to follow. He gives us drama. He gives us humor.
He makes a fiction film out of reality and achieves a rare level of enlightenment in the process. Obviously, one will need to bring his critical sense into the theater so as to try and spot the director's attempts at forging reality, and not simply reporting it. But in this topsy-turvy world of ours, where deceit is deeply rooted in commerce and politics alike, with Brügger's "subjectivité assumée" serving as cement for his elaborate narrative, this will prove to be a nearly insurmountable ordeal...
Mads Brügger undoubtedly "went there", but where
does the truth stop and the deceit begin?
Using a battery of hidden cameras, the director creates a chronological account of his burrowing deep into the world of African exploitation, starting with his acquiring forged ID papers from a shady European source (which he lovingly frames while declaring the following: "I do not wish for this conversation to ever leave the premises"). And that is precisely the kind of footage which Brügger is famous for, footage that shouldn't be seen by the masses, footage that should've kept to the shadows if the powers that be had had their way. After one failed attempt at exchanging a ridiculously low sum of money (around 100,000 Euros) for diplomatic papers, Brügger eventually finds a more reliable source, with whom he keeps contact throughout the film as a purveyor of friendly advice. He then embarks on a trip toward Central African Republic, by way of Liberia, where he secures an enviable position within the roster of rotten local officials. From there, he proceeds to join the blood diamond trade while setting up a match factory that will serve as a front for his shady activities. And nothing is fake here, folks. There is real danger, real exploiters and a very real system in place to act as umbrella. Whether some details are made up is not so relevant as the big picture. Besides, the images caught by the director's cameras also possess weight in themselves, independently of their place within any sort of structure. The image itself, and this should be duly noted, has a power of its own. Its veracity should not necessarily have bearing on our appraisal thereof, as opposed to its pertinence.
As with The Red Chapel, Brügger uses his camera to pierce through the veil that covers Western eyes and to reveal the workings of power within our unjust world. If the film has no other purpose, it allows us to enter a forbidden world that lies just beyond our reach, a world that has to be seen to be believed. Obviously, it's easy to imagine a lawless limbo in which all Africans are stuck, but it's hard to make perfect sense of the poverty and marginalization that this implies without the crucial images provided by Brügger and fellow documentary filmmakers such as Hubert Sauper (Darwin's Nightmare). Unless you know exactly what's going on behind the scene, or are a hardcore pessimist, you likely won't believe what Brügger has to show you. There's a whole battalion of crooked officials who parade in front of the two cameras concealed in his office, and all their names appear at the bottom of the screen, like mere interviewees in a TV report. But these are not people that would normally confide to the camera. Not ever. These are people who are ever unseen by the cameras, people that have forever eluded the public eye in order to better indulge in their shadowy agendas. But now they are finally caught. Whether this will have a tangible impact on their long-established system of exploitation remains unsure, but at least now, the public knows. And this is of paramount importance, given the fact that it is the public, or the people, who has the power to change things. The people now know. Will they know act to stop the illegal plundering of African resources? Probably not. But at least, the potential for liberation is there, the potential for a more egalitarian sharing of resources. Most importantly, there is now proof of foul play for everyone to rise up against and film has once more proven its revolutionary power.
Brügger went where no man had gone before: undercover in the Central African Republic, looking for blood diamonds as a simple civilian in disguise. He is like the man who managed to climb the Everest for the first time. Well... maybe not. But you get the idea. Personally, I find that it is much easier to succeed in a purely physical challenge than in such an infiltration as Brügger's. First of all, you know what to expect, and what to prepare, in a physical challenge. But when confronted with humans, the most unpredictable beings in existence, one needs more resources. Here, the director must take advantage of his charisma and whimsical charm (the language barrier helps) in order to get where he wants to be. After all, the easiest way to obtain what you want in this world is through smooth talking... and being a rich Westerner, the latter of which Brügger must fake. On the field, there is no help but your ability to convince people, put them on your side. And that is where the director succeeds. Beyond the simple notion of The Ambassador as a film object, there is the absolute power of his performance. Engaging in discussions with a notorious mine owner (complete with a gold tooth and machete scars), dancing with drunken Natives, having a whole scene dedicated to a pair of Pygmies listening to whale sounds, these things require a strong sense of showmanship and a full dedication to the craft. Most importantly, they require balls. Even more balls than Sacha Baron Cohen needed when he visited the Middle East for Brüno (his best film and one of the most underrated comedy gems of all times), if only because the former goes more in-depth into the matter. I used the term "burrow" earlier and I really mean it. What Brügger does is to pierce through the system in place, right to the source of blood diamonds. But in doing so, he also exposes the scam laterally, naming every person he has crossed within the system. It is a whole web of shame which he exposes, the likes of which leave no ambiguity as to the Western interference in African affairs, the exploitation of barely cohesive governments by highly organized groups from abroad and the shameless, greed-motivated plundering of resources.
The restrictive dramatic format in which Brügger decides to package his material is the film's most important limitation. For one thing, the ending leaves to be desired in that it sits atop a near-climax, but without delivering any payload, or closure. Filming had to stop and that's it film. The reality of documentary filmmaking catches up to the director's crazy attempt at making a Hollywoodian villain of himself. The film also contains several incongruous ellipses that arise from the conflict between the desire for a straightforward storyline and the need for thematic recapitulation. Finally, there's the problem of the heavily intrusive voice-over, which Brügger has inexplicably kept from The Red Chapel. While shooting the latter film, he could not record cynical comments over his material as the North Korean police inspected all his tapes on a daily basis. Here, the principle of the video diary doesn't work quite as well. In fact, the voice-over is often unwelcome and redundant. It's up to a point where it actually harms the fluidity of the film. Obviously, we can't discredit the entire enterprise for going in circles sometimes, especially in light of the fact that Brügger's is a particularly laborious enterprise that doesn't lend itself so easily to the exciting narrative exercise attempted here. We can only point out that less rigidity could've helped the raw material to speak for itself. But then again, this could've been detrimental to the scam...
Brügger went where no man had gone before: undercover in the Central African Republic, looking for blood diamonds as a simple civilian in disguise. He is like the man who managed to climb the Everest for the first time. Well... maybe not. But you get the idea. Personally, I find that it is much easier to succeed in a purely physical challenge than in such an infiltration as Brügger's. First of all, you know what to expect, and what to prepare, in a physical challenge. But when confronted with humans, the most unpredictable beings in existence, one needs more resources. Here, the director must take advantage of his charisma and whimsical charm (the language barrier helps) in order to get where he wants to be. After all, the easiest way to obtain what you want in this world is through smooth talking... and being a rich Westerner, the latter of which Brügger must fake. On the field, there is no help but your ability to convince people, put them on your side. And that is where the director succeeds. Beyond the simple notion of The Ambassador as a film object, there is the absolute power of his performance. Engaging in discussions with a notorious mine owner (complete with a gold tooth and machete scars), dancing with drunken Natives, having a whole scene dedicated to a pair of Pygmies listening to whale sounds, these things require a strong sense of showmanship and a full dedication to the craft. Most importantly, they require balls. Even more balls than Sacha Baron Cohen needed when he visited the Middle East for Brüno (his best film and one of the most underrated comedy gems of all times), if only because the former goes more in-depth into the matter. I used the term "burrow" earlier and I really mean it. What Brügger does is to pierce through the system in place, right to the source of blood diamonds. But in doing so, he also exposes the scam laterally, naming every person he has crossed within the system. It is a whole web of shame which he exposes, the likes of which leave no ambiguity as to the Western interference in African affairs, the exploitation of barely cohesive governments by highly organized groups from abroad and the shameless, greed-motivated plundering of resources.
The Ambassador dancing with drunken Natives:
absurdity at the service of truth.
The restrictive dramatic format in which Brügger decides to package his material is the film's most important limitation. For one thing, the ending leaves to be desired in that it sits atop a near-climax, but without delivering any payload, or closure. Filming had to stop and that's it film. The reality of documentary filmmaking catches up to the director's crazy attempt at making a Hollywoodian villain of himself. The film also contains several incongruous ellipses that arise from the conflict between the desire for a straightforward storyline and the need for thematic recapitulation. Finally, there's the problem of the heavily intrusive voice-over, which Brügger has inexplicably kept from The Red Chapel. While shooting the latter film, he could not record cynical comments over his material as the North Korean police inspected all his tapes on a daily basis. Here, the principle of the video diary doesn't work quite as well. In fact, the voice-over is often unwelcome and redundant. It's up to a point where it actually harms the fluidity of the film. Obviously, we can't discredit the entire enterprise for going in circles sometimes, especially in light of the fact that Brügger's is a particularly laborious enterprise that doesn't lend itself so easily to the exciting narrative exercise attempted here. We can only point out that less rigidity could've helped the raw material to speak for itself. But then again, this could've been detrimental to the scam...
In conclusion, I would like to address the question of Brügger's ego, which has circulated in the press. Is the entire film, and the man's entire career while we're at it, a simple exaltation of his ego? Are his films mere self-promoting pamphlets? Who cares? Seriously! How hypocritical is it to accuse someone of egomania when one's name is featured prominently on the headline of an article? Besides, what is egomania in our society but simply a common ground? The cult of personality runs incredibly deep in our culture, and it won't go away. There used to be a time when journalists didn't have to have their faces plastered all over the newspapers, when words could speak for themselves. There used to be a time when people didn't sell their own image on Facebook for some cheap coitus. Then, there's real estate agents, car dealers and politicians, all of whom enjoy disembodied existence all across the cityscape. The two aforementioned artists, Michael Moore and Sacha Baron Cohen, are both egomaniacs. Their faces have even become pop culture icons by now. If Mads Brügger, by risking his life abroad, cannot achieve such a feat, then we are in a very ugly world, people. Besides, egomania is essential here, and so is self-promotion as the director portrays an avowedly evil character. The black humor he uses, the arrogance he displays, all of these nefarious traits which he makes his own are but as way to better depict the psychology of this character, for whom the situation might genuinely appear funny. Not unlike punk hero Jello Biafra, who would readily portray the bad guy in a vitriolic game of mimicry, Brügger takes the look, but he also takes the mindset of the colonialist. And in doing so, he becomes a punk hero of his own...
You want to see egomania? You want to see lies (e.g.
Canadian healthcare is heaven, Americans get treated
for free in Cuba...)? Then, rent Sicko and leave Brügger alone!
**** Dramatic traps aside, The Ambassador is a stellar example of the camera's power to document, immortalize, and reveal humanity for what it is. A humorous companion to Sauper's essential masterpiece, Darwin's Nightmare.
.........................
Mondomanila
Don’t expect a straightforward dramatic film here. Mondomanila is a punk
film from the gutter. It is colorful, loud, and mostly devoid of a clear
narrative thread. The desire to tell a story thus becomes subservient to the necessity of framing the ghetto, which is ultimately the sole purpose of the enterprise. The resulting film is equal parts circus performance and milieu study, with any attempt at actual narration getting lost in the process. You will get everything you would want from a freak show here, including bird-fucking and crippled break-dancing midgets. There are even musical numbers thrown in the mix. It's a ghetto extravaganza extraordinaire! If you're up for that sort of thing...
What I preferred about Mondomanila was simply the chance to roam through the streets of Manila like a real local. And judging from the cast, these are indeed real locals we're dealing with here. The film actually opens with a toothless vagrant promoting the show. Then, we are introduced (twice) to a large cast of characters whose destinies intertwine randomly over the course of the narrative. Every one of those characters is crippled in some way (either mental, physical or social), but they are all lively and willing to share their story. The first one of them is a diminutive leader, whose foul-mouth is featured prominently during an interview in which he chastises the local elites for their indifference to the poor man's ploy. The kid seems to be about 12 years old but he's quite clever in his rant; he's a survivor of the ugly and the stinking, framed on a stone bridge arched atop a repulsive stream lined with dirty ducts. Growing up in the slums makes one grow up faster than he should. Thus, we are not surprised when a battalion of similar street urchins take the stage and start indulging in a variety of weirdly destructive activities, including heavy drug consumption, bestiality, sodomy and murder.
The geek show, however, is just one of the many forms of entertainment on the program. There's also a lengthy rap number (a definite highlight of the film), a b-boying session and an all-out musical number, all of which warrant constant shifts in stylistic approach. The most shocking break occurs when the boys are profiling a degenerate Australian pedophile. Suddenly, the film becomes a mute fotonovela as we watch them waiting on his doorstep for a chance to strike. It might seem contradictory, but although it is filmed by locals, the "mondo film" brand is deeply imprinted within Mondomanila's structure. The eclectic techniques and episodes involved in creating the jagged landscape of the slum have no equal but the brutality and sensationalism contained in the images which they sustain. Obviously, there will be many people to criticize the exploitative nature of the material at hand, but fewer to realize that the colonialist spirit impregnating other mondo films is all but absent here, with the filmmakers in charge taking their cameras from the streets to the streets. The present undertaking can thus be understood as a liberation from the mondo label, a joyous reassertion of the self within the world of the slums. It's as if the public's eye was not looking down on its subject matter anymore, but merely sideways. It's a revolution in the title, and in the way of bringing "the world" to avid thrill-seekers and humanist intellectuals alike.
You will see shocking stuff in Mondomanila, but nothing as miserabilist or exploitative as what the Italians have framed as "a dog's world". There is some definite joy to it all, and a strong sense of self which exudes from every character. There are horrors in the slums, and many filthy things, but nothing to completely kill the human spirit. Hence, humor and hope brighten the narrative in places, making the protagonists appear not lesser than humans, but just human.
**1/2 Trashy, exploitative and shocking, but not without a purpose, Mondomanila is a freak show organized by the freaks themselves in a quest for self-determination. Watch with an open mind.
Gyo: Tokyo Fish Attack
Richard Linklater's Slackers get a reality check here.
What I preferred about Mondomanila was simply the chance to roam through the streets of Manila like a real local. And judging from the cast, these are indeed real locals we're dealing with here. The film actually opens with a toothless vagrant promoting the show. Then, we are introduced (twice) to a large cast of characters whose destinies intertwine randomly over the course of the narrative. Every one of those characters is crippled in some way (either mental, physical or social), but they are all lively and willing to share their story. The first one of them is a diminutive leader, whose foul-mouth is featured prominently during an interview in which he chastises the local elites for their indifference to the poor man's ploy. The kid seems to be about 12 years old but he's quite clever in his rant; he's a survivor of the ugly and the stinking, framed on a stone bridge arched atop a repulsive stream lined with dirty ducts. Growing up in the slums makes one grow up faster than he should. Thus, we are not surprised when a battalion of similar street urchins take the stage and start indulging in a variety of weirdly destructive activities, including heavy drug consumption, bestiality, sodomy and murder.
The geek show, however, is just one of the many forms of entertainment on the program. There's also a lengthy rap number (a definite highlight of the film), a b-boying session and an all-out musical number, all of which warrant constant shifts in stylistic approach. The most shocking break occurs when the boys are profiling a degenerate Australian pedophile. Suddenly, the film becomes a mute fotonovela as we watch them waiting on his doorstep for a chance to strike. It might seem contradictory, but although it is filmed by locals, the "mondo film" brand is deeply imprinted within Mondomanila's structure. The eclectic techniques and episodes involved in creating the jagged landscape of the slum have no equal but the brutality and sensationalism contained in the images which they sustain. Obviously, there will be many people to criticize the exploitative nature of the material at hand, but fewer to realize that the colonialist spirit impregnating other mondo films is all but absent here, with the filmmakers in charge taking their cameras from the streets to the streets. The present undertaking can thus be understood as a liberation from the mondo label, a joyous reassertion of the self within the world of the slums. It's as if the public's eye was not looking down on its subject matter anymore, but merely sideways. It's a revolution in the title, and in the way of bringing "the world" to avid thrill-seekers and humanist intellectuals alike.
A voice for the voiceless: Mondomanila.
You will see shocking stuff in Mondomanila, but nothing as miserabilist or exploitative as what the Italians have framed as "a dog's world". There is some definite joy to it all, and a strong sense of self which exudes from every character. There are horrors in the slums, and many filthy things, but nothing to completely kill the human spirit. Hence, humor and hope brighten the narrative in places, making the protagonists appear not lesser than humans, but just human.
**1/2 Trashy, exploitative and shocking, but not without a purpose, Mondomanila is a freak show organized by the freaks themselves in a quest for self-determination. Watch with an open mind.
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Gyo: Tokyo Fish Attack
What first appears to be a simple throwback to the giant monster movies of
old (like this year’s Grabbers) evolves in strange ways that only the loopy mind
of Junji Ito could have devised. And the result is Gyo, one of the most
grotesque zombie films of all times.
Gyo: Tokyo Fish Attack gives you an invasion that's
REALLY worth capturing on your cellphone.
When three vacationing girlfriends cross the threshold of the seaside
cottage they’ve inherited for the holidays, they are immediately overwhelmed by
a putrid stench emanating from an elusive creature that turns out to be a
legged fish. Nary the only one of its kind, that fish is soon followed by
millions of others as the shoreline is quickly cluttered by similar amphibians.
It’s an all-out invasion. But as grotesque as the creatures first appear to be,
they turn out to be inventions of pure madness. They are not merely fishes with
legs, you see. They are actually made of two complementary parts, a gas-filled flesh
vessel and a legged base made of conducts and pistons. It’s a weird concept to
grasp and an impossible one to explain, apparently, as we’re told that the gas
might be from outer space and the legged contraptions, natural outgrowths from
the ocean floor.
But the fun lies not in the sight of the clunky animated fishes, but in their infection of human beings, and the spreading of a worldwide plague (à la 28 Weeks Later). Here, the bite doesn't merely infect the victim, it fills him with gas, which expands until the recipient has become a bloated monstrosity covered with hideous boils. At that point is when the victim gains the ability to merge with the legged metal bases from the sea as replacement for their previous "riders", whose bowels have exploded from a gas surplus. In order to do so, they are violently stuffed with metal conduits and clamped down with thin metal claws in an inexplicably automated process made possible by intangible tentacles. The film then becomes an unbelievable orgy of the weird as the resulting creatures advance through the city streets toward some unknown destination. The sight of bloated humans prostrated inside clawed shells with intestinal conducts plugged in their asses and mouths is absolutely grotesque and slightly damaging to the brain. But the fucked-up thing is that amidst the sea of greenish flesh and crumbling relationships that results, beauty manages to emerge, as the volatile gas forms painterly patterns in the sky. There is also beauty in the awkward movement of the creatures and their mutual integration into monstrous mounds of distended flesh. There is beauty in the very tangibility of it all, the materialization of a real nightmare through the godly power of animation. The image itself is very strong in the art of Junji Ito, the manga artist whose work has inspired Uzumaki, the Tomie films and Gyo. Luckily this time, we can witness the whole extent of his vision because reality, that is live action cinema, isn't in the way anymore. Hence, the true power of animation is revealed in its ability to bring madness to life.
Luckily, the animation is fluid too, fluid enough to convey the hectic pace of the invasion, which translates in an apparently endless succession of catastrophic events, legged shark attacks, plane crashes, train crashes and several street bouts with the creatures. At this pace, everybody dies before long and all that is left of Japan is (spoiler) a boatful of people headed for God knows where. There is no distinct goal here, and the search for an explanation soon falls flat under the weight of improbabilities and our declining desire to learn about the disease. Yet, the many heated bursts of personal drama help keep the narrative moving along, with the stellar monster design and refreshing adult themes constantly rekindling our interest on the other side of narration. Hell, I didn't expect to see gas zombies OR double penetration in this film, but I did! And God was I thankful for it.
Now, I'd like to address the reason why I've spent so much time describing the monsters and so little time describing the qualities of the film per se. First of all, I tend to get flustered when I watch animation films and I end up focusing almost exclusively on the animated critters themselves, and very little on direction or editing. This is surely a flaw in my technique... But most importantly here, I need not do more than depict the zombification process involved in order to draw or repel the viewer. My question to you is: "Do you want to see shit like this, or don't you?" There is a scene in the film where the protagonist inexplicably stumbles upon a circus tent in the middle of the city. The show is going on despite the surrounding chaos. Because that's all there is to it: the show.
But the fun lies not in the sight of the clunky animated fishes, but in their infection of human beings, and the spreading of a worldwide plague (à la 28 Weeks Later). Here, the bite doesn't merely infect the victim, it fills him with gas, which expands until the recipient has become a bloated monstrosity covered with hideous boils. At that point is when the victim gains the ability to merge with the legged metal bases from the sea as replacement for their previous "riders", whose bowels have exploded from a gas surplus. In order to do so, they are violently stuffed with metal conduits and clamped down with thin metal claws in an inexplicably automated process made possible by intangible tentacles. The film then becomes an unbelievable orgy of the weird as the resulting creatures advance through the city streets toward some unknown destination. The sight of bloated humans prostrated inside clawed shells with intestinal conducts plugged in their asses and mouths is absolutely grotesque and slightly damaging to the brain. But the fucked-up thing is that amidst the sea of greenish flesh and crumbling relationships that results, beauty manages to emerge, as the volatile gas forms painterly patterns in the sky. There is also beauty in the awkward movement of the creatures and their mutual integration into monstrous mounds of distended flesh. There is beauty in the very tangibility of it all, the materialization of a real nightmare through the godly power of animation. The image itself is very strong in the art of Junji Ito, the manga artist whose work has inspired Uzumaki, the Tomie films and Gyo. Luckily this time, we can witness the whole extent of his vision because reality, that is live action cinema, isn't in the way anymore. Hence, the true power of animation is revealed in its ability to bring madness to life.
Luckily, the animation is fluid too, fluid enough to convey the hectic pace of the invasion, which translates in an apparently endless succession of catastrophic events, legged shark attacks, plane crashes, train crashes and several street bouts with the creatures. At this pace, everybody dies before long and all that is left of Japan is (spoiler) a boatful of people headed for God knows where. There is no distinct goal here, and the search for an explanation soon falls flat under the weight of improbabilities and our declining desire to learn about the disease. Yet, the many heated bursts of personal drama help keep the narrative moving along, with the stellar monster design and refreshing adult themes constantly rekindling our interest on the other side of narration. Hell, I didn't expect to see gas zombies OR double penetration in this film, but I did! And God was I thankful for it.
The film is a colored version of the
manga.Who cares? That shit is awesome!
Now, I'd like to address the reason why I've spent so much time describing the monsters and so little time describing the qualities of the film per se. First of all, I tend to get flustered when I watch animation films and I end up focusing almost exclusively on the animated critters themselves, and very little on direction or editing. This is surely a flaw in my technique... But most importantly here, I need not do more than depict the zombification process involved in order to draw or repel the viewer. My question to you is: "Do you want to see shit like this, or don't you?" There is a scene in the film where the protagonist inexplicably stumbles upon a circus tent in the middle of the city. The show is going on despite the surrounding chaos. Because that's all there is to it: the show.
Footnote: The film DOES feature some tentacle porn, thanks to that single zombie octopus in the whole film, but it's nothing worth hollering about. Plenty of sharks and tuna, but just a single octopus... If the makers of this film have done one thing wrong, it's skimping on the tentacles.
*** This refreshingly disturbing and novel variation on the zombie film contains unforgettably grotesque imagery. Enjoy with moderation.
