Ronal the Barbarian
This highly entertaining Danish import provides merely a slight variation on traditional American narratives, but without any holds barred, especially where good taste is concerned. Think of it as the heavy-metal animated version of Your Highness, with a stronger, more readily flexed comedic muscle. Danny McBride would be Kenny Powers here, and there would be no Zooey Deschanel, just an athletic belligerent redhead with weird marital rites... Lots of zany fun in perspective!
The film opens with a tad of mythological background on the fantasy medieval world in which we are about to jump. What we are given to see in this introduction is a surprisingly bloody battle between gigantic barbarian warrior Crane and brawny demon Zaal, the outcome of which sees Zaal imprisoned forever and Crane spilling ample servings of blood over his half-naked followers, whose muscles and genitalia instantly grow to superhuman size. After a few generations, these followers have become the fearless barbarians we've come to love (and dedicate fierce rock songs to). They're all a bunch of brainless idiots with overgrown biceps who enjoy heavy drinking and weight-lifting. All except for Ronal, whose arms fall limply at his side and whose estrangement from the tribe is obvious. Evidently, the titular character soon gets a chance to prove his worth as the forces of evil Volcazar invade his village, entrapping all of his fellowmen. Then, it's up to Ronal and a trio of similar misfits (failed bard Alibert, shield maiden Zandra and gay elf Elric) to locate Crane's sword and beat a resurrected Zaal once more in a bid to prove one's courage (or "balls") under fire.
Considering the Scandinavian appreciation of heavy metal, a film like Ronal was bound to happen. The barbarian imagery is just so enticing and the metal culture so irreverent that they needed to merge in the increasingly popular realm of medieval slapstick. They simply needed to. And with animation providing the means for a transcendental take on traditional comedic devices, all of the planets have aligned to create one of the most readily edible genre treats out there. Obviously, the 115-minute runtime might be a bit unwarranted, but it is not such an overlong 115 minutes. And the ending fully delivers on our expectations. Maybe Christoffersen and the gang could've made some tighter editorial choices, but theirs is a prime example of fantasy-set comedy, entirely predictable in its story structure, but very generous in providing a rapid fire of irreverent jokes and twists on genre staples. Hence, the traditional soothsayer now becomes a senile old coot with intestinal problems, the noble elven warrior, a flamboyant homo, and the invisibility serum a mere excuse to showcase a two-minute balls joke.
The possibility for real transgression, however, comes with the recourse to animation as a freer way to provide humor and action. The CGI characters here are not overly detailed, but very fluid, which is an awesome tradeoff. Like the family of superheroes from The Incredibles, they aren't limited by superfluous accessories or annoyingly intricate clothes (the character's apparel is quite minimalist here). They are beings of pure bodily expression, and therein lies their strength. They can stretch and swing, jump and fall, but much more extensively than your average comedic or action actor. Their heritage is that of Chaplin and Keaton, the two key figures of burlesque comedy, but it is also that of Yuen Woo-Ping and Donnie Yen, whose martial prowess finds its match here. The result of their superhuman performance is a constantly spectacular display of cinematic magic that transcends epochs and frontiers in order to deliver a universally enjoyable piece of genre cinema.
If you love the joyously irreverent attitude of metalheads and share their appreciation for loud, hyperkinetic spectacles,then you'll probably get a kick out of Ronal. Likewise if you're a fan of CGI animation or gross-out comedies in general. Actually, there's very little not to like here for one who is willing to indulge in mindless, but well-crafted entertainment. Personally, I was very pleased, and happily surprised with the result, and this should be twice the proof not to underestimate the limp titular warrior!
*** Animation is key to creating a medieval slapstick comedy of epic grandeur. A great film for a rainy day and a great pick-me-up at the start of a long festival lineup.
Heavy metal humor bars no hold.
The film opens with a tad of mythological background on the fantasy medieval world in which we are about to jump. What we are given to see in this introduction is a surprisingly bloody battle between gigantic barbarian warrior Crane and brawny demon Zaal, the outcome of which sees Zaal imprisoned forever and Crane spilling ample servings of blood over his half-naked followers, whose muscles and genitalia instantly grow to superhuman size. After a few generations, these followers have become the fearless barbarians we've come to love (and dedicate fierce rock songs to). They're all a bunch of brainless idiots with overgrown biceps who enjoy heavy drinking and weight-lifting. All except for Ronal, whose arms fall limply at his side and whose estrangement from the tribe is obvious. Evidently, the titular character soon gets a chance to prove his worth as the forces of evil Volcazar invade his village, entrapping all of his fellowmen. Then, it's up to Ronal and a trio of similar misfits (failed bard Alibert, shield maiden Zandra and gay elf Elric) to locate Crane's sword and beat a resurrected Zaal once more in a bid to prove one's courage (or "balls") under fire.
Considering the Scandinavian appreciation of heavy metal, a film like Ronal was bound to happen. The barbarian imagery is just so enticing and the metal culture so irreverent that they needed to merge in the increasingly popular realm of medieval slapstick. They simply needed to. And with animation providing the means for a transcendental take on traditional comedic devices, all of the planets have aligned to create one of the most readily edible genre treats out there. Obviously, the 115-minute runtime might be a bit unwarranted, but it is not such an overlong 115 minutes. And the ending fully delivers on our expectations. Maybe Christoffersen and the gang could've made some tighter editorial choices, but theirs is a prime example of fantasy-set comedy, entirely predictable in its story structure, but very generous in providing a rapid fire of irreverent jokes and twists on genre staples. Hence, the traditional soothsayer now becomes a senile old coot with intestinal problems, the noble elven warrior, a flamboyant homo, and the invisibility serum a mere excuse to showcase a two-minute balls joke.
The possibility for real transgression, however, comes with the recourse to animation as a freer way to provide humor and action. The CGI characters here are not overly detailed, but very fluid, which is an awesome tradeoff. Like the family of superheroes from The Incredibles, they aren't limited by superfluous accessories or annoyingly intricate clothes (the character's apparel is quite minimalist here). They are beings of pure bodily expression, and therein lies their strength. They can stretch and swing, jump and fall, but much more extensively than your average comedic or action actor. Their heritage is that of Chaplin and Keaton, the two key figures of burlesque comedy, but it is also that of Yuen Woo-Ping and Donnie Yen, whose martial prowess finds its match here. The result of their superhuman performance is a constantly spectacular display of cinematic magic that transcends epochs and frontiers in order to deliver a universally enjoyable piece of genre cinema.
What Ronal lacks in muscles, he makes
up for in agility (and balls).
If you love the joyously irreverent attitude of metalheads and share their appreciation for loud, hyperkinetic spectacles,then you'll probably get a kick out of Ronal. Likewise if you're a fan of CGI animation or gross-out comedies in general. Actually, there's very little not to like here for one who is willing to indulge in mindless, but well-crafted entertainment. Personally, I was very pleased, and happily surprised with the result, and this should be twice the proof not to underestimate the limp titular warrior!
*** Animation is key to creating a medieval slapstick comedy of epic grandeur. A great film for a rainy day and a great pick-me-up at the start of a long festival lineup.
.........................
Fists of the White Lotus
The Shaw Brothers have produced an immense number of films throughout the years, but not every one of them is a classic. Case in point: Fists of the White Lotus, a futile exercise in repetition whose relevance in this year's lineup is dubious at best. There used to be a time when those eclectic Shaw Brothers productions were carefully hand-picked by the programmers, often in batches of 2 or 3. Now, it seems like SB is nothing more than an obligatory staple at Fantasia. Trailers for moldy old films are plastered all over the place, but the quality of the features on display has declined tremendously. Fists of the White Lotus, for example, compares quite negatively to Dirty Ho, One Armed Boxer, Shaolin Temple or other films selected in previous years, almost all of which could be considered classics of the genre. While it boasts a somewhat refreshing dose of unorthodox fighting techniques, the look and feel of the present film was unfortunately so dated as to elicit only raised eyebrows and exasperated sighs from one as jaded as yours truly.
My friend actually compared the film to a video game, and I tend to agree. I'm sure you remember the muffled, 8-bit battle cries from Kung Fu. Well, the film's narrative is quite similar in its laborious repetition of kicks and punches, typically sub-par dubbing and ridiculously abrupt ending. But then, there's the endless training sessions and corrosive comic relief that lies inbetween... Let us take a look at the plot in order to better understand the problem at hand. Protagonist Hung (Gordon Liu) is a Shaolin monk who's just been let out of prison after winning a handicap match with his brother Wu against evil Pai Mei. But Pai Mei's brother, The White Lotus, isn't too happy about that. And so, he kills Wu and forces Hung, along with his sister, into hiding. Hung then trains to beat White Lotus, only to be owned in a subsequent duel. Then, he starts training again, forcing another duel, which he loses again. Then, he starts training once more, until he is ready for a third encounter with the titular villain. As you can see, the principle of the two extra lives awarded to the video game player is quite prominent here, and it restricts the narrative to a simple alternation of fights and training sessions, fights and training sessions... Obviously, there is something to be said for the exaltation of discipline and repetition in any display of true martial arts, but the current framework doesn't lend itself so easily to the exercise, as did the Shaolin temple from The 36th Chamber. Then, there is also something to be said for the unorthodox techniques developed by both the antagonist and protagonist (including pressure-point fighting, embroidery, acupuncture and organ-switching), as well as the pseudo-feminist stance inherited by those techniques, but they are all ultimately used as mere gimmicks and thrown in a maelstrom of amateurish storytelling. Ultimately, the whole narrative is flushed down the drain even more seamlessly than the character's backstory as the villain quips: "You've finally found my weak spot! Barf!", then keels over and dies. The end.
Produced in 1980, Fists is mostly an exercise in nostalgia, with aesthetics that seem to be at least a decade old. And while it might be fun at first to cross the same old scenery that we've seen a thousand times, with diminutive, stage-set courtyards and shops meant to portray medieval China for an audience of undiscriminating Westerners and mainland commoners alike, the makeshift authenticity and annoying antics of the characters soon become tiresome enough to enter the realm of boredom. The one most interesting aspect of the narrative concerns the pivotal gender switch that the protagonist must operate in order to thwart his adversary's aerial style of fighting. With the help of his sister, he must master finer feminine moves that will be able to pierce his defense. In the end, however, the gender switch is used more as a gimmick than an honest attempt at involving feminism within the film's discourse. What's worse is that it also becomes an excuse for ample servings of crude, obligatory humor, most of which is provided by the two siblings' accomplice and a painful caricature of comic relief. Gimmicky humor actually impregnates the whole project, from its martial arts numbers to its repetitive interactions between characters. It's all well and good in that it gives one the chance to see naked flying fighters, kicks in the balls and bloody knitting needles, but it doesn't justify the dated, constrictive format in which everything is packaged. The comparison with the far crisper, more naturalistic and contemporary Dragon is particularly disastrous here...
Get ready for some insane kung-fu action
in Fists of the White Lotus!
My friend actually compared the film to a video game, and I tend to agree. I'm sure you remember the muffled, 8-bit battle cries from Kung Fu. Well, the film's narrative is quite similar in its laborious repetition of kicks and punches, typically sub-par dubbing and ridiculously abrupt ending. But then, there's the endless training sessions and corrosive comic relief that lies inbetween... Let us take a look at the plot in order to better understand the problem at hand. Protagonist Hung (Gordon Liu) is a Shaolin monk who's just been let out of prison after winning a handicap match with his brother Wu against evil Pai Mei. But Pai Mei's brother, The White Lotus, isn't too happy about that. And so, he kills Wu and forces Hung, along with his sister, into hiding. Hung then trains to beat White Lotus, only to be owned in a subsequent duel. Then, he starts training again, forcing another duel, which he loses again. Then, he starts training once more, until he is ready for a third encounter with the titular villain. As you can see, the principle of the two extra lives awarded to the video game player is quite prominent here, and it restricts the narrative to a simple alternation of fights and training sessions, fights and training sessions... Obviously, there is something to be said for the exaltation of discipline and repetition in any display of true martial arts, but the current framework doesn't lend itself so easily to the exercise, as did the Shaolin temple from The 36th Chamber. Then, there is also something to be said for the unorthodox techniques developed by both the antagonist and protagonist (including pressure-point fighting, embroidery, acupuncture and organ-switching), as well as the pseudo-feminist stance inherited by those techniques, but they are all ultimately used as mere gimmicks and thrown in a maelstrom of amateurish storytelling. Ultimately, the whole narrative is flushed down the drain even more seamlessly than the character's backstory as the villain quips: "You've finally found my weak spot! Barf!", then keels over and dies. The end.
Produced in 1980, Fists is mostly an exercise in nostalgia, with aesthetics that seem to be at least a decade old. And while it might be fun at first to cross the same old scenery that we've seen a thousand times, with diminutive, stage-set courtyards and shops meant to portray medieval China for an audience of undiscriminating Westerners and mainland commoners alike, the makeshift authenticity and annoying antics of the characters soon become tiresome enough to enter the realm of boredom. The one most interesting aspect of the narrative concerns the pivotal gender switch that the protagonist must operate in order to thwart his adversary's aerial style of fighting. With the help of his sister, he must master finer feminine moves that will be able to pierce his defense. In the end, however, the gender switch is used more as a gimmick than an honest attempt at involving feminism within the film's discourse. What's worse is that it also becomes an excuse for ample servings of crude, obligatory humor, most of which is provided by the two siblings' accomplice and a painful caricature of comic relief. Gimmicky humor actually impregnates the whole project, from its martial arts numbers to its repetitive interactions between characters. It's all well and good in that it gives one the chance to see naked flying fighters, kicks in the balls and bloody knitting needles, but it doesn't justify the dated, constrictive format in which everything is packaged. The comparison with the far crisper, more naturalistic and contemporary Dragon is particularly disastrous here...
If constantly stroking a fake beard can still be
seen as a worthy acting technique, then maybe
Fists of the White Lotus isn't really such a dud.
*1/2 Dated, painfully humorous and unbearably repetitive, this film is the worst Shaw Brothers production I ever saw at the festival. This is a sign of either mine or Fantasia's declining interest in the studio as anything other than an obligatory staple. I should've chosen A Little Bit Zombie instead...
.........................
Black Pond
Black Pond is a very highbrow black comedy that involves a dysfunctional family, a cathartic stranger, a notorious
crime and a three-legged dog. It's a typically British treat, and a good one for those who can appreciate it. It's both the cup of tea AND the piece of pie that that the good people working for the European selection have graciously offered us this year. And sometimes, one cannot help but fancy a nice cup of tea. Even though it means lining up three comedies in a row...
The Thompson family would probably never have been under suspicion of murder if a complete stranger hadn't suddenly invaded their lives and challenged their emotional shortcomings with his own. As most families, the Thompson have some skeletons in the closet. Mom is a failed poet who finds herself trapped when Dad, her No 1 fan, starts digging out old poems from the storage. Dad is a phlegmatic breadwinner who hasn't noticed how the years have estranged him from the three women in his life. As for his two daughters, they are quite contemporary in their lack of direction and ambition. And then, there is Tim Tanaka, a friend of the family whose identity crisis goes far beyond his dual nationality. Theirs would have all remained but a handful of parallel lives, if it hadn't been for shyly intrusive stranger Blake, who meets Tom Thompson during a stroll near the parents' country home. Thanks to a series of morbid shenanigans, Blake eventually manages to bring the family together for a bit of soul-searching. In the end, they manage to grow closer thanks to a common effort made to bury him.
The cathartic stranger has become a crucial cinematic figure ever since Passolini's Persona tried to rattle the established order with a revolutionary awakening to sexuality provided by a charismatic young Terence Stamp. Now, there is Blake, his contemporary British equivalent, whose own suicidal tendencies are there to help his hosts value life and togetherness. He is a tragic character, sure, but one that is entirely subservient to the Thompson family tragedy. As such, he might even be understood as less than a character, a cog if you will, in an automated game of introspection. His naive questioning the parents in their cozy forest cottage allows them to finally take time to appraise their lives and identities. What he provides is just the spark necessary to ignite that appraisal. When asked who they are, Mom and Dad are confronted with the frightening absence of an answer, especially where Mom's identity as a poetess is concerned. In turn, this forces the two daughters to appraise their own place within the family, and within society at large. And then, there's Tim Tanaka, whose love for both the two daughters provides a more humorous version of the giant identity crisis that permeates the film. With all the complementary struggles depicted here, the family at the center of the narrative becomes a microcosm for all of British society. The disenfranchised elders, directionless youths and racial Others, all of those are shown as the victims of a common malaise, which finds togetherness, morbid or other, as a permanent solution.
Black Pond brushes a dark gray portrait of life, but it does so with such a knack for comedy that it soon becomes entirely black, a perfect example of both the idea of black comedy, and more specifically, British comedy. After all, "black" and "British" are almost synonymous here, despite the fact that the two terms definitely aren't within David Cameron's country. People who have seen the film will probably remember Tom's issue with the banana. "A banana?" exclaims the bewildered patriarch as his wife gets out of bed for a midnight snack. "It's sheer lunacy" to have a banana in the middle of the night, he argues, but to no avail. Now, I wonder if it is simply the expression "sheer lunacy" that tickles our funny bone here, or the far deeper truth that it hides? An argument about a midnight snack might seem like a meaningless event, but here, it reveals a lot about both life as a couple and the corrosive nature of Tom's wit. It is the sort of sharp, insightful observations which the film is constructed with, and which amount to a surprisingly accurate portrayal of everyday life in all of its absurdity. This comes complete with a full array of colorful archetypes whose eccentric personality, or lack thereof (in the case of the two daughters), help create an amusingly impressionistic mosaic of the society from which they hail. If the cynical patriarch and soft urban immigrant can thus be understood as symptomatic figures of contemporary UK, so too can the dilettantish psycho-therapist, a sort of vermin that feeds on the very identity crisis on display here and a hilariously unnerving figure as interpreted by eccentric comedian Simon Amstell. Although underused, the recourse to televisual documentary techniques (à la The Office) also helps situation the story in a very contemporary world of unscrupulous opportunism.
With Black Pond, the UK luckily remains the intelligent face of comedy,
and not simply the idiotic face of commerce (Inbred).
The Thompson family would probably never have been under suspicion of murder if a complete stranger hadn't suddenly invaded their lives and challenged their emotional shortcomings with his own. As most families, the Thompson have some skeletons in the closet. Mom is a failed poet who finds herself trapped when Dad, her No 1 fan, starts digging out old poems from the storage. Dad is a phlegmatic breadwinner who hasn't noticed how the years have estranged him from the three women in his life. As for his two daughters, they are quite contemporary in their lack of direction and ambition. And then, there is Tim Tanaka, a friend of the family whose identity crisis goes far beyond his dual nationality. Theirs would have all remained but a handful of parallel lives, if it hadn't been for shyly intrusive stranger Blake, who meets Tom Thompson during a stroll near the parents' country home. Thanks to a series of morbid shenanigans, Blake eventually manages to bring the family together for a bit of soul-searching. In the end, they manage to grow closer thanks to a common effort made to bury him.
The cathartic stranger has become a crucial cinematic figure ever since Passolini's Persona tried to rattle the established order with a revolutionary awakening to sexuality provided by a charismatic young Terence Stamp. Now, there is Blake, his contemporary British equivalent, whose own suicidal tendencies are there to help his hosts value life and togetherness. He is a tragic character, sure, but one that is entirely subservient to the Thompson family tragedy. As such, he might even be understood as less than a character, a cog if you will, in an automated game of introspection. His naive questioning the parents in their cozy forest cottage allows them to finally take time to appraise their lives and identities. What he provides is just the spark necessary to ignite that appraisal. When asked who they are, Mom and Dad are confronted with the frightening absence of an answer, especially where Mom's identity as a poetess is concerned. In turn, this forces the two daughters to appraise their own place within the family, and within society at large. And then, there's Tim Tanaka, whose love for both the two daughters provides a more humorous version of the giant identity crisis that permeates the film. With all the complementary struggles depicted here, the family at the center of the narrative becomes a microcosm for all of British society. The disenfranchised elders, directionless youths and racial Others, all of those are shown as the victims of a common malaise, which finds togetherness, morbid or other, as a permanent solution.
Grave-digging as family therapy: Black Pond
and the art of British comedy
Black Pond brushes a dark gray portrait of life, but it does so with such a knack for comedy that it soon becomes entirely black, a perfect example of both the idea of black comedy, and more specifically, British comedy. After all, "black" and "British" are almost synonymous here, despite the fact that the two terms definitely aren't within David Cameron's country. People who have seen the film will probably remember Tom's issue with the banana. "A banana?" exclaims the bewildered patriarch as his wife gets out of bed for a midnight snack. "It's sheer lunacy" to have a banana in the middle of the night, he argues, but to no avail. Now, I wonder if it is simply the expression "sheer lunacy" that tickles our funny bone here, or the far deeper truth that it hides? An argument about a midnight snack might seem like a meaningless event, but here, it reveals a lot about both life as a couple and the corrosive nature of Tom's wit. It is the sort of sharp, insightful observations which the film is constructed with, and which amount to a surprisingly accurate portrayal of everyday life in all of its absurdity. This comes complete with a full array of colorful archetypes whose eccentric personality, or lack thereof (in the case of the two daughters), help create an amusingly impressionistic mosaic of the society from which they hail. If the cynical patriarch and soft urban immigrant can thus be understood as symptomatic figures of contemporary UK, so too can the dilettantish psycho-therapist, a sort of vermin that feeds on the very identity crisis on display here and a hilariously unnerving figure as interpreted by eccentric comedian Simon Amstell. Although underused, the recourse to televisual documentary techniques (à la The Office) also helps situation the story in a very contemporary world of unscrupulous opportunism.
By catering to British fans of comedy, Black Pond provides not originality, but a welcome sense of refinement in its dry, witty observation of everyday life and cynical showcase of everyday eccentrics. Make no mistake however, the humor here is pitch black. Death-oriented, it will often make you cringe or derive a sense of ridicule from the very world that surrounds us. Far from being a "feel-good" movie, it will challenge and hurt you while attempting to make you laugh. Not unlike Ronal, it is a perfect film for the audience at which it is aimed.
*** Deeply ingrained in the tradition of British black comedy, Black Pond probes the national identity crisis with rare insight thanks to the classic archetype of the cathartic stranger. A very strong screenplay and talented actors to carry it are key to the film's success.
.........................
Postman Blues
Based on an excellent screenplay that contains equal parts of quirky humor and heartfelt drama, Postman Blues is a stellar example of the overarching humanism contained in Japanese cinema. All of its characters are loveable misfits whose surprising collaboration makes for an irresistible exaltation of the need for agency, and the possibility for community-building that arises out of chance encounters. With the labyrinthine Tokyo streets and their millions of barely interweaving lives providing the ideal background for such encounters, Postman Blues and its proletarian postal hero might just be the perfect remedy to Kevin Costner's ill-advised, post-apocalyptic homage to the USPS, The Postman, which was released later the same year.
The very first shot of the film, depicting an empty post office hall at dusk, is the first image that really struck me at this year's festival (I hadn't seen L'hypothèse du Mokélé-Mbembé yet...). The lingering emptiness thereof, the overwhelming feeling of absence that strikes us with melancholia, all of this is the result of optimal framing and the universal dramatic appeal of dust specs. But the film immediately substitutes this for that in keeping with narrative necessity and absence is immediately confronted by its opposite, or rather the reason for its existence: disembodied presence. After we've seen the empty hallway, we are immediately brought to the sorting office, where a tightly supervised line of costumed officers are sorting out letters at breakneck speed. Theirs is obviously a very droning task, and it perfectly contrasts with the quiet observation of nothingness that came before. But the bomb comes with the title screen. Protagonist Sawaki is done sorting a large amount of letters when he is suddenly handed another large bundle. The stack of brownish paper slips appears onscreen like a bang, accompanied by the unambiguous title. It took just a handful of shots, but our understanding of the protagonist's ploy is crystal clear. No need to have him fall into the mud on a rainy day; all Sabu had to do was to cleverly frame his droning daily tasks. Then, we're already set for the triggering effect, which happens in the following scene.
Upon delivering a commercial pamphlet (and dramatic leitmotiv) to old friend and low-grade yakuza Noguchi, Sawaki comes back to society, at the fringe of which he had been living in his cluttered apartment filled with empty beer cans. Unknowing of his friend's occupation at first, the well-meaning public servant catches him with a butcher knife in hand and a severed finger on the table, which is meant as a token of humility for the local yakuza boss. Thanks to a darkly comedic turn of events, the finger slowly rolls on the table during an irresistible close-up and falls squarely in the sack of mail that has been left on the floor. This simple occurrence then catapults Sawaki into a series of increasingly dire misunderstandings, as he simultaneously becomes involved in his friend's shady dealings as well as the ongoing police investigation surrounding said dealings. Parked across the street from his friend's apartment, the cops are surprised by Sawaki's visit at first, but they soon understand that he MUST be involved in yakuza schemes. After all, he carries a sackful of packages with him at all times. These could contain drugs, or worst, bombs! Obviously, nothing is farther from the truth, but that doesn't prevent the officers involved from clamping down on the poor protagonist and tailing him wherever he goes. From then on, the police investigation becomes a humorous parallel storyline to Sawaki's random wanderings through the city, and the depiction of police incompetence is slowly elevated to the level of art once more.
Cops have been depicted as incompetents since the early days of cinema. The Keystone Kops, for example, were a major nuisance to Chaplin's Tramp. They ran across the screen with zeal, arms extended high into the air along with whirling nightsticks; they were almost like props in their absence of intellectual resolve. In Sabu's film, incompetence remains, but it is glorified by modern techniques in a disturbing orgy of self-righteousness. Convinced by a groundless logic that theirs is the right path, the cops violently intrude into the narrative, using the weight of their stupidity to drag the narrative into the nether realm of drama. Because once the big, blue cop car of comedy collides with the creaking bicycle of drama, the former evaporates, and the police manages once more to ruin our lives. With their total freedom of action as the smut face of authority, they are granted ample narrative power here, which they use to showcase a shockingly dark agenda. For wherever police incompetence is framed, one should be reminded of Postman Blues and its unforgettable take on law enforcement, the highlight of which involves a hilarious psychological profile of the protagonist, who's custom-made to fit police presumptions, and an infuriating shootout that sees police put on the other cap that fits, that of the remorseless killer.
Beyond his unfair definition by the police as an object of concerted violence, Sawaki is a tragic character. He is the exhausted everyman that has come to characterize Japanese life abroad. He is a man entrapped by routine and the darkened interiors of his diminutive living quarters (that come in stark contrast with the seemingly endless, highly intricate network of streets which he crosses on a daily basis). He is a man on the fringe of the society that he serves as a public servant. That is until he decides to play an active part in the ballet of humanity, using his presence amongst peers as catalyst for their well-being. By befriending a terminally ill young woman and an aging killer, he finds reason to live once more. He also finds a network of peripheral characters, whom he helps in their agency with significant others. The protagonist's humanism seeps through the screen and grips our hearts tightly. His encounters with the sickly young woman are whimsically shot and perfectly enjoyable, with the busy commercial streets in which Sawaki takes her advantageously replacing the beige hospital walls from her daily life. In the end, the theme of unity and friendship against odds is perhaps best exemplified by a lengthy tracking shot that sees Sawaki, Noguchi and Joe, the aging killer, biking side by side on the empty road stretch toward the hospital, where Sawaki's protégée is about to have a life-threatening operation. The three men's dedication to one another is palpable, if only for their zany performance behind the wheels. Believe me, these three actors are biking for their lives! Their unity of movement then comes to stand for the entire philosophy of the film and its joyous exaltation of the need for togetherness in the face of big city anonymity.
Biking is actually crucial here. Beyond its potential for intricate tracking shots along the colorful streets of Tokyo, biking also represents a communal means of transportation and is a very powerful vector for drama. The principle of the ticking time-bomb is thus reinterpreted here and applied to a bike race across the city, the breakneck speed thereof emanating from a strong sense of friendship and dedication. It culminates in two powerful moments of comedy and drama, as the film first features a spectacular collision between a police hotshot and a truck, and then (spoiler ahead) a tragic shootout of epic proportions (from the police side anyways). Biking is shown as the optimal way of getting around, at once very affordable and more in synch with the actual speed of life. When driving a car, life becomes a blur, a series of colored streaks over the cityscape. But when one is biking, there are still details to be noticed, and a whole other sense of the world to be experienced. And while you would think that the recourse to biking would result in less spectacular action sequences, one is constantly contented with Sabu's clever direction, which keeps things moving at a nice pace. Sawaki even manages to become quite an action hero here, but a proletarian action hero, one who isn't caged in steel and protected by stinger missiles while riding through the city. Hence, his proximity to the people arises not just from his sharing their collective space, but also in that he shares their vulnerability to the elements. This, he trades off for mobility and freedom, a sound exchange which allows him to nearly achieve all of his altruistic objectives. In the end, as too often, freedom finds a wall in the presence of a self-righteous, violent because incompetent, authority. Looks just like PM Charest handling the student crisis, with walls of policemen instead of the most basic will to understand the people before him.
I could go on and on about the notion of Sawaki as a torchbearer for his community, as I did before with Mookie from Do The Right Thing, but I need to move on to my next text instead. What I wish to leave you with, however, is just a sense of the thematic and narrative richness of the film with this idea of the proletarian hero on his bike, spinning a web of human agency within the metropolis, or simply repairing old links in an effort to knit back the social fabric and give back to the people a sense of togetherness, which the labyrinthine city has all but vanquished. The Americans have attempted to create such a proletarian action hero in Joseph Gordon Levitt's character from Premium Rush. And while I haven't seen the film, I doubt that their humanism even come close to Sabu's... If you, on the other hand, would like to see the human face of the city, in a hilariously tragic display of action and poignant melodrama, then go out there and track down Postman Blues! What the fuck are you waiting for! Go!
****1/2 At once a touching display of humanity, a high-octane proletarian action film, and a hilariously cynical take on police procedure, Postman Blues is not only a perfect example of Japanese storytelling, but a perfect example of storytelling period.
Based on an excellent screenplay that contains equal parts of quirky humor and heartfelt drama, Postman Blues is a stellar example of the overarching humanism contained in Japanese cinema. All of its characters are loveable misfits whose surprising collaboration makes for an irresistible exaltation of the need for agency, and the possibility for community-building that arises out of chance encounters. With the labyrinthine Tokyo streets and their millions of barely interweaving lives providing the ideal background for such encounters, Postman Blues and its proletarian postal hero might just be the perfect remedy to Kevin Costner's ill-advised, post-apocalyptic homage to the USPS, The Postman, which was released later the same year.
Community-building through chance encounters:
Postman Blues and the tradition of Japanese humanism
The very first shot of the film, depicting an empty post office hall at dusk, is the first image that really struck me at this year's festival (I hadn't seen L'hypothèse du Mokélé-Mbembé yet...). The lingering emptiness thereof, the overwhelming feeling of absence that strikes us with melancholia, all of this is the result of optimal framing and the universal dramatic appeal of dust specs. But the film immediately substitutes this for that in keeping with narrative necessity and absence is immediately confronted by its opposite, or rather the reason for its existence: disembodied presence. After we've seen the empty hallway, we are immediately brought to the sorting office, where a tightly supervised line of costumed officers are sorting out letters at breakneck speed. Theirs is obviously a very droning task, and it perfectly contrasts with the quiet observation of nothingness that came before. But the bomb comes with the title screen. Protagonist Sawaki is done sorting a large amount of letters when he is suddenly handed another large bundle. The stack of brownish paper slips appears onscreen like a bang, accompanied by the unambiguous title. It took just a handful of shots, but our understanding of the protagonist's ploy is crystal clear. No need to have him fall into the mud on a rainy day; all Sabu had to do was to cleverly frame his droning daily tasks. Then, we're already set for the triggering effect, which happens in the following scene.
Upon delivering a commercial pamphlet (and dramatic leitmotiv) to old friend and low-grade yakuza Noguchi, Sawaki comes back to society, at the fringe of which he had been living in his cluttered apartment filled with empty beer cans. Unknowing of his friend's occupation at first, the well-meaning public servant catches him with a butcher knife in hand and a severed finger on the table, which is meant as a token of humility for the local yakuza boss. Thanks to a darkly comedic turn of events, the finger slowly rolls on the table during an irresistible close-up and falls squarely in the sack of mail that has been left on the floor. This simple occurrence then catapults Sawaki into a series of increasingly dire misunderstandings, as he simultaneously becomes involved in his friend's shady dealings as well as the ongoing police investigation surrounding said dealings. Parked across the street from his friend's apartment, the cops are surprised by Sawaki's visit at first, but they soon understand that he MUST be involved in yakuza schemes. After all, he carries a sackful of packages with him at all times. These could contain drugs, or worst, bombs! Obviously, nothing is farther from the truth, but that doesn't prevent the officers involved from clamping down on the poor protagonist and tailing him wherever he goes. From then on, the police investigation becomes a humorous parallel storyline to Sawaki's random wanderings through the city, and the depiction of police incompetence is slowly elevated to the level of art once more.
Solving mob problems with gentle good humor:
Postman Blues and its exalted proletarian hero.
Cops have been depicted as incompetents since the early days of cinema. The Keystone Kops, for example, were a major nuisance to Chaplin's Tramp. They ran across the screen with zeal, arms extended high into the air along with whirling nightsticks; they were almost like props in their absence of intellectual resolve. In Sabu's film, incompetence remains, but it is glorified by modern techniques in a disturbing orgy of self-righteousness. Convinced by a groundless logic that theirs is the right path, the cops violently intrude into the narrative, using the weight of their stupidity to drag the narrative into the nether realm of drama. Because once the big, blue cop car of comedy collides with the creaking bicycle of drama, the former evaporates, and the police manages once more to ruin our lives. With their total freedom of action as the smut face of authority, they are granted ample narrative power here, which they use to showcase a shockingly dark agenda. For wherever police incompetence is framed, one should be reminded of Postman Blues and its unforgettable take on law enforcement, the highlight of which involves a hilarious psychological profile of the protagonist, who's custom-made to fit police presumptions, and an infuriating shootout that sees police put on the other cap that fits, that of the remorseless killer.
Beyond his unfair definition by the police as an object of concerted violence, Sawaki is a tragic character. He is the exhausted everyman that has come to characterize Japanese life abroad. He is a man entrapped by routine and the darkened interiors of his diminutive living quarters (that come in stark contrast with the seemingly endless, highly intricate network of streets which he crosses on a daily basis). He is a man on the fringe of the society that he serves as a public servant. That is until he decides to play an active part in the ballet of humanity, using his presence amongst peers as catalyst for their well-being. By befriending a terminally ill young woman and an aging killer, he finds reason to live once more. He also finds a network of peripheral characters, whom he helps in their agency with significant others. The protagonist's humanism seeps through the screen and grips our hearts tightly. His encounters with the sickly young woman are whimsically shot and perfectly enjoyable, with the busy commercial streets in which Sawaki takes her advantageously replacing the beige hospital walls from her daily life. In the end, the theme of unity and friendship against odds is perhaps best exemplified by a lengthy tracking shot that sees Sawaki, Noguchi and Joe, the aging killer, biking side by side on the empty road stretch toward the hospital, where Sawaki's protégée is about to have a life-threatening operation. The three men's dedication to one another is palpable, if only for their zany performance behind the wheels. Believe me, these three actors are biking for their lives! Their unity of movement then comes to stand for the entire philosophy of the film and its joyous exaltation of the need for togetherness in the face of big city anonymity.
Even archetypes have depth here...
Biking is actually crucial here. Beyond its potential for intricate tracking shots along the colorful streets of Tokyo, biking also represents a communal means of transportation and is a very powerful vector for drama. The principle of the ticking time-bomb is thus reinterpreted here and applied to a bike race across the city, the breakneck speed thereof emanating from a strong sense of friendship and dedication. It culminates in two powerful moments of comedy and drama, as the film first features a spectacular collision between a police hotshot and a truck, and then (spoiler ahead) a tragic shootout of epic proportions (from the police side anyways). Biking is shown as the optimal way of getting around, at once very affordable and more in synch with the actual speed of life. When driving a car, life becomes a blur, a series of colored streaks over the cityscape. But when one is biking, there are still details to be noticed, and a whole other sense of the world to be experienced. And while you would think that the recourse to biking would result in less spectacular action sequences, one is constantly contented with Sabu's clever direction, which keeps things moving at a nice pace. Sawaki even manages to become quite an action hero here, but a proletarian action hero, one who isn't caged in steel and protected by stinger missiles while riding through the city. Hence, his proximity to the people arises not just from his sharing their collective space, but also in that he shares their vulnerability to the elements. This, he trades off for mobility and freedom, a sound exchange which allows him to nearly achieve all of his altruistic objectives. In the end, as too often, freedom finds a wall in the presence of a self-righteous, violent because incompetent, authority. Looks just like PM Charest handling the student crisis, with walls of policemen instead of the most basic will to understand the people before him.
I could go on and on about the notion of Sawaki as a torchbearer for his community, as I did before with Mookie from Do The Right Thing, but I need to move on to my next text instead. What I wish to leave you with, however, is just a sense of the thematic and narrative richness of the film with this idea of the proletarian hero on his bike, spinning a web of human agency within the metropolis, or simply repairing old links in an effort to knit back the social fabric and give back to the people a sense of togetherness, which the labyrinthine city has all but vanquished. The Americans have attempted to create such a proletarian action hero in Joseph Gordon Levitt's character from Premium Rush. And while I haven't seen the film, I doubt that their humanism even come close to Sabu's... If you, on the other hand, would like to see the human face of the city, in a hilariously tragic display of action and poignant melodrama, then go out there and track down Postman Blues! What the fuck are you waiting for! Go!
****1/2 At once a touching display of humanity, a high-octane proletarian action film, and a hilariously cynical take on police procedure, Postman Blues is not only a perfect example of Japanese storytelling, but a perfect example of storytelling period.
..........................
Profound Desires of the Gods
What is there left to say about the late Shohei Imamura? The man has had such a venerable career that he now sits among the privileged few who have won the Palme d'or twice (once for The Ballad of Narayama, then a second time for The Eel). As a young man, he was deeply involved in the Japanese New Wave. His Pigs and Battleships (1961) and The Pornographers (1966) were beacons of youthful revolt against the status quo. Being the author that he is, he soon developed particular thematic preferences, including the clash between tradition and modernity, as well as the exploration of rural life, both of which are crucial features of Profound Desires, a film that also displays the overarching humanism and distinct interest for ethnological observation that Imamura displayed in Pigs and The Pornographers.
The film is set on the island of Kurage, where traditional mythologies come at odds with modernity when an engineer from the mainland is sent to design a well to fuel the local sugar cane factory. At the center of the drama is the Futori family, whose eccentric antics and defiance of traditions have estranged them from their peers. The family is comprised of Yamamori, the overburdened patriarch, Nekichi, his son and a chained slave sentenced to physically remove a huge boulder sitting on their land, as well as Nekichi's son, a poor young man moving along the fringe of society, with free feet at least. Then, there is the daughter and granddaughter, whose commanding sexuality causes ample turmoil among the island folk. But despite some slightly flamboyant tendencies, the Futori live a very stern life of routine that unfolds as nature intended. That is until engineer Kariya crosses path with them in his attempts to reconcile the desires of the local entrepreneurs, social leaders and priestesses, most complex and important of which is Ume, Nekichi's sister and lover. Forced to make weird concessions to everybody, Kariya also needs to fight off foul play in his enterprise to help industry elevate the level of "progress" on the island. In doing so, he also causes a rude awakening to the world of technology for the island folk, whose contact with such sudden changes causes a resurgence of old habits in a violent expression of self-legitimacy in the face of incoming obsolescence. In the end, the face of the island will have changed forever, for better or for worse...
It's hard to describe the present narrative as it involves an abundance of intricately weaved themes and events, which contribute to create a world in itself, a lonely world removed physically and ideologically from the urban Japan we know so well. Produced over the course of 18 months, one for each ten minutes of runtime, Profound Desires is an epic achievement by any stretch of the imagination. It is slow-paced and lengthy, but only because it absolutely needs to be. After all, village life is understood here as going along the flow of nature, and not the various dictates that inform city life. Hence, the shots of animal life inserted between shots of the island folk contribute to create a certain unity in the pacing of their lives. As for the painterly long shots in which the characters are dwarfed by the scenery, they also contribute to this notion of man as part of nature. For the Futori, human life is akin to animal life in their closeness to the earth, and sexual promiscuity. Luckily, the characters are not mere archetypes or symbols here, they're complex narrative elements that are depicted in generous details, along with each of the sumptuous locales in which they evolve. With the quiet mode of observation and lengthy shooting schedule privileged by the master, it seems that no detail has been overlooked in his depiction of the island, which comes to us complete in its gorgeous complexity.
The breathtaking photography is a big part of the film's success as each of the tableaux we are given to see is epic in scope and composition. The vibrant natural colors found in and around the island are perfectly exploited here to create a mosaic of unadulterated beauty. It's no wonder that Imamura wanted to be a simple fly on the wall here, revealing life through careful, patient observation. Obviously, everything is staged, but it is seamlessly so, as if Kurage had always remained as is, in order for someone to come and shoot the present film. The director himself must have been overwhelmed by the location, from which he draws the juiciest, most gorgeous morsels. The sheer number of unforgettable images contained in the film is actually an achievement in itself. The beach-side affair between Kariya and the youngest Futori woman, a character that strangely prefigures Britt Ekland's Willow from the similarly-themed thriller The Wicker Man, contains the purest expression of carefree sensuality out there, a perfect example of the spontaneously attractive power of nature and sexuality as a joyous affair devoid of strings attached. As for the late scene in which Nekichi and Ume try to escape from Kurage, it quickly becomes an epic depiction of the riotous, illogical nature of tradition. Even then, things are more nuanced than I could manage to explain here as passion runs too close to tradition to tell.
Passion, either in the dedicated work of the characters, their blind faith, or sexual promiscuity, is a powerful dramatic engine here, as it is shown in its dying moments. Technology is coming. There are talks of an airport being built on the island, accompanied by a railroad and other staples of modern (read rational) life. And what is left of faith or simple emotional power is to be sacrificed for them. Since the Futori women stand as symbols for both religious and sexual power on the island, it is not surprising that their (spoilers ahead) eventual downfalls, one of which is so poignant as to tear through the screen, are synonymous with the eventual victory of progress over what these women represent, namely nature, freedom, beauty and passion. But I shan't pretend to analyze the film solely on crude binary oppositions such as progress vs nature because it wouldn't do justice to the sheer depth contained in every shot of nearly every sequence. Still, it is nice to have such entry points into any text, whether it simply suggest the opposition itself or integrates it into an epic ethnological endeavor such as the present film. Suffice it to say that Profound Desires, like its name suggests, is unfathomable without at least some serious study.
The symbolic labor of Nekichi, who has worked for decades on his rock, is only one of those deeper narrative elements contained in the film. Not only does it pit a man against a nearly insurmountable physical object, but against the gods themselves. It is the ultimate obstacle to one's resolve, but also the ultimate test thereof. The eventual tumbling of the forsaken object is a monumental relief and an extremely powerful dramatic climax. Unfortunately, the freedom that it grants the protagonists is only illusory, as the gods, through blind human servants, still manage to (spoiler ahead) claim Nekichi's soul. Hence the resilience of humanity is confronted to the resilience of tradition, as would later be the case in The Ballad of Narayama. And that, the resilience of man's faith, is what's truly epic in this 170-odd minutes, 18 months production that prefigures many of Imamura's life-long themes. A testament to his immense heritage to world cinema.
Profound Desires of the Gods has been ignored for far too long. On the back of my copy of The Eel (dated 1997), it is not even mentioned in a 8 film filmography (that excludes The Eel of course) although it is one of his biggest achievements, and also one of the greatest films of all times. It's like a gorgeous iceberg that remains hidden under the tumultuous sea of Japanese cinema. Luckily, people have started to show some interest in the film during the past few years (thanks to a miraculous 2010 release on blu-ray by UK outfit Eureka) and it just might finally start getting the recognition it deserves. Hopefully, I will contribute my fair share to the project with the present five-star rating, the most well-deserved I've ever awarded.
***** A gorgeously-shot, seamlessly staged and supremely relevant depiction of rural life in the face of ongoing progress, and another humanistic masterpiece by Shohei Imamura. A must-see for fans of Japanese cinema. The best film at this year's Fantasia.
Shohei Imamura's Profound Desires of the Gods at La
Cinémathèque: a rare opportunity to see the master at work.
The film is set on the island of Kurage, where traditional mythologies come at odds with modernity when an engineer from the mainland is sent to design a well to fuel the local sugar cane factory. At the center of the drama is the Futori family, whose eccentric antics and defiance of traditions have estranged them from their peers. The family is comprised of Yamamori, the overburdened patriarch, Nekichi, his son and a chained slave sentenced to physically remove a huge boulder sitting on their land, as well as Nekichi's son, a poor young man moving along the fringe of society, with free feet at least. Then, there is the daughter and granddaughter, whose commanding sexuality causes ample turmoil among the island folk. But despite some slightly flamboyant tendencies, the Futori live a very stern life of routine that unfolds as nature intended. That is until engineer Kariya crosses path with them in his attempts to reconcile the desires of the local entrepreneurs, social leaders and priestesses, most complex and important of which is Ume, Nekichi's sister and lover. Forced to make weird concessions to everybody, Kariya also needs to fight off foul play in his enterprise to help industry elevate the level of "progress" on the island. In doing so, he also causes a rude awakening to the world of technology for the island folk, whose contact with such sudden changes causes a resurgence of old habits in a violent expression of self-legitimacy in the face of incoming obsolescence. In the end, the face of the island will have changed forever, for better or for worse...
It's hard to describe the present narrative as it involves an abundance of intricately weaved themes and events, which contribute to create a world in itself, a lonely world removed physically and ideologically from the urban Japan we know so well. Produced over the course of 18 months, one for each ten minutes of runtime, Profound Desires is an epic achievement by any stretch of the imagination. It is slow-paced and lengthy, but only because it absolutely needs to be. After all, village life is understood here as going along the flow of nature, and not the various dictates that inform city life. Hence, the shots of animal life inserted between shots of the island folk contribute to create a certain unity in the pacing of their lives. As for the painterly long shots in which the characters are dwarfed by the scenery, they also contribute to this notion of man as part of nature. For the Futori, human life is akin to animal life in their closeness to the earth, and sexual promiscuity. Luckily, the characters are not mere archetypes or symbols here, they're complex narrative elements that are depicted in generous details, along with each of the sumptuous locales in which they evolve. With the quiet mode of observation and lengthy shooting schedule privileged by the master, it seems that no detail has been overlooked in his depiction of the island, which comes to us complete in its gorgeous complexity.
Living as an animal: Imamura's love for life goes way beyond
the scope of humanism. See also The Eel.
The breathtaking photography is a big part of the film's success as each of the tableaux we are given to see is epic in scope and composition. The vibrant natural colors found in and around the island are perfectly exploited here to create a mosaic of unadulterated beauty. It's no wonder that Imamura wanted to be a simple fly on the wall here, revealing life through careful, patient observation. Obviously, everything is staged, but it is seamlessly so, as if Kurage had always remained as is, in order for someone to come and shoot the present film. The director himself must have been overwhelmed by the location, from which he draws the juiciest, most gorgeous morsels. The sheer number of unforgettable images contained in the film is actually an achievement in itself. The beach-side affair between Kariya and the youngest Futori woman, a character that strangely prefigures Britt Ekland's Willow from the similarly-themed thriller The Wicker Man, contains the purest expression of carefree sensuality out there, a perfect example of the spontaneously attractive power of nature and sexuality as a joyous affair devoid of strings attached. As for the late scene in which Nekichi and Ume try to escape from Kurage, it quickly becomes an epic depiction of the riotous, illogical nature of tradition. Even then, things are more nuanced than I could manage to explain here as passion runs too close to tradition to tell.
Passion, either in the dedicated work of the characters, their blind faith, or sexual promiscuity, is a powerful dramatic engine here, as it is shown in its dying moments. Technology is coming. There are talks of an airport being built on the island, accompanied by a railroad and other staples of modern (read rational) life. And what is left of faith or simple emotional power is to be sacrificed for them. Since the Futori women stand as symbols for both religious and sexual power on the island, it is not surprising that their (spoilers ahead) eventual downfalls, one of which is so poignant as to tear through the screen, are synonymous with the eventual victory of progress over what these women represent, namely nature, freedom, beauty and passion. But I shan't pretend to analyze the film solely on crude binary oppositions such as progress vs nature because it wouldn't do justice to the sheer depth contained in every shot of nearly every sequence. Still, it is nice to have such entry points into any text, whether it simply suggest the opposition itself or integrates it into an epic ethnological endeavor such as the present film. Suffice it to say that Profound Desires, like its name suggests, is unfathomable without at least some serious study.
Desires and the bush: In Kurage, sexuality, passion
and nature intertwine as a remedy to cold steel.
The symbolic labor of Nekichi, who has worked for decades on his rock, is only one of those deeper narrative elements contained in the film. Not only does it pit a man against a nearly insurmountable physical object, but against the gods themselves. It is the ultimate obstacle to one's resolve, but also the ultimate test thereof. The eventual tumbling of the forsaken object is a monumental relief and an extremely powerful dramatic climax. Unfortunately, the freedom that it grants the protagonists is only illusory, as the gods, through blind human servants, still manage to (spoiler ahead) claim Nekichi's soul. Hence the resilience of humanity is confronted to the resilience of tradition, as would later be the case in The Ballad of Narayama. And that, the resilience of man's faith, is what's truly epic in this 170-odd minutes, 18 months production that prefigures many of Imamura's life-long themes. A testament to his immense heritage to world cinema.
Profound Desires of the Gods has been ignored for far too long. On the back of my copy of The Eel (dated 1997), it is not even mentioned in a 8 film filmography (that excludes The Eel of course) although it is one of his biggest achievements, and also one of the greatest films of all times. It's like a gorgeous iceberg that remains hidden under the tumultuous sea of Japanese cinema. Luckily, people have started to show some interest in the film during the past few years (thanks to a miraculous 2010 release on blu-ray by UK outfit Eureka) and it just might finally start getting the recognition it deserves. Hopefully, I will contribute my fair share to the project with the present five-star rating, the most well-deserved I've ever awarded.
***** A gorgeously-shot, seamlessly staged and supremely relevant depiction of rural life in the face of ongoing progress, and another humanistic masterpiece by Shohei Imamura. A must-see for fans of Japanese cinema. The best film at this year's Fantasia.
..........................
Lowlife
Shot with the help of Jason Eisener, this film is part of the Eastern Canadian New Wave of genre cinema. Set in Halifax, the same depressing location as Hobo with a Shotgun, this is another story of disintegrating humanity, one that's shot even more lucidly, as if by a local drug addict. It is equal parts student kammerspiel (with black and white photography making an elegant contribution to the depiction of mundane interiors) and near-experimental flashes of drug-fueled fantasy, the culmination of which shows the protagonist as a slimy tentacled beast entwined with other similar creatures in a pool of toxic ichor. Within the film, the hallucinogenic imagery actually provides a crucial balance with the naturalistic cityscape, which the characters manage to escape altogether, but not without leaving their corporal integrity behind. Thanks to these constantly shifting paradigms, Lowlife eventually becomes much more than the surprising depiction of a cryptic tagline ("The absolute dead centre of nowhere"). It is a complex exercise in sensuous storytelling that elevates a thin screenplay to the level of art.
Protagonist Asa is a particularly unattractive person. Square-jawed and cruelly bald, he is given life by Chik White, who turns in a surprisingly strong performance as a terrifyingly casual drug-user who slowly abandons his physical and mental integrity. Crossing path with Elle, a former friend and fellow musician, Asa drags her along in a world of substance abuse that transforms their boring existence in a mystical, but physically damaging journey of self-revelation. Everything starts with a plastic lunchbox that Asa drops on Elle's backseat. Apparently his only possession, we are immediately intrigued by the item and its mysterious content. We can only assume that there are drugs within, but without knowing their exact shape. And "shape" is the keyword here, as we are soon flabbergasted by just how weird drug consumption is depicted here. Instead of the boring old needles and overdetermined white powder that we're used to, there lies a pair of glistening starfishes, which Asa and Elle lick avidly, adding a fair dose of challenge to their performance. This form of drug-consumption actually brings the film far away from its grounded introduction and into the realm of a truly surrealistic cinema of visual experience that manages to depict the protagonists' existence more relevantly than any "realist" attempt could have achieved.
Despite borrowing from Lynchian and Cronenbergian aesthetics, amongst others, Seth Smith's brainchild remains a very intimate, very relevant portrayal of drug addiction. If milieu plays a part in explaining the protagonists' angst, so too do the drug-fueled sequences of hallucination. Both are surprisingly complementary in their naturalistic depiction, not of one's actions within a narrative, but of one's experience of life. Unforgettable imagery abounds in a bid to create living tableaux out of the characters' thoughts. First, the nefarious mud-man materializes under our eyes as Asa reminisces about him. Then, there is the mystical "guide" dog who provides enlightening bits of cryptic wisdom as the characters are drifting away on a stream of self-satisfaction. These features are nice, but not entirely alien to the depiction of drug-induced hallucinations. What is more shocking, however, is the seamless integration of intoxicating starfishes within the narrative. Their genesis is explained during a troubling scene featuring a Lynchian drug dealer, but their presence within the "natural" (read "non-intoxicated") world always remains odd. It's as if the two protagonists' whole lives were slightly out of synch with the rest of us. Then, it simply becomes a matter of cranking the "weirdness knob" up and down.
Without wanting to sound excessively smut, I must say that Halifax provides the perfect setting for the present narrative. Not only in the spectacle of its decrepit streets and neighborhoods, but in the endless surrounding wilderness. Shot in gorgeous colors, the transitional scenes in which Asa is shown surviving in the woods, make great use of the cluttered space not as reminder of freedom, but as a constrictive canvas in which to entrap an increasingly decrepit protagonist. These scenes could alternatively be understood as depicting a man that is slowly "returning to the earth", wasting away like the leaf on a dead trunk. The increasing number of boils and scars which appear on his body would seem to support that claim. But less so than his eventual transformation into a wiggling, ooze-covered worm.
With an iconic poster featuring the battered face of Chik White and a tantalizing tagline that suggests an impossible location, Lowlife has the potential to become a cult classic. Every other prerequisites is also on display here: low-budget production, amateur actors and some seriously fucked-up imagery, none of which ever seems sensationalist or exploitative in any way. The fact that it was shot in Halifax might also help its cause, as the rise of local horror production will necessarily draw some critical attention to it. In turn, it will also help us understand this predilection for horror as a necessary means of depicting the surrounding social horror. Soon-to-be essential viewing.
*** A strong turn by two very willing actors and a knack for creating powerful imagery help this sensuous depiction of drug addiction hit home with authority.
City sicker: urban aesthetics and the decaying of the soul.
Protagonist Asa is a particularly unattractive person. Square-jawed and cruelly bald, he is given life by Chik White, who turns in a surprisingly strong performance as a terrifyingly casual drug-user who slowly abandons his physical and mental integrity. Crossing path with Elle, a former friend and fellow musician, Asa drags her along in a world of substance abuse that transforms their boring existence in a mystical, but physically damaging journey of self-revelation. Everything starts with a plastic lunchbox that Asa drops on Elle's backseat. Apparently his only possession, we are immediately intrigued by the item and its mysterious content. We can only assume that there are drugs within, but without knowing their exact shape. And "shape" is the keyword here, as we are soon flabbergasted by just how weird drug consumption is depicted here. Instead of the boring old needles and overdetermined white powder that we're used to, there lies a pair of glistening starfishes, which Asa and Elle lick avidly, adding a fair dose of challenge to their performance. This form of drug-consumption actually brings the film far away from its grounded introduction and into the realm of a truly surrealistic cinema of visual experience that manages to depict the protagonists' existence more relevantly than any "realist" attempt could have achieved.
Despite borrowing from Lynchian and Cronenbergian aesthetics, amongst others, Seth Smith's brainchild remains a very intimate, very relevant portrayal of drug addiction. If milieu plays a part in explaining the protagonists' angst, so too do the drug-fueled sequences of hallucination. Both are surprisingly complementary in their naturalistic depiction, not of one's actions within a narrative, but of one's experience of life. Unforgettable imagery abounds in a bid to create living tableaux out of the characters' thoughts. First, the nefarious mud-man materializes under our eyes as Asa reminisces about him. Then, there is the mystical "guide" dog who provides enlightening bits of cryptic wisdom as the characters are drifting away on a stream of self-satisfaction. These features are nice, but not entirely alien to the depiction of drug-induced hallucinations. What is more shocking, however, is the seamless integration of intoxicating starfishes within the narrative. Their genesis is explained during a troubling scene featuring a Lynchian drug dealer, but their presence within the "natural" (read "non-intoxicated") world always remains odd. It's as if the two protagonists' whole lives were slightly out of synch with the rest of us. Then, it simply becomes a matter of cranking the "weirdness knob" up and down.
Kronenbergian kammerspiel: oozing starfishes transform
mundane interiors into otherworldly locales.
Without wanting to sound excessively smut, I must say that Halifax provides the perfect setting for the present narrative. Not only in the spectacle of its decrepit streets and neighborhoods, but in the endless surrounding wilderness. Shot in gorgeous colors, the transitional scenes in which Asa is shown surviving in the woods, make great use of the cluttered space not as reminder of freedom, but as a constrictive canvas in which to entrap an increasingly decrepit protagonist. These scenes could alternatively be understood as depicting a man that is slowly "returning to the earth", wasting away like the leaf on a dead trunk. The increasing number of boils and scars which appear on his body would seem to support that claim. But less so than his eventual transformation into a wiggling, ooze-covered worm.
With an iconic poster featuring the battered face of Chik White and a tantalizing tagline that suggests an impossible location, Lowlife has the potential to become a cult classic. Every other prerequisites is also on display here: low-budget production, amateur actors and some seriously fucked-up imagery, none of which ever seems sensationalist or exploitative in any way. The fact that it was shot in Halifax might also help its cause, as the rise of local horror production will necessarily draw some critical attention to it. In turn, it will also help us understand this predilection for horror as a necessary means of depicting the surrounding social horror. Soon-to-be essential viewing.
*** A strong turn by two very willing actors and a knack for creating powerful imagery help this sensuous depiction of drug addiction hit home with authority.
