(The following is a biographical recap of my experience at the festival. If you don't care for it, please proceed to the next section, The limitations of genre cinema, or C'est à la Cinémathèque que ça se passe. )
Whew! It is finally over! My
75-film ordeal has come to an end, and I can now reclaim my life. But not without certain hurdles. The screen has gone blank and it now seems that
everything around me has taken a sudden shade of gray. The streets surrounding
the Concordian campus have lost all of their picturesque quality ever since I first
ventured through the colorful alleys crisscrossing through the Filipino slums. Even
the most extreme road accidents and gang shootings now seem mundane to me after
I bore witness to so many heroes withstanding lethal blows only to come out
unscathed. I had gladly surrounded myself with a magical veil for the last few
weeks, but now that veil has been lifted on a drab world devoid of charm and
magic. Like every year, the escapism provided by Fantasia has ultimately faded
and violently exposed the appalling void that fills our lives.
Still, it is nice to finally
emerge from the hectic lifestyle I had to adopt in order to withstand the
onslaught. Seeing how I have a steady, full-time job, one can appreciate just
how mad it is to try and attend the number of screenings I had programmed (80
at first, 75 of which I ended up attending). To use a genre-oriented metaphor,
I would say that it required me to abandon any form of resolve and willingly
become a drooling film zombie. Running mostly on power drinks and weed (both of
which complement and contradict each other), I barely had time to grab a piece
of burger or fried rice between screenings. Here's what my schedule looked like
during the three weeks of the festival:
First thing is waking up. With my alarm clock set for 7:47, I can easily walk alongside the Lachine canal and reach the office for 8:30, the start of my shift. Then, after a full day of work, complete with an endless series of grueling logistics tasks, I have to dash out at 16:30 and reach Concordia for the 5 o'clock screening. That can be tricky sometimes, especially when taking the subway and having to wait in line while some annoying Frenchmen (from France) are having a 20-minute conference with the cashier in order to buy a handful of tickets... Yet I still managed to be on time for every screening, even if it meant soaking my work clothes with sweat, knowing that I wouldn't have time to wash them for the next three weeks (I don't want to start the washing machine at midnight for it would greatly compromise my roommates' sleep cycle). After the 5 o'clock screening, there's the 7 and 9 o'clock screenings on weekdays. Add another late night screening on Friday, and you've got an average of 16 screenings per week. And that's not counting weekends, during which I would cram 12 or 13 screenings. Now, maybe it doesn't seem that many films from where you're standing, but the logistics involved here are actually heart-stopping. Just take runtimes and the 24-hour day into consideration. With a film starting at 12 on a Friday night and another one starting at 11 on the following Saturday morning, this leaves little time for sleep. With the former film ending at around 2 A.M. and the latter requiring me to wake up at 10 on the following day, I'm left with a mere 8-hour window in which to walk home, entertain my friends for a while (often up to 4-5 A.M.) and sleep.
On top of that, there was a huge event that I needed to take into consideration this year: a special visit from China. A (very) old friend of mine has been living there for a few years now, and that friend was home for a whole month this summer to introduce us to his wife and play catch-up in general. Now, I owe this very old friend of mine at least a respectable amount of my time. We go back so far, it wouldn't be right to isolate myself from him and hide away in a dark room all night long... Well, it wouldn't be right to do that EVERY night. And so, I dropped a few films for his sake, only to find myself indulging his apparently never-ending nostalgia. The things he dug out for us last week, you wouldn't believe. Old tapes and CDs, yearbooks... I thought I was back at the screening of Resolution! There were even things in there, which I thought had long been buried and forgotten, things that showed twisted, protozoic versions of ourselves who seemed to snicker cruelly with every glimpse. It was a real horror film indeed. But HE seemed to enjoy this, and I guess that's the main point. If nothing else, we are powerful instruments of home sickness for our favorite ex-pat, and we intend to use that influence to arrange his eventual return home. Who knows, maybe luring him back home would finally eliminate the need for us to keep looking back all the time, and allow us to all look forward together...
First thing is waking up. With my alarm clock set for 7:47, I can easily walk alongside the Lachine canal and reach the office for 8:30, the start of my shift. Then, after a full day of work, complete with an endless series of grueling logistics tasks, I have to dash out at 16:30 and reach Concordia for the 5 o'clock screening. That can be tricky sometimes, especially when taking the subway and having to wait in line while some annoying Frenchmen (from France) are having a 20-minute conference with the cashier in order to buy a handful of tickets... Yet I still managed to be on time for every screening, even if it meant soaking my work clothes with sweat, knowing that I wouldn't have time to wash them for the next three weeks (I don't want to start the washing machine at midnight for it would greatly compromise my roommates' sleep cycle). After the 5 o'clock screening, there's the 7 and 9 o'clock screenings on weekdays. Add another late night screening on Friday, and you've got an average of 16 screenings per week. And that's not counting weekends, during which I would cram 12 or 13 screenings. Now, maybe it doesn't seem that many films from where you're standing, but the logistics involved here are actually heart-stopping. Just take runtimes and the 24-hour day into consideration. With a film starting at 12 on a Friday night and another one starting at 11 on the following Saturday morning, this leaves little time for sleep. With the former film ending at around 2 A.M. and the latter requiring me to wake up at 10 on the following day, I'm left with a mere 8-hour window in which to walk home, entertain my friends for a while (often up to 4-5 A.M.) and sleep.
"Is it better to be an extraordinary
monster or an average man?"
Real questions arise from avid film-watching.
Real questions arise from avid film-watching.
On top of that, there was a huge event that I needed to take into consideration this year: a special visit from China. A (very) old friend of mine has been living there for a few years now, and that friend was home for a whole month this summer to introduce us to his wife and play catch-up in general. Now, I owe this very old friend of mine at least a respectable amount of my time. We go back so far, it wouldn't be right to isolate myself from him and hide away in a dark room all night long... Well, it wouldn't be right to do that EVERY night. And so, I dropped a few films for his sake, only to find myself indulging his apparently never-ending nostalgia. The things he dug out for us last week, you wouldn't believe. Old tapes and CDs, yearbooks... I thought I was back at the screening of Resolution! There were even things in there, which I thought had long been buried and forgotten, things that showed twisted, protozoic versions of ourselves who seemed to snicker cruelly with every glimpse. It was a real horror film indeed. But HE seemed to enjoy this, and I guess that's the main point. If nothing else, we are powerful instruments of home sickness for our favorite ex-pat, and we intend to use that influence to arrange his eventual return home. Who knows, maybe luring him back home would finally eliminate the need for us to keep looking back all the time, and allow us to all look forward together...
Speaking of my very own
Chinese Connection, I would now like to sidetrack, and reveal my friend's
wife's unlikely infatuation with Kier La Janisse's House of Psychotic Women, which I picked up after the screening of The Haunting of Julia. The hard cover version of the book is quite
a sight to behold, with the enticing promotional artwork for Andrzej Zulawski's
Possession featured prominently on
top. Now, my friend's wife is definitely not a novelty Chinese doll. She's got
a Master's degree in English Literature and I think that her grabbing the book
from under my arm and diving into it as she did was as much a result of
curiosity as genuine interest in its topic and structure. You see, La Janisse’s
book is a rather unique piece that's both a critical appraisal of genre cinema
from the perspective of female neurosis, and an autobiographical history of the
author's own neurosis. I shall get into it later, when time has been garnered
in sufficient amount. But from where I stand now, it seems like a complex endeavor
that's well worth a look, if only for allowing us a privileged look into what
Chris Bumbray has called “the scariest of all places – the mind of a teenage
misfit”. So, there you have it: a big shout-out to Mrs. La Janisse and her ability
to impress Chinese scholars with very personal words of wisdom.
Tentacular Temptation,
or divorce according to Andrzej Zulawski
Parenthesis aside, let us go
back to my mad, three-week ride during which I would sleep on average five
hours a night and compensate with ample servings of Guru (thank God for the
tall format on sale at the candy counter). With time having to be found, or
rather, dug for, I learned to push back my limits in athletic terms. One time,
I clocked in at nine minutes to cover the distance between the De Sève theater
and my Petite Bourgogne home, leaving me drenched in sweat and panting like
crazy. Luckily, I had some music to accompany me this year, as opposed to last
year. Music, from a portable device, means you've got inspiration and a shield
against nearby idiocy. Inspiration comes when you're trying to break a running
record by listening to old 8-bit Mega Man tracks (Metal Man, Pharaoh Man and
Tornado Man are great in that regard). And it works. As for the shield, it
works so that you're completely cut off from the drivel of McDonald's
patrons and other fashionable night birds. It allows for an extension of the
fantastic world of film into the outside world, making the depressing
distinction between the two that much slimmer. And in the end, it turned out to
be an essential tool for survival, my music shield, without which I feel naked
and vulnerable.
But enough with the
biographical details of my odyssey, and into the crux of the matter, that is
the content of the festival per se. Here is a series of thematic conclusions I
have mustered in order to better synthesize my experience.
.........................
The limitations of genre cinema, or C'est à la Cinémathèque que ça se
passe
When prompted by friends I
met during the festival to comment on my experience so far, I would readily
resume this year's edition of Fantasia by saying: "C'est à la Cinémathèque
que ça se passe" (La Cinémathèque is where it's at!), meaning that ALL the
best films I saw were shown there exclusively. From classic Nikkatsu productions
(Massacre Gun, Profound Desires of the
Gods, Postman Blues) to psychotic women's films (Possession, Christiane F.), every title on display was absolutely
stellar, with the majority of them brushing only shyly with the world of genre
cinema. For example, while Possession
includes elements of the supernatural, it does so within the framework of an
impressionistic tale about divorce. And so the half-veiled essence of the
festival is revealed. While focusing on genre films, it ultimately manages
only to showcase the limitations of said films as opposed to non-genre
films, the likes of which bear the universal appeal to make them internationally enjoyable. Free form the limitations and rules of genre cinema, these films
have the ability to really soar into uncharted territory and to transcend film
form. From a director's point of view, it is easier to make a genre film
because the groundwork is already laid down for him. But with prefabricated
groundwork, one is unlikely to outdo non-genre cinema, which is fully
customized to fit the needs of a specific narrative. Originality has to be
found in spades for any given genre film to transcend its non-genre
counterparts. Originality and technical proficiency, the two of which are rarely
combined within one single project. Examples of truly great genre films to have
emerged in recent years are scarce, with Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One being the most prominent exception as the best
vampire film since Coppola’s Dracula.
In this year's edition, the
top films, classic or not, have all been non-genre films, including the two critics'
choices, Doomsday Book and Toad Road, the latter of which merely brushes
with genre cinema in order to transcend the contemporary “lost youth” films
made popular by Clark, Korine, Van Sant and Araki. As for my personal
favorites, such as Amok, Hail, Sunflower Hour, Sleep Tight
and Wrinkles, they're mostly
non-genre films, using the narrative freedom at their disposal as dramatic
springboard. As far as pure genre films are concerned, I thoroughly enjoyed
Nicholas McCarthy's The Pact, a captivating, if entirely unoriginal ghost film whose teaser trailer
came in the form of an eponymous short film screened prior to last year's Marianne. Then there was Young Gun in the Time, an extremely
clever, sci-fi noir from the director of last year's Attack of Alien Bikini and a consecration of his talent as a genre
film director.
Young Geun is back in action this year, on his way
to becoming a household name amongst genre fans
But what about romantic
comedies? While the term itself would seem to imply a rigid set of rules, the
romantic comedy is a far looser genre than others, especially in the absence of
subdivisions, as in horror films, where you have the zombie film, the haunted
house film, the slasher film, etc. Hence, the cap fits a variety of films that share the same framework while being quite different in essence. You are the Apple of my Eye is a Taiwanese romantic comedy and
coming-of-age film that focuses on a charismatic dunce and his infatuation with
a cute honor student. The narrative takes place over the course of many years,
taking onboard the biographical nature of the book on which it is based by
tacking on an obligatory voice-over track and by including many key peripheral
characters. The resulting narrative is involving while being entirely devoid of
any sort of edge. Where it succeeds is in its elaborate and long-drawn study of
the characters and their progression through the process of becoming adults. Turn me on, Goddammit! on the other hand
is a Norwegian romantic comedy starring a girl, and a sexually voracious one at
that. While far smaller in scale and runtime, it takes milieu into account and
injects a fair dose of (sexual) fantasy so as to come into contrast with the
earthy nature of the protagonist's hometown. With grown-ups dancing lasciviously
with biking helmets and teenage girls wishing to have hammers inside them, it
would seem that we're worlds away from Apple
of my Eye here, while remaining within the reassuring familiarity of an
established genre. By focusing on different basic elements as cornerstones for
dramatic construction (one being the mysterious process of infatuation, the other being the mysterious power of
female sexuality), the two films have achieved wildly different, but entirely
worthy results.
In the end, while genre cinema necessarily involves shackles, looser or tighter ones depending on the specific genre at hand, it possesses two very distinct advantages over non-genre cinema. First of all, it gives the creative mind a framework in which to work. Instead of a white canvas, genre offers some sort of backbone on which to lay the groundwork of a new project. This also allows said project to net a predetermined portion of the audience right off the bat. But more importantly, genre cinema, as a variable set of rules, allows for various degrees of transgression and offers a rather large potential for hybridity. In our postmodern era, film genres often interpenetrate with unforeseen results. Genre has become manifold in its meanings and implications, allowing directors to transcend the past and create shocking plays on expectation.
In the end, while genre cinema necessarily involves shackles, looser or tighter ones depending on the specific genre at hand, it possesses two very distinct advantages over non-genre cinema. First of all, it gives the creative mind a framework in which to work. Instead of a white canvas, genre offers some sort of backbone on which to lay the groundwork of a new project. This also allows said project to net a predetermined portion of the audience right off the bat. But more importantly, genre cinema, as a variable set of rules, allows for various degrees of transgression and offers a rather large potential for hybridity. In our postmodern era, film genres often interpenetrate with unforeseen results. Genre has become manifold in its meanings and implications, allowing directors to transcend the past and create shocking plays on expectation.
In this perspective, we should talk about the New New Wave of American indie cinema, or what some have dubbed mumblecore. The movement itself isn't clearly defined, but it involves intellectuals shooting very intimate films on shoestring budgets, using nonprofessional actors in naturalistic circumstances. Like Godard and friends did before. But the latter were also genre fans, a subtlety that the good people at Fantasia haven't failed to notice. By putting filmmakers like Adam Wingard in the spotlight, they've uncovered what is perhaps the missing link between the French of the Quartier Latin and our generation of video slackers. By brushing with genre cinema, Wingard has impregnated reality with a distinct sense of wonder, and simultaneously challenged old myths by drowning them in the mundane. A Horrible Way to Die is a prime example of this, as it totally deconstructs the archetype of the serial killer by likening him to a casual alcoholic. It's not every day that serial killers are framed as they are by Wingard. Even Henry didn't come out as real as his protagonist. This year, Wingard was back with V/H/S, which he co-directed with David Bruckner, Glenn McQuaid, Radio Silence, Joe Swanberg and Ti West. But there was also Toad Road, a cinéma vérité account of suburban drug addiction that's fortified with a vigorous dose of fantasy. By deconstructing the image of the drug addict, it manages to eschew the systematic pessimism of all the Larry Clarks out there, and introduce a new transcendental perspective on overdetermined material, making innovation available once more to the genre filmmaker's arsenal.
Eventually however, the limitations of genre cinema are again made obvious by that very notion of innovation, and the appraisal of its legitimacy. One might wish to escape the genre paradigm, but he will probably find it more troublesome than he first thought as sameness and repetition are often the very things which draw genre fans into theaters. As such, they welcome transgression but only insofar as it doesn't stray too far away from the dotted line of expectations. Because while you can either embrace them or challenge them, it is expectations that define the success of most genre films. Which brings us to my next observation.
Beyond reality: Toad Road shows us that
there is more to drugs than aids and severed arms
Eventually however, the limitations of genre cinema are again made obvious by that very notion of innovation, and the appraisal of its legitimacy. One might wish to escape the genre paradigm, but he will probably find it more troublesome than he first thought as sameness and repetition are often the very things which draw genre fans into theaters. As such, they welcome transgression but only insofar as it doesn't stray too far away from the dotted line of expectations. Because while you can either embrace them or challenge them, it is expectations that define the success of most genre films. Which brings us to my next observation.
.........................
Expectations (and the art of genre cinema)
Since genre fans often rely on their gut and personal experience when appraising films, they become somewhat predictable, even malleable to the opportunistic filmmaker. This year, I've taken it upon myself to look at my fellow spectator and see what makes him tick. Aside from just "GORE!" and "SCATOLOGICAL HUMOR!", I wanted to discern subtleties in desires, in wants, which I could take advantage of... My golden opportunity to appraise audience reactions came with this year’s
edition of Small Gauge Trauma, the
very first one I ever attended in almost a decade at the festival. I
found this collection of international shorts to be a particularly fertile
ground in which to carry out my studies. With each title following the next in
close succession, I was witness to many mood swings and raucous reactions from
the audience. And I found the people to be quite responsive to brutality. What's more
elusive to grasp however, is the manifold expressions of brutality that exist in filmic
terms. Brutality can lie within the content of the frame or between shots. The
"jump" scare is surprisingly popular, even though it has always
seemed to me like a desperately manipulative way to elicit a reaction from the
audience. And then there is the fleeting shot of abominable horror, the very
same shot which has allowed Hitchcock to edit the shower scene in such a way as
to convey the idea of a stabbing without using any prosthetics. In Small Gauge Trauma's Leyenda,
there is a technique which is commonplace in economical genre films, and it is
what I call the "quick-use" prosthetics. Let's say you have
established a spatial relationship between an aggressor and his victim. Then
all you have to do is to frame the aggressor while he is swinging a weapon
toward the offscreen space where his victim is supposed to be. Add a little
sound to account for the blows of metal (or wood) on flesh and insert two or
three shots of a bloody, disintegrating prop to insure maximal effect. This
prop should ideally be a fake head covered in corn syrup and food coloring.
This technique was used with great effect in the elevator scene from Drive
and it is a rather cost-efficient way to use latex body parts while eliciting
the most satisfying reaction from the audience.
Something's about to give: Drive
and the aesthetics of brutality
With that in mind, I have imagined
a zombie film premise which became more and more elaborate as the festival
unfolded, more and more precise in my head. But it is not enough to want to
make a film, and to have good ideas. After all, a good idea on paper is not
necessarily a good idea in the field. With the numerous uncertainties of film
production (as eloquently depicted in this year's Woman in the Sceptic Tank, much more so than in Vulgaria, another piece about filmmaking
by overly prolific HK director Pang Ho-Cheung), you literally don't know what
to expect around the corner. And being a person with so little confidence as
myself, I tend to become flustered quite easily. That is why the production of Rage de dent, a tentative horror film by
yours truly, is in jeopardy before it has even started. Unless, I make you a
promise here and now, to enter this very film for selection at the 2013 edition
of Fantasia. That is the only way I can finally put my money where my mouth is.
I’ve always considered film critics to be cowards who take pride in whining
against what they, themselves, cannot achieve. Hence I know that, as a critic, the only thing one
can do who truly loves the medium, and not only the sound of one ‘s own voice,
is to attempt and get into production. After all, film production is a truly
courageous act, for it puts the filmmakers in the spotlight, unable to avoid
the gaze of critics and spectators alike. I’ve dreamed of setting up my own
production company, a little outfit I would like to call Roche-Papier-Ciseaux
Films. All I have to do is pick up the camera and make it happen. And as I said before, and you all
are witnesses to this, the only reason why I wouldn’t do so is cowardice. So
try and remember the promises I made here so I will remain accountable for
them…
.........................
Taking Notes
You might have spotted me at
some point during the festival. I’m the badly-groomed, skinny guy with the
notepad. Since I don’t have any free time at all during the festival, I cannot
write or post as I go along. Yet, I need to remember what I saw, without
confusing it with someone else that I saw later. I need to remember the precise
thoughts I had while watching each of the 75 titles on my list. I need to have
some substance, instead of vague impressions. And that is hard, folks. It’s
real fucking hard. Taking notes and trying to think of neat sentences to
include in a hypothetic review during each of the three back-to-back sessions I
attended every night involves an effort that’s akin to real work. Real physical
work I mean.
As proof that efforts rarely
go unrewarded though, I find that I greatly improved my note-taking technique
over the course of the festival. From blurry diagonal waves spread out all over
the page, I came to half-blurry diagonal waves neatly lined up along the page.
It’s quite a sight to behold, those few pages I wrote while fully sober and entirely
motivated. Near the end, I produced an average of three pages of tightly-packed
notes for every film, as opposed to one page of spread-out doodles for
the first few films. So you might be a tad disappointed with my earlier reviews…
Sorry about that. But it is quite hard to write clearly in the dark, harder if
you do so while intently watching and analyzing the screen. But it is the only
way to do it. In the dark. I’ve been handed a flashlight before by one of the
helpful crew members from the festival. But I had to decline as one need not importune
other filmgoers in order to further personal goals, such as texting. Or using a
pen mounted with a flashlight, like some other critics do…
Just ask Chia-Yi Shen about the importance of
note-taking.She might give you a wrong answer, but at least
she derives a certain discipline from the process.
What I’m getting at here is just how crucial note-taking is to film criticism. I used to be quite nonchalant about it in the past. But now that I have perfected my technique, I might want to start and do it on a regular basis, becoming a real film critic I mean, and not just the Basement Brian that I am now. That said, the notes I took during the festival are often hazy and uninformative, with some films for which I took no notes at all. I don’t know if this will show in the reviews themselves, but I, myself, will know that these reviews are probably less credible than those for which I had more perceptual background. I hope that the end result will be satisfactory… and that I will finally work up the courage to expose my reviews to a tad more than three people.
.........................
The rise of Filipino Cinema
For the last few years,
there has been a distinct rise in the number of Filipino films popping up on
the festival circuit. Ever since Brillante Mendoza won Best Director at the
2009 Cannes film festival, there has been some serious attention given to this
emerging “third” cinema. Always ahead of the curb, the programmers at Fantasia
have put this year's spotlight squarely on the movies from Manila, with 4 enlightening titles on display. With such a selection, they continue to make sure that Asian
cinema gets the visibility that it deserves, just like they did with Korean cinema
as it emerged in the first half of the 21st century and with Thai
cinema a little later. As its name implies, Fantasia has a special mandate toward Asian
cinema, whether it is fantastic or not. With the inclusion of so many countries
in their recent selections, they have consistently managed to
fulfill this mandate with flying colors.
As contended in The Woman in the Sceptic Tank, a self-reflexive
piece by Marlon Rivera, Filipino cinema is often obsessed with showcasing the
slums of Manila, focusing on the surrounding squalor for dramatic gains. With
the exception of Amok, which uses the
Filipino capital merely as a stream of consciousness, each Filipino film on
display here featured the slums to a large extent. But while it might seem
quite easy to simply use the slums in a bid to multiply the dramatic power of
the narrative, there is more to directing than simply framing locales, as is
demonstrated by the inability of Rivera’s film to maintain unity throughout. Brillante
Mendoza’s work is more than just a simple exercise in slum aesthetics. It is
intense beyond words. Way beyond the ability of the slum itself to convey the
ugliness of life in all of its pictorial quality. That said, roaming through
the backstreets of Manila is always a gripping experience for jaded Westerners
who are discontent with their homegrown social problems. And that is where
Rivera’s contentions become especially relevant. Seeing how eager festivals are
to showcase social problem films, it would seem that their worldview is almost
paternalistic in its concern with the disenfranchised poor from abroad. Whether
this derives from a genuine humanism or a twisted sense of superiority is
anyone’s guess. What it entails however is a dangerous overdetermination of
misery in all of its manifold expressions. It’s creating a new world order in
which there are privileged Westerners on one side and a plethora of poor souls
on the other, leaving one to believe that the Filipino films included in this year's selection are equally
revelatory of Filipino society as of Western society. Hence, we should question our own worldview before engaging into speculation as to the social
relevance of those films. After all, films are inasmuch a reflection of their
makers as of their spectators.
"Just how honest is this woman's performance?":
Woman in the Septic Tank
.........................
Fuck the police!
Seeing police officers
getting killed onscreen is extremely therapeutic. It is a non-violent, non-destructive
way to get retribution for their lethal incompetence. There was this one Quebec short
this year (Jeune assassin cherche cadavre fringant pour l'enterrer et peut-être +) in which we saw one of those despicable numbskulls from the SPVM getting
killed by a zany protagonist armed with a shovel. I felt like clapping fiercely when
the lethal blow was delivered. “One less leech on the municipal payroll”,
I thought, but couldn’t find visible approval in my immediate surroundings. And
so I kept my thoughts to myself, choosing instead to take the opportunity to start and
appraise the representation of cops at Fantasia. From heroes, police
officers have now come to be depicted as either cold-blooded killers or incompetent
idiots, as we've often seen over the course of the festival. But is there redemption for the boys in blue yet?
The most vicious attack on
the police this year comes from Wong Ching-Po’s Revenge: A Love Story in which cops are the bad guys. Big time.
While basically a rape revenge film, Revenge can be distinguished by
its sumptuous photography and its core message, which entails that revenge is
a self-defeating endeavor, even in the face of shocking authority abuse. The
cops therein are pictured as psychopaths protected by the entire system of
which they are part, leaving the common man with no option but to fend for himself,
and let police take its due whenever it feels like it. It is a very bleak
portrayal of police, revenge and life alike. Other films in which the cops were portrayed as bad guys include Michael Biehn's The Victim, in which they randomly murder hookers, torture guys and do stolen coke, and New Kids Turbo, in which they're trigger-happy goons (very much like the moronic protagonists).
Cops as incompetent idiots
can be found most prominently in Sabu’s Postman
Blues in which the entire police force is energetically involved in
creating their own leads to follow on a case against a low level yakuza. This brings them
to tighten the screws on a poor postman with a huge life crisis. The absurdity
of their approach is obvious in every scene, especially when they decide to
have an Olympic biking champion do a 10-minute sprint in order to crash into
the protagonist’s bike with full force. The end result of their foolishness however, is not amusing but tragic. And unforgivable. Here, the cops are portrayed as
bumbling fools, which isn’t so bad. But in the end, their foolishness has such
dire results as to elicit downright anger against them, bringing the narrative to a dramatic climax of epic proportions. Other films in which the cops are portrayed as idiots include A Fantastic Fear of Everything, in which they mistake schizophrenia with criminal insanity, and Quick, in which they're always a step behind the protagonists. As for The Pact, it showcases a detective whom is very cute and enthusiastic, maybe even a tad too enthusiastic, but ultimately useless...
A police enforcer getting ready for a lethal bike ride:
Postman Blues and the absurdity of police procedures
Since there should be no examples
without counter-examples when trying to maintain scientific rigor, I must now propose an alternative to despising the police. This
alternative can be found in Dragon (aka Wu Xia).
Takeshi Kaneshiro’s character is a savvy period inspector à la Detective Dee
and as such, he often steals scenes from Donnie Yen, who plays a repentant
gangster trying to start life anew. While he is merely used as comic relief in
some scenes, his intuition leads him to key deductions all over the course of the narrative. Also, while he plays a major part in reuniting the protagonist with his former gang, his help proves crucial during the final battle with a demented kingpin. But what’s most important
here is that his character is much more interesting than that of the
protagonist. By surmounting the limitations of the police archetype, Kaneshiro has crafted a lawman with immense staying power, one that finds its rightful place right next to all the Columbo, Martin Riggs and John McClane of the world. Other memorable cops this year include Jackpot's Detective Solor, a wisecracking maestro of police procedures, the civil guard sergeant from Game of Werewolves, who reveals himself to be an expert werewolf hunter, the heartwarming duo of protagonists from Grabbers and the idealistic action hero from The Viral Factor, who travels the world using knuckles and bullets in order to save it.
What this brings me to realize is that the police officer is still a mostly positive archetype the world over, if only for his capacity to instantly solve mundane criminal crises. International disillusionment with law enforcement has yet to become the norm, and perhaps this should influence our dealings with local populations of cops. Sure, cops don't respect the law, they're lazy, overpaid and mostly useless, but couldn't that be said of many, many other people? And what about authority abuse? Is it as systematic as some people imply, or merely incidental? Given the sensationalist stance permeating popular media, the whole image of "the cop" has been molded to anger readers and viewers, who come back for more every time they need a jolt of energy. Instead, we should probably use the same rule of thumb with cops as any other groups of people: do not make generalizations. Thus, we would realize that it is the core of our capitalist system which is rotten, with the people around becoming slowly entangled by its endless tentacles. And if cops are easier to corrupt, it is perhaps only because they are closer to the fusion core of avarice. Food for thought.
What this brings me to realize is that the police officer is still a mostly positive archetype the world over, if only for his capacity to instantly solve mundane criminal crises. International disillusionment with law enforcement has yet to become the norm, and perhaps this should influence our dealings with local populations of cops. Sure, cops don't respect the law, they're lazy, overpaid and mostly useless, but couldn't that be said of many, many other people? And what about authority abuse? Is it as systematic as some people imply, or merely incidental? Given the sensationalist stance permeating popular media, the whole image of "the cop" has been molded to anger readers and viewers, who come back for more every time they need a jolt of energy. Instead, we should probably use the same rule of thumb with cops as any other groups of people: do not make generalizations. Thus, we would realize that it is the core of our capitalist system which is rotten, with the people around becoming slowly entangled by its endless tentacles. And if cops are easier to corrupt, it is perhaps only because they are closer to the fusion core of avarice. Food for thought.
.........................
“La nuit excentrique” and other memorable moments
Lastly, I would like to
congratulate the programmers of La nuit excentrique. Borrowed from France,
the concept of presenting a palette of obscure “nanars” and other B-rated
treats has made its way across the pond and into a place where it belongs
particularly well. The first homegrown edition was screened last year and it
was popular enough to spawn a follow-up. This year’s lineup included a whopping
amount of material. Aside from 2 features and 4 shorts, we were treated to a
20-minute compilation of mixed action footage (including a montage of exploding helicopters) from the good people at
Douteux.org. It all adds up to
180 minutes of entertainment. 180 minutes! If that’s not worth your 9 dollars,
I don’t know what is. Obviously, you can’t expect people at the screening to
take things seriously. You will hear a lot of shouting and uncontrolled
laughter throughout, but it’s all in good fun. Actually, it is essential to the
mood of the soirée, which is extremely playful and a gigantic homage to these
very films which have made us fans of genre cinema in the first place, those
excessive and desperately produced monuments to bad taste that we would go wild
for. These are the items which will insure the durability of cinema as we know
it, as a form of art that is best shared with other aficionados. Great job,
guys! La nuit excentrique is
definitely the biggest highlight of this year’s edition.
Rotten face, perfect tits: La revanche
des mortes vivantes and half-assedness
I’ve struggled to think of
other highlights that would match what I’ve seen last year, the main reason
being that I haven’t seen as many films in the Theater Hall, where
everything is blown-up, often out of proportion. I must say that Richard Bates’
rain of bloody tampons was a very nice extension of his striking Excision and that he deserves his fair
share of recognition for it. The ladies around me were literally going wild about
them. “I want free stuff”, yelled a girl behind me at the top of her lungs.
When one of those bloody tampons landed on my friend’s lap, I made sure to hand
it over to her, seeing how I thought she could “use” it (unknowing at the time
that the tampons were already bloodied). Then, there was this girl who asked me
if I wanted to smell the tampon… An unexpected moment of weirdness, that was, and a neat introduction to the film we
were about to see. Great job, Richard!
Some koodos are also in order for Jennifer Lynch, who was featured prominently this year. First, there was Despite the Gods, a very intimate documentary about the production of Hisss in India, then the world premiere of Chained. The latter was actually the first film of hers I saw after Hisss was replaced by Norwegian Ninja at the Festival du nouveau cinéma a few years back. It was good. Probably better than the final cut of Hisss anyways… I wanted to see loads of Vincent D’Onofrio and this is what the film gave me. But while D'Onofrio's talent weights heavily in the success of the enterprise, Lynch elaborates a tight framework for him to work in, getting a particularly fine performance out of the man whom we all remember as the nightmarish Gomer Pyle. Tense stuff... and a reaction from the audience that will hopefully be positive enough to breathe new confidence in the director after a roller-coaster of a career.
Incidentally, Bates and Lynch, are the only two directors whom I remember pleading for the audience to
like their films. As an artist walking the fine line between fickle praise and
critical oblivion, Jennifer Lynch seems to be desperately in need of
legitimacy. On the night when Chained opened however, she was definitely amongst
friends. As for Bates, he was understandably anxious to present his first
feature film, although it had already played before. To loving audiences I'm sure.
.........................
The tentative top ten (and a terribly tantalizing
alliteration)
In conclusion, I will propose a tentative top ten. Seeing how hard it is to make a clear distinction between films of
such various national, economical, sociological and philosophical backgrounds as those I've seen, I was quite troubled when trying to rank them. So, you'll excuse a few incongruities and uncertainties here, since each of the 77 reviews that will follow is quite explicit in its criticism. Enjoy this for now, and stay tuned for more.
Early Imamura is a treat indeed: Profound Desires
of the Gods is no less than an offering to festival-goers
- Profound Desires of the Gods (S. Imamura, JPN, 1968)
- Affreux, sales et méchants (E. Scola, ITA, 1976)
- Postman Blues (Sabu, JPN, 1997)
- Possession (A. Zulawski, FRA, 1981)
- Christiane F. (U. Edel, GER, 1981)
- Massacre Gun (Y. Hasebe, JPN, 1967)
- Hail (A. Courtin-Wilson, AUS, 2011)
- Sleep Tight (J. Balaguero, SPN, 2011)
- The Ambassador (M. Brugger, DEN, 2011)
- A Letter to Momo (H. Okiura, JPN, 2011)
