Fantasia 2013 - Friday, August 2nd

Here are some brief impressions of the three films I saw on Friday, August 2^nd:

Curse of Chucky

Watching this flavorless melting pot of dated horror film devices and random Chucky lore, I felt a distinct nostalgia for the blessed 1980s. After all, it was only then that people could make decent killer dolls films. Now, the sub-genre has all dried up, as if the tribulations of pint-sized serial killers were somehow growing passé. Judging from the lack of innovation in this unwelcome sequel, there’s certainly a good reason for that, and even returning director/screenwriter Don Mancini seems to be fully aware of this distressing fact. By displacing the story further away from its urban roots, and into the realm of more “respectable” genre fare, he seems to tell us that there is no more water left in the mill, but what can be borrowed from others. Abandoning the nearly Cronenbergian approach prevalent in the previous two entries of the series, Mancini plays it safe here, indulging in no stylistic or narrative excess, electing instead to keep things predictable and boring in a transparent bid to hang on to the whims of nostalgic fans. A definite step backwards for the series, which allows it to step back into canon.

Part family drama, part haunted house caper, the introductory chapter of this surprisingly conventional outing sets up paraplegic cutie Nica (Fiona Dourif) as the unlikely protagonist and sacrificial victim of our most celebrated psychotic doll. Caring for her aging mother in a remote Victorian homestead, the young woman has learned to overcome her handicap and become a useful housekeeper. That is until a mysterious package lends on her doorstep, containing a fuck-ugly red-haired talking doll. Rather unconcerned by the origin of said doll, Nica takes it in and allows it to run rampant in the house, where it creates a web of intrigue and mistrust. When mom gruesomely commits suicide, the rest of the family pops into Nica’s life, questioning her capacity to take care of herself and threatening to sell the house and move her to a nursing home. These threats, however, will soon sound hollow in the face of impending doom, with the killer doll trying to complete a murderous task undertook two decades ago.

Long shadows as a shortcut to nobility...

As mentioned in my opening paragraph, the decision to set the story in an old Victorian homestead, far away from the seedy trailers and dilapidated apartments of the two previous films, is a transparent tactic by writer/director Mancini to inject a false sense of nobility into the series. It is as if the nobler tradition of haunted house horror could magically infer gravity to some lowbrow slasher fare made famous for its unabashed use of profanity. “Don’t fuck with the Chuck” was the tagline for the third film. Twenty years later, we can now enjoy a playful, variation on the theme with “Be afraid. Be effing afraid”. This reference to Geena Davis’ line from The Fly (1986) actually sounds like an MPAA-sanctioned publicity stunt made to promote Chucky to a new generation of constipated do-gooders, not unlike our crippled protagonist, whose lifeless bottom half seems to instantly infer virginity. Personally, I think the new decor is quite unwelcome, especially if one looks back at the carefree 80s, when people still gave a damn, and Chucky movies were assorted with awesome action set-pieces. Here, the in camera approach greatly narrows the potential for spectacle, and a few snippets of gore are the only things left to quench our desire for excitement. Unfortunately, one ripped-out jaw is not going to do it for me, nor is the artificially mounting tension, epitomized in my heart by the tedious wait for Chucky to utter his first nasty quip. Fact of the matter is, we know full well where this thing is going and we know what path it will take to get there. Hell, even when Mancini has a chance to do good, and cash-in on some carefully crafted anticipation, he ends up choking by taking the most boring, beaten path on to the next scene. This can best be exemplified by the sequence in which the whole family gathers for a meal around the dinner table, unaware that one of their plates has been spiked with poison. Pondering on who will croak, we eagerly await the spectacle of a messy death until one of the guests suddenly ups and leaves on the pretext that he doesn’t feel well. That’s it. No puke on the dinner table and no satisfied expectations. Likewise, the nine-year wait for a sequel to Seed of Chucky could’ve never prepared us for this bland new film. At least, there was some experimentation in the two previous chapters, a dab into the grotesque and the organic, allowing for new latex creations and some new directions for the main storyline. Here, everything is too neat, tidy and conventional, as if Mancini was attempting to step back into the womb, or into a sealed capsule that would somehow withstand the passage of time.

Despite my own recriminations against the film, there has been quite a buzz from hardcore fans and they seem to agree that Curse is a worthy entry in the series. And while I feel that it rather sounds like a swan song (it is the only title to be released straight to video), I understand their feelings in that the murder mystery format used here marks a return to form for the franchise. It must certainly be reassuring to exit the darkness cultivated in the previous two entries and bask at the pretty façade of this polished effort just as it must be reassuring to welcome back the tried and tested slasher mechanics from earlier films. Most importantly, in regards to fan service, is the fact that the present screenplay widens the canon by including flash-backs and supplementary exposition on voodoo aficionado Charles Lee Ray (portrayed by Brad Dourif in fully human form). It also manages to tie several loose ends left inbetween chapters of the dislocated series, pegging not only one, but two satellite characters (Chucky’s former girlfriend Tiffany and choice victim Andy Barclay) on a definitive timeline. The very apparition of these two characters, and especially that of estranged hero Barclay, probably acts as balm on the wounds inherited from the series’ turn into a darkly humorous form of self-parody, which has seen anti-hero Chucky become an unlikely protagonist. Now, everything is back in its original place, with virginal Nica reclaiming the spotlight from the stubby-fingered, foul-mouthed little killer. The fact that her character is portrayed by Dourif’s daughter Fiona further seems to indicate a return to bases for the series, with trashy Tiffany yielding to the candid charms of the wheelchair-bound young woman.

In the end, your appreciation of the film will probably depend on your stance with regards to the direction taken by the series in recent years. While purists will probably jump for joy at its return to the narrow canon established in the late 1980s, fans of the grotesque excesses showcased in the two most recent titles will feel abandoned and disillusioned. As for laymen, they will see a disappointing film that fails to deliver on some nice tension-building, choosing instead to distill the horrific aspect of the narrative with dated slasher tactics. Finally, casual horror fans will see a fairly average, gutless homage to several horror traditions characterized by decent production values, but far too little innovation to stand out from the crowd.

**   This rather forgettable entry in the series rejoins the canon by drawing from dated horror traditions, sacrificing both the epic set pieces from parts 1-3 and the dark humor from part 4-5 in order to reclaim some lost fans. 

Raze

Despite some pretensions as a serious critique of corporate excess, Raze is hardly a narrative film, and whatever dramatic issues contained in the premise are entirely subservient to the primitive spectacle of brutality. One could say that the film features “fights”, but these are not akin to the highly choreographed ballets of Yuen Woo Ping; these are brutal expressions of instinct, and they are appropriately punctuated by a barren, rhythmic soundtrack. In turn, the absence of a bothersome or overly intricate dramatic canvas and the unabashed showcase of female-on-female assault make for a unique experience of “pure” genre cinema. And while the film could rightfully be tagged as exploitative, no one will dare call it hypocritical, for it never uses manipulation to justify the violence onscreen. Maybe genre fans will be the only ones to grasp the worth of such artistic integrity, but even that’s OK since the film is squarely aimed at them. All in all, Raze is a UFO on the movie scene, if only for its unadulterated dedication to the raw depiction of violence as a spectacle. 

Abducted and imprisoned by a shady secret society obsessed with morbid entertainment, a group of women are forced to fight each other lest one of their family members is executed by their captors. Confined to damp cells in a stuffy stone cellar, being psychologically and physically abused by unidentified masterminds, these women develop fragile and desperate friendships, hoping that more than one of them will come out of the ordeal alive. Obviously, this turns out to be wishful thinking, as their tormentors are carefully overlooking and videotaping their every move. And in the face of death, protagonist Sabrina is different from her peers only in her unflinching desire to survive, and her subsequent brutality in the ring. But despite the eager fists she swings at her opponents, she also proves to be a very humane cellmate, trying to console the other women in her clique and to protect them from psycho-bitch Phoebe, who enjoys killing with her bare hands, totally unconcerned by the threats against her mother’s life. In the end, Sabrina and Phoebe are pitted against each other in a bloody grudge match, but this does not prove to be the climactic event of the film. Instead, the winner of their bout takes the violence upstairs, turning the tables on her aristocratic captors and earning her freedom through their demise. Whether this brand of happy ending truly befits the tone of the film is another issue entirely... 

Red filters as narrative devices: Raze 

There is a certain purity to Raze that is unmatched by all other women-in-prison or martial arts film. Not only are the numerous fight scenes well choreographed and energetically carried out by a talented cast of XX fighters, but they are also shown from a gritty, non-heroic angle. These fights are dirty, and they challenge any form of “honor” often associated with such confrontations. This is made clear very early, as protagonist Sabrina fakes abdication against her first opponent, only to whack her after she has let her guard down. This girl does not fight for the greater good, for the fate of humanity, or any such bullshit reason. She merely fights for survival, and that makes her profoundly human. This also sheds the need for further characterization. In fact, all the characters’ backgrounds prove not so important in fleshing them out as their current imprisonment, which naturally exacerbates their emotional fragility and murderous impulses. In short, emotional resolve is herein equated with survival instinct, and it sheds the need for any sort of lengthy exposition. Where characterization DOES make a difference is in the later fights, in which friends are pitted against friends. Unfortunately, these confrontations fail to attain real dramatic highs, feeling more like obligatory narrative devices than earnest attempts at catharsis. Actually, the film distills the whole of the excitement it provides in the sheer brutality of the fights, and not in their dramatic implications. And while this could be considered a screenwriting flaw in many circles, it's merely a way for the film to remain as straightforward and uncompromising as possible.

Raze’s purity also proceeds from the simplicity of its narrative construction, and its use of expressionistic devices to better draw the viewer into the ring. The whole project is almost experimental in that regard. Each fight scene is preceded by a black card on which the names of the two combatants appear. This deconstructive tactic subverts the tradition of invisibility associated with conventional narrative cinema, exposing the real nature of the film as a pure showcase of violence. Then, there is the rhythmic soundtrack, punctuated not by music per se, but by the aggressive beating of drums, which gives the film a rough, tribal feel that is perfectly in sync with the characters’ mindset as they are reverting to a form of primal barbarity. Then, there is lighting, whose function here is not to make the fights more intelligible or to better delineate the combatants, but to cultivate the oppressive quality of imprisonment. And while it might seem strange to shoot intricate fight scenes in near-total darkness, it is an efficient way for the authors not to glamorize these fights, but to make them an integrant part of the surrounding darkness. Hence, the black and red hues bathe the characters in a ominous glow, complicating the showcase of their martial proficiency, but contributing a far more important sense of despair to the show. All of these key features allow us to enjoy the film on a purely visceral level, hence exalting the unapologetic mindlessness inherent to genre cinema. Such integrity is highly welcome too, for it challenges the bourgeois notion of genre as a prepackaged narrative format. Here, narrative conventions are eschewed like the lining of fat on meat slices, and only the raw power of instinct remains, allowing us to ponder not only on the nature of genre cinema, but on our own violent instincts as well.

**1/2   Brutal and unapologetic, this “pure” genre film refuses to let melodrama or even plausibility ruin its gutsy action scenes.

Return to Nuke ‘em High - Volume 1

From the looks of this unbearable gore comedy, Troma-type bad taste hasn’t aged so well, nor has it managed to mature along with its dedicated audience of 20+ years. So before you try and return to the titular Tromaville high school, maybe you should remember how it was back in the day. Remember the lame jokes, hysterical acting, inane screenplay and redundant tribulations. Remember it all, and know that things haven’t changed one bit since then. The nuclear power plant is now an organic food concern, but the same barrels of shining fluorescent goo lie within. New actors have replaced the old ones, but they are equally annoying in their incessant yelling. Scour your memory and you will appreciate just how sterile Kaufman’s studio has become in its stubborn refusal to evolve. Then, maybe you will find it in your heart to make yourself a favor and steer clear of this stinking mess.

Tromaville High used to stand right next to the local nuclear power plant, but some leakage spoiled the water supplies, causing a massive outbreak of monstrosity and mischief. Now, the plant has been replaced by a food concern known as Tromorganics Foodstuffs, which supplies the school cafeteria with highly dubious morsels. Evidently, the head of the factory is a soulless crook (played by Lloyd Kaufman himself) and he’s got the high school principal on his side. Thanks to his help, he manages to unload a massive quantity of noxious glowing tacos on the students, making the whole glee club turn into a roving band of mutant gangbangers. Mischief ensues as the eco-friendly lesbian protagonist reluctantly teams up with a rich new girl in order to save the day. There’s a sex scene between the two near the end, and it’s the definitive highlight of the film. The aggressive overbid of tomfoolery making up the remainder of the runtime never manages to elicit more than embarrassed laughter.

Watching Return is like stepping in a nightmarish time warp

Lloyd Kaufman may be just as young at heart as he ever was, but it is simply because he hasn’t matured at all through the years, becoming so complacent that he now recycles his old jokes endlessly so as to desperately keep his dubious brand alive. Frankly, I think he should stick to the funding of cleverer independent cinema than his own. With the current revival of 1980s style genre cinema (exemplified by Astron-6’s Troma-produced Father’s Day), things could be far rosier (and less embarrassing) for Lloyd if he stepped back behind the director's chair. Here, he merely relies on the nostalgic value of dusty artifacts, digging out a car explosion from a 1980s film (I'm pretty sure it was The Toxic Avenger) to complement a series of dated, overdone jokes featuring crudely caricatured characters, parading Toxies, and pet ducks (later shoved in the mouth of their owners). While it can pass off as a meta-joke to the most open-minded of viewers, an automotive explosion recycled from another film remains an easy substitute for blowing up a new car. And that wouldn’t even be so bad if everything else didn’t seem borrowed from the 1980s as well. Replacing Mayor Belgoody and a slew of other lard-laden crooks, the school principal is a typical Troma archetype, and so are the mutated villains, whose punk attire seem to have emerged from a nightmarish time warp. Hell, there’s even Cigar Face popping in to quip his famous one-liner from The Toxic Avenger! It sure is all a blast from the past, but that is precisely why we have blast doors... 

However mediocre and redundant the rest of the film is, the final insult comes at the end, when Kaufman cheats its audience in the most abominable way by cutting the story short and providing a mere cliffhanger as the conclusion to this 85-minute chore. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I know the title bears the mention “Volume 1”, but this hardly justifies an incomplete story. Not only is this unfair to the viewers, who have spent a full 9$ to see a story with a beginning, a middle and an end, but it fills them with anguish at the thought of having to sit through another volume of this stuff just for some closure*. Last time I checked, narrative cinema was all about telling a complete story within the confines of a given time span. Cinema is NOT TV. It’s not made to imprison the audience and manipulate them into watching more. Furthermore, this tactic seems like a last ditch effort to squeeze a really old and dry lemon for some juice. It was not enough for the Class of Nuke ‘em High to generate two inferior sequels and a recent DVD re-release. Now, we have to endure a “remake/quasi-sequel” broken down in several parts!?! Coming from an indie production outfit such as Troma, this is a surprising ploy to shamelessly cash in on the previous glory of the brand, a practice unfit for the greedy corporate heads at Disney, but even more so for a bona fide genre icon such as Lloyd Kaufman. Shame on you, Lloyd… 

* I must admit that I enjoyed the final reference to Carrie, and think that it will make a fine start for the next part, but no flash of genius could've saved the film at this point. 

1/2*   Filled to the brim with annoying overacting and crude humor recycled from earlier Troma films, this latest effort by the venerable Lloyd Kaufman is a pathetic exercise in regressive nostalgia. I recommend you slap an old copy of The Toxic Avenger in the VCR instead….

Fantasia 2013 - Thursday, August 1st

Here are some brief impressions on the two films I saw on Thursday, August 1^st:

The Dead Experiment
This wordy yawner fails to profit from an intriguing premise, growing increasingly irrelevant until the end despite one satisfying plot twist halfway. Shot in a single, annoyingly familiar locale, the film relies on dry, sciency monologues carried out by unconvinced and unconvincing actors. The amateurish mise-en-scène is strictly functional, the photography is bland, there is no sense of pace, and the one most important dramatic issue is vastly underplayed thanks to the dead-eyed actors’ utter lack of credibility. In the end, The Dead Experiment seems like a film school project elaborated over the course of a weekend. And I must insist on the “film school” aspect thereof, because even Roger Corman couldn’t have shot something as underwhelming and forgettable… Long live Walter Paisley!

Chris and Jacob are two college buddies hellbent on discovering a rejuvenating agent with the potential to cheat death itself. After some successful tests on a lab rat, Jacob brings Chris back to life after he has succumbed to a sudden affliction. But, as one would expect, the serum isn’t fully functional, causing Chris to “rot” very much like a corpse, forcing the two geniuses to work against the clock in perfecting their invention. But there’s another player in the equation: Chris’ foolishly supportive girlfriend Maddie, who will play an unwilling part in the experiments following a shocking discovery of her own. Will Chris survive or will Maddie graduate to widowhood? Will Jacob and Chris remain friends through this ordeal? Will YOU be still awake when the final reel is installed? The answers to these questions are not worth the painful sit-down. Trust me. Or read Dread Central’s equally somber review of the film.

White drapes as décor, science as action, 

The Dead Experiment as tedium...

Writer/director/producer Anthony Dixon sure had a lot on his hands here, and his lack of companionship partly accounts for the dreadful aspect of the final product. After all, there is something in filmmaking that is called creative collaboration and it tends to subdue oversized egos and bring water to dry mills. In this case, Dixon would’ve been wise to seek help to polish his indescribably boring and wordy screenplay. In turn, a better screenplay could’ve made the entire enterprise worthwhile in concealing the amateurish mise-en-scène, heightening the dramatic power of the film, and making it feasible for the limited actors to come across as three-dimensional characters. As things stand however, the film quickly sinks into the maelstrom, piloted by a self-indulgent captain unaware of the risks inherent to the high seas.

Actually, it doesn’t take that much insight to realize how inappropriate the actors are, considering the intellectual nature of the premise and the emotional involvement required by the narrative. One must also realize how unappealing and tedious it can be to use random medical terms to forward the narrative and to try and generate excitement amongst viewers. But then, the uninspired mise-en-scène contributes its fair share to exacerbate the poorness of the screenplay. Boring series of shots/counter-shots do not help dynamize the exchanges, and the overbid of science montages does not generate much excitement either. Seeing guys tip over Erlenmeyer flasks and activate Bunsen burners is not my idea of a good time, and it DOES NOT give credibility to their pseudo-scientific ramblings. As for the generic background music, it seems obligatory and stale. So, no redeeming value whatsoever to be found here from a technical standpoint.

As for the bland setting, it constitutes yet another major problem. I mean, if one is to make a film about the worth of life and the unwavering desire to preserve it, then confining the plot to such a familiar locale seems counter-productive in that it makes life appear that much more unappealing. It’s quite a shock to the system, but apartments have grown depressingly cold and empty over the years. Since people don’t have the culture or the money to adequately furnish their homes anymore, and since we are slowly becoming cleanliness addicts, it seems like the dirt and clutter have all but vanished from the anthropocentric houses of old, leaving us with impersonal living quarters befitting of only the most conformist and robotic of us. Here, everybody might as well die rather than to live in such an empty space. Actually, there is no real life to speak of since all the characters seem awkward and mechanized. Hence, there is no real exaltation of life either, except somewhere deep in the over-bearing script. What’s even more annoying about this setting however is how unimaginative the whole editing becomes. With each chapter starting with a shot of Maddie’s front porch, not only does all this shit feel more and more cyclical, but the boredom of domesticity is constantly summoned, threatening all the grander metaphysical implications of the screenplay. Hell, had there been one more transition to the front porch, I would’ve retched… And I still might do, just thinking about the film.

*   Despite an intriguing premise, The Dead Experiment turns out to be pure tedium thanks to its amateurish production and excruciatingly boring screenplay.

Metro Manila
Despite its atrociously dated premise, this manipulative family drama is solidly built, with gorgeous photography and a fluid mise-en-scène to boot. The urban settings are oppressive and inextricable, making them as much a part of the ongoing drama as a testimony to the hectic life conditions of the 11,000,000+ denizens of the titular city. Hence, the film poses both as an earnest melodrama and an intriguing travelogue, allowing us to bask in a world whose architecture and language is alien, but whose violence is sadly familiar. Caught in the middle, the family of protagonists represent the archetypical country poor, left vulnerable by the advent of globalized capitalism and forced to trade innocence for a chance at life, no matter how unpalatable or sad that life is.

With the price of rice dwindling, Northern farmers Oscar and Mai are forced to leave their country home to try and find work in the city, so as to provide for their two young daughters. But as one would expect from such a premise, the city is where innocence is lost, where men can only prosper through violence, and where women must prostitute themselves. This is exactly what happens here, with Mai being hired as an exotic dancer and Oscar being recruited as a security agent, protecting armored trucks from rifle-toting thugs. And while the young woman’s ordeal is entirely overdetermined, the protagonist’s new occupation provides fertile ground to develop a high-stake crime caper. This brings another dimension to the screenplay, the confines of which still fail to overlap the rigid Hollywoodian model.

Vibrant and evocative, Metro Manila

offers a slice of life in the city.

Right from the first shot, it is clear that Metro Manila is a superior film, superior at least to the homemade brews often associated with genre film festivals. It was indeed crafted by very capable hands. The photography is gorgeous, and it constantly fills the screen with highly evocative landscapes, be it the open countryside or oppressive urban architecture, with all its seedy locales, diminutive apartments, crowded job centers and dark drinking dens. The precise, intimist mise-en-scène also helps peg the protagonists in a hostile and confusing environment. With the family emerging from a compact crowd and trekking along with the camera on a busy Quezon street during one early scene, their immediate impressions are instantly crystallized by the director. The disorientation inherent to their cultural shock is made immediately intelligible. With that sort of overarching realism, the feeling of authenticity cultivated here is never compromised, and it more than compensates for the overdetermined premise. With stellar dramatic lighting to boot, there is no denying the competence of director/producer/writer/cinematographer Ellis. Were it not for his highly capable handling of the narrative, Metro Manila could’ve sunk into oblivion amidst a sea of similar family melodrama. 

Expectedly so, characterization is not the film’s strong suit as there are very few nuances here. The protagonists are all pure and innocent, while the whole world around them is corrupt and seedy. There are no exceptions. Even Oscar’s closest partner on the job turns out to be a crook. This points to a scathing critique of urban sprawl, but without any of the many shades inherent to contemporary narratives. Hence, the film works very much like an early Hollywoodian drama, pitting wholesome country folks against soulless city slickers in a simplistic showcase of olden values. I wish the screenplay would’ve steered clear of the most obvious traps begotten from such narrative choices, but it does not, running head-on with tired conventions in a bid that miserabilism will magically infer likeability. And while the protagonists ARE somewhat touching in their ordeal, they seem like little more than archetypes. And that also affects the music, which crowds the soundtrack with melancholy notes and provides a syrupy theme song for the angelic family. Definitely not for all tastes…but merely a dent in the film’s solid façade. 

***   The film’s lackluster premise is redeemed by a quality production that exacerbates the authenticity of its urban settings.   

Fantasia 2013 - Monday, July 29th

Here are some brief impressions on the two films I saw on Monday, July 29th:

Mistaken for Strangers

This cathartic video diary is the umpteenth proof of the incredible humanistic worth of documentary cinema. Far from being a simple “backstage pass” to The National’s most recent world tour, it is rather an introspective quest by the director to uncover the meaning of life, the actual strength of brotherhood, and the revelatory power of cinema. There’s no superficial exposition or glamorous close-ups here, just the confused ramblings of a confused individual, strung together miraculously through some stupendous emotional honesty. And in the end, the film manages to capture something far more subtle and interesting than the trials and tribulations of an indie rock band. It manages to capture the very essence of humanity, not only in its uncertainty and tearful shortcomings, but also in its glorious capacity to constantly redeem itself through the revelatory power of art. A surprisingly brilliant piece of filmmaking. 

Amateur filmmaker and all-around loser Tom Berninger doesn’t have much to show for himself, but a couple of really bad homemade films and a growingly famous surname. You see, Tom’s brother is none other than Matt Berninger, front man of the indie rock sensation The National, whose immense shadow is ominously cast over greasy-haired metal fan Tom. Despite the undeniable artistic inclinations that used to bind them, the two brothers have now become estranged, thanks in part to a rather large age gap. With Tom staying at home with the folks, and Matt delighting fans worldwide, this gap would’ve tended to widen, were it not for a loving initiative on Matt’s part. With the perspective of an upcoming world tour, big brother decides to enlist little brother as a roadie in order to secure some well-needed muscle for backstage chores, but also to play catch up with his humble sibling. This initiative, of course, is notwithstanding the hand-held camera that Tom elects to bring along to document the trip. But in the end, it is that very camera which makes the brothers’ reunion worthwhile, capturing not merely the life of the band, but rather the emotional and spiritual journey undertook by Tom in his crawling out of Matt’s shadow and into the light of artistic respectability.

Exalting the power of brotherhood... one beer at a time.

Mistaken for Strangers immediately reminded me of Last Days Here (screened at Fantasia 2011) in that they are two cathartic rock documentaries aiming to liven discouraged men and to glue back their broken dreams. Despite their distinct tones, the two films share some undeniable similarities. First off, the idea of deconstructing the image of “the band” by prying into the minds of its creators, dusting off the veneer of fame to uncover the gritty reality of drugs, anger and fratricidal clashes. This idea is subverted here, given the quiet nature of the band, but it allows Tom to dissect Matt with all his brotherly insight, outlining a loving human being out of the eccentric singer. This first similarity, however, is not as primordial as the real life influence exerted by both films. Insofar as they are both cathartic efforts in self-discovery, these two features managed to affect the lives of their subjects in a wonderfully tangible manner. In Days, front man Bobby Liebling is plucked out of his mother’s basement, elevated from a cesspool of drugs and self-doubt and back into the limelight once more. Here, Tom also emerges from his mother’s basement, but he does so in his own terms, embarking on a revelatory quest toward adulthood that will allow him to join his brother on an even keel.

There’s a refreshing candor to Tom, who has never dabbled in the art of documentary filmmaking and whom will need more than a little push from his brother in order to find the necessary motivation to finish his project. But this candor has nothing to do with the “fly on the wall” type camera warranted by early direct filmmakers. It is more of a clumsy candor, one that is constantly and noisily manifested through the overwhelming presence of the director. Mistaken for Strangers is very much his personal endeavor and so it strictly revolves around him. Even the straight interview scenes are tainted by his warped, nearly childish outlook on life. And this tends to become quite funny, in a tragic-comic sort of way. In one interview for example, he congratulates the drummer for being one of the rare band members to really embrace “the rock and roll lifestyle”. Then, he bluntly goes on to ask how many, and what different types of drugs the guy has taken over the years. Nervous laughter ensues. In another interview, framed in typically boring TV fashion, he claims to gather personal information about another band member, but ends up discussing Matt and the reasons behind his own estrangement with him. Tom is even heard moving through the room and gathering a wine bottle while the interview is going on. What this goes to show is the utter childishness of Tom’s mind, and it actually serves the film quite well. It is the director’s true nature that comes out of every scene, not so much in its contents as in his incongruous and often hilarious interventions. Clearly, Tom has not reached adulthood in regards to a normal emotional progression. And only through the excruciating process of filmmaking will he finally manage to gain sufficient distance to appraise his life and make the necessary changes to truly come out of his shell.

In the end, what is more interesting than either of the two brothers here, no matter whose viewpoint you embrace, is the reunion of those two brothers, which the film allows. Through this reunion, not only does Tom manage to find his own voice, but so does Matt. Far from being a static icon, he becomes a true human being, and a very fine one at that. His constant recriminations against Tom’s apathy eventually manage to strike a chord, and so does he help him come out of his stupor. That said, the most enlightening segments into their relationship comes not from the tour itself, but from satellite events, most notably the editing of the film, which is shown in regards to a self-reflexive foray into Tom’s personal endeavor. During that process, Matt provides enlightening advice and cheers, allowing his brother to climb on his shoulder on his way out of the hole. Their loving collaboration, which starts with a bitter recrimination from Matt ends in perfect harmony during a tear-inducing long take in which Tom is shown protecting Matt from a capacity crowd, all the while extending the singer’s microphone cord toward the edge of the room. The brothers are so close in that moment, united so tightly and lovingly that the whole sequence borders on genius. In turn, this provides a truly beautiful ending to a beautiful film and a rightful entry for Tom Berninger into the world of celebrated artists.

***1/2   While cheaply-produced and slightly confused, this cathartic video diary is a testament to the revolutionary power and continuing relevance of documentary cinema.

The Dirties

This idiotic anti-bullying pamphlet sinks even lower than Bully in its attempt to “raise awareness” about its subject thanks to a pseudo-intellectual, devastatingly vain effort in deconstruction. The film-in-a-film angle is never successfully exploited, the would-be realistic screenplay reeks of Hollywoodian drivel, and the numerous in-jokes seem grossly inappropriate given the context. This is a textbook example of ambition unmatched by ability, and it makes the simplicity and utter authenticity of Zero Day sorely missed. Actually, the comparison is inevitable, and it sinks the film even more than its numerous shortcomings, making it look like a smutty cousin of Ben Coccio’s crucial masterpiece

Matt and Owen are two very boring, very typical sacrificial high school students meant for beatings by some very boring, very typical bullies. Actually, there’s little more characterization here than what Manichean anti-bullying propaganda allows, making the whole drama drift straight into the realm of moralism. Hence, the boys are depicted as normal, despite their obsessive behavior toward film, their deficient social skills and their unfaltering sense of self-righteousness, while the bullies are shown as excessive and disinterested. When the two boys decide to shoot a film project for one of their classes, entitled “The Dirties”, they hit yet another brick wall in their quest for social approval. Apparently, their gender-bending performance doesn’t sit well with their tormentors, especially since it pegs them out for elimination. This propels our two protagonists on the road to a real-life “The Dirties” in which they will truly destroy the bullies in their school. Whatever happens next is, well… rather unappealing and pointless.

Victimization is a collaborative effort...

There’s a weird conception out there according to which bullying is some sort of social problem that can be vanquished through intervention and the heightening of social awareness. Notwithstanding the monumental hypocrisy inherent to its confinement to the world of adolescents, this belief shows a disturbing misconception about the nature of bullying. Call it “survival of the fittest” or whatever else you wish, but the process of cornering and eliminating social undesirables is a recurring feature of all organized societies. The weak and the misfits will always get picked on. It’s a question of evolution. And while humans suffer from it the most, bullying will NEVER go away because it is a fundamental part of our societies, and most specifically, of our school systems. Everything in nature will always tend toward normalcy; and the school systems merely exacerbate that fact in regards to conformity and its benefits to the established order. These are deep-seeded truths, and the superficial grating of isolated bullying incidents will only push them back further into our collective unconscious.

By polarizing the debate, films like The Dirties (and the unpalatable Bully) prove not only simplistic and stupid, but they are also detrimental to any sort of enlightened understanding of bullying. They are also detrimental to free thought and to a basic awareness of what humanity is really about. Actually, it is only in their uncompromised striving for self-promotion that they find deeper meaning. They are then revealed as the narrow, self-serving pieces of propaganda that they are, proving that coercion and manipulation are merely deceitful forms of bullying. Moreover, these films tend to draw us away from grassroots philosophical debates surrounding the worth of “education” in its current form. Insomuch as it allows some particularly stoic and resourceful people to free themselves from poverty and racial segregation (I’m being as idealistic as possible here), the primary function of education is to regiment and standardize students to better mold them according to a very specific social ideal. And since it tends to naturally promote conformity, bullying is actually beneficial to this idea of education. Personally, I think bullying is simply a fact of life, and also an important part of growing up. After all, far from being “the best years of our lives”, our teenage years are a mere test of our capacity to survive in a hostile environment, hence preparing us for the cutthroat world of globalized capitalism. THAT is life, people. And there’s nothing we can do about it. On the other hand, there ARE some tangible things we can do to better our world. Stop world hunger. Stop war. Then, and only then, will Syrian youths have the PRIVILEGE to bully each other in sunny schoolyards, protected from toxic clouds and fiery rain.

Philosophical considerations aside, The Dirties’ main problem is that it tries so hard to be clever that it sacrifices authenticity in the process, hence becoming as useless as a square wheel. If one wishes to make a genuine impact in regards to a genuine social reality, one must first devise genuine characters and situations in order to create affect. Unfortunately, these are found cruelly lacking here. Not only is the basic storyline (about the reclusive young hero developing an incongruous relationship with a random cheerleader) reminiscent of Hollywoodian romantic comedies too numerous to mention, but everything else in the screenplay seems carefully scripted, down to the most mundane exchanges in the guys’ underground lair. And then, there is the aggressively busy soundtrack, which clumsily complements the film as if non-diegetic music was going to help manipulate the audience… All of this wouldn’t even be so bad if the leading character had at least one scrap of charisma in him. But as things stand, even I wished to kick the shit out of him… Don't get me wrong. I do not wish for the boyish good looks of Jason Biggs; just for a slight likeability, something to make us partake in the protagonist's plight. Unfortunately, we are also denied that most basic of dramatic requirements. And so, despite its good intentions, the film turns out to have no redeeming value at all.

*   Overbearing, uninspired and limply vindictive, this anti-bullying pamphlet tries so hard to be clever that it becomes smut and ineffectual.

Fantasia 2013 - Sunday, July 28th

Here are some brief impressions on the three films I saw on Sunday, July 28th:

The Killing of America

The sensationalist title of this botched documentary should give you a fair idea of the problems within. First of all, the film constantly, and very annoyingly, refers to the United States as “America” in a shocking display of unrestrained chauvinism. And while it does not speak of the “American” society in flattering terms, it is very much an effort in self-centered bellyaching, and a very superficial one at that. Evidently, the film makes it a point to denunciate the rise of violence permeating the country. However, it never delves deeper than the acts of violence themselves, choosing instead to chronicle the exploits of random shooters and serial killers in a bid to shock and disturb the audience. The archive footage is nicely researched and the talking heads often have interesting thoughts to share, but no attempt at synthesis, or deeper comprehensive analysis is ever attempted by the filmmakers. In fact, The Killing of America doesn’t even deserve the title of “documentary”, being in actuality nothing more than a seedy report on mindless killings.

Spanning nearly two decades, from the early 1960s to the early 1980s, the film is a non-chronological collection of archive footage accompanied by a stern voice-over that condemns violence in a non-specific, nearly dogmatic way. It indiscriminately explores the murder of politicians and that of anonymous laymen, eventually branching into the realm of sexually deviant serial killers in a bid to include as much examples of wanton violence as its runtime allows. So, if that strikes your fancy, you will be happy to relive the Kennedy assassination, the attempt on Ronald Reagan’s life, the Manson family murders, the John Gacy and Ted Bundy affairs… all in sordid details, with slow-motion replays to help you locate the shooters in the crowd. It’s all quite informative, in a blandly encyclopedic way, but it won’t allow you to gaze at the roots of the problems. Instead, violence here is mindlessly put in a showcase for us to absorb as a simple fact of life, and not the complex sociological reality that it is.

Playing the killers' game by showcasing their crimes.

There’s a quick summary of the film’s rationale near the end, and it says that the abundance of guns, the limited power of attorneys and the revolving door prison system are to blame for the increase of violence in the U.S. Quite a blunt statement to make, especially since it is the very spectacle of violence that gives it credibility. At some point, the film focuses on a serial killer claiming that “he did it all to make a name for himself”, which is what the film does for him in a never-ending cycle that thrives on violence while superficially condemning it. It’s actually quite perplexing to see people struggle and try to make sense of the increase of violent crimes as they simultaneously become more and more publicized in the media. Here, it seems to be a nearly cannibalistic instinct that drives the filmmakers in their depiction of violence. On the one hand, we have a scholarly voice-over telling us that “violence is awful”, but on the other, we have a handful of glorified, intensely scrutinized murderers overlooking mounds and mounds of anonymous victims. Seeing this, it’s not so hard to understand how an individual chooses to belong to the most glamorous of the two categories. And so does the film answer its own riddle about the genesis of violence, not in its endless preaching, but in its very nature, in the spectacle of violence that it stubbornly creates.

The treatment of the archival footage on hand is made without subtlety or concession to good sense. There is ominous music throughout and the voice-over remains stern and authoritative, as if lecturing to students about the dangers of substance abuse. There’s actually no earnest attempt made at understanding violence here. There’s no investigation of the JFK shooting aside than to say that it can be attributed to the phenomenon of “rising violence” as a whole. This is not only simplistic, but also irresponsible from a documentary perspective. Giving the viewer the impression that Kennedy was killed in a wanton act of violence underplays the deep political implications that this murder actually has, creating a vague “social” problem where the entire foundation of democracy is at stake. The issue of racial violence is similarly truncated to befit the narrow needs of the screenplay. Resulting from centuries of abuse articulated around a complex relationship of victimization, this issue is portrayed as a simple fact here: “there is racial violence in America and it is bad”. Actually, the very idea of “violence” is far too wide a topic to tackle in such a cavalier way. Violence is the result of numerous parallel realities, all with their own intricate implications. But then again, I doubt that the filmmakers here were really interested in the complexities of the issue, just in its raw power as spectacle.

*1/2   Some decent archival research narrowly saves this unrefined, redundant and superficial variety show about “violence in America” from total oblivion.

L’amour braque

Loosely based on The Idiot by Dostoyevsky , this raucous gangster romp features all of director Zulawski’s trademark quirks: beautiful women, hysterical acting and intricate camerawork, all combined to create a desperately honest depiction of madness. As honest, at least, as commercial genre cinema will allow it. Starring a young Tchéky Karyo, who grinds his thespian teeth as a baby psycho, and a sublime young Sophie Marceau, indescribably beautiful as the film’s pivotal character, the film also bears a certain historical importance. And it seems poised to prevail as an artistic artifact, protected as it is by the glossy veneer of theatrical nobility cast over the mundane genre inclinations from which it proceeds.

Fresh from a successful bank robbery, framed with manic zeal by the director, megalomaniac crook Micky heads for Paris in order to reclaim his girlfriend Mary from a bunch of high-end crooks, soliciting her help in fomenting a revolution against them. But on his path lies simpleton Leon, whom he meets on a train never to be estranged from him. Fact of the matter is, Leon falls for Mary not soon after meeting her, thus creating a love triangle that will have dire consequences for all involved, with the characters’ newfound criminal empire and their very lives in the balance.

A tragic love triangle as the quintessential 

expression of unchecked passion.

While it remains a cheap gangster film at heart, there is some lasting imagery here, not the least of which is Sophie Marceau’s angelic face (or sculptural body). The picturesque quality of Parisian landscapes is perfectly exploited thanks to Zulawski’s inquisitive, and highly volatile camera, which keeps things moving at a brisk, sometimes extenuating pace, infecting the narrative with the madness of passion at every turn. With Micky and Leon’s love acting as cathartic fuel for an impending tragedy, punctuating the story with hysterical outbursts of emotions, the director’s mise-en-scène is appropriately kinetic. Thus, the camera moves swiftly to uncover the scenery, capturing the speed of vehicles as effortlessly as that of characters, painting intricate portraits of the exhilarating lives of enamored gangsters. After all, no criminal empire is really solid that is built by individuals who would rather fall prey to their own emotions. And thus, Zulawski pursues his exploration of unrestrained passion thanks to his unrestrained mise-en-scène, which in turn helps dynamize some mundane narrative elements.

Despite its humble roots, the film is imbued with a certain sense of nobility thanks to its numerous references to theater. The fratricidal love triangle between Micky, Mary and Leon has deep tragic undertones, with the setting of the final confrontation (the luxurious apartment home to Micky’s ring) being reminiscent of the medieval keeps of Shakespearian tales. There are also explicit references to theater, especially when it comes to that unforgettable scene where Marceau threads the board for just a moment, in a bid to outdo Isabelle Adjani’s hysterics from Zulawski’s earlier classic Possession. Theater is actually a catalyst for the characters’ unchecked emotions here, and the constant recourse to hysterical over-acting very much helps depict their unbridled passion for each other, and for life in general. And it is quite liberating to see it all unfold, as if there was real freedom at the tip of our fingers, ready to be grasped with a simple abandon to our heated ardour and pugnacious love for anarchy. And what better object to stimulate that ardour than nineteen year old Sophie Marceau…While Karyo has a far larger role, on his way to becoming a bona fide genre icon, it is she who remains the main attraction. It was her that drew me to the film, and it is for her that the film was made. Let us not kid ourselves about that fact. Inasmuch as Bardot was Dieu créa la femme, so too is Marceau L’amour braque, a passionate testament to the director’s love for the young woman and a nearly mystical consecration of the power of her beauty. Which brings us to the bitter expression of my jealously for that crazy Pole, whose reigning leitmotiv is the overwhelming power of passion. Well, it’s not hard to become obsessed with passion when one does what he wills is with the world’s most beautiful women… At least he’s not as fuck-ugly as Roger Vadim…

***   This fast-paced, fiercely passionate gangster film is glossed ever by the veneer of theater and the brilliance of that rough gem, Sophie Marceau.     

Doomsdays

This minimalistic road movie starts off quite slowly, relying far too much on star Justin Rice to deliver entertaining eccentricities opposite of stern, uptight Leo Fitzpatrick. Luckily, it picks up steam once supporting characters are introduced, and its bittersweet portrayal of lawless freedom becomes more and more complex. There are some laughs to be had here, but they are always tainted by a certain undercurrent of tragedy. But beyond the laughs is something much greater : the materialization of the ancient dream of nomadic freedom, and the nearly reassuring exaltation of domesticity as the remedy to existential angst.

Dirty Fred and Bruho are two lost souls, free-thinking anarchists to some, despicable thugs to others. They do not hold jobs, or contribute to society, convinced instead that the world is coming to an end thanks to the rarefaction of petroleum. That is why they roam the countryside as if in a zombie film, breaking and entering into country houses in order to gain shelter and supplies for their continuing trip. That is all they do, with Fred providing all the witty remarks and sexually repressed Bruho (kind of a mix between Some Guy Who Kills People’s Irv and Storytelling’s Marcus) kicking the shit out of stuff, and especially cars, which he considers responsible for the impending apocalypse. Luckily, their group eventually grows bigger as they recruit a lonely fat kid and an open-minded young woman to partake in their activities. Encountering these people will force them to grow out of their comfortable shells and become something akin to human beings.

Fred and Bruho: Living just at the fringe of normalcy, wishing in. 

Let’s be straightforward here. While the film benefits from a very intriguing premise, its wit is too dull to make it a real classic. There’s no shortage of honesty or emotional accuracy in any of the characters, but their philosophical ramblings feel a bit hollow, and their dramatic evolution, from directionless bums to enlightened human beings, is quite familiar. Plus, Justin Rice is not a particularly strong lead, half-heartedly delivering his crunchiest lines and generally lumbering around the scenery. In all honesty, superior drunken cynics are a dime a dozen in recent American cinema. Luckily, there’s no pompous pretension here, not in the straightforward screenplay, nor in the subdued, theatrical mise-en-scène. There’s just the life-affirming story of two slackers lost in the picturesque New England countryside. At the center of it all is a simple dream of freedom, hailing from the early days of American literature, and then there is the antagonistic dream of domesticity against which it comes at odds. The “pre-apocalyptic” tag one would wish to impose on this film is a pure marketing stunt for there is no real novelty here. There is just plain, old honesty, and the unadulterated desire to tell a simple tale about simple people in the most straightforward manner possible.

It would’ve been hard for me not to identify with Leo Fitzpatrick’s character here, an angry and reserved hermit who would rather vent his frustrations on abominable cars, than to come to the realization that he merely needs a girlfriend to thwart his angst. But the confrontation of actual wants and needs remains far more complex in reality than what the film presents in its effort to bare down the narrative. There are no simple freedom vs domesticity binaries in real life since neither can be effectively traded for the other. Hence, the high point of the film may not be the satisfying, but simplistic ending, but rather the first forays of the lawless foursome in the life of home-invading drifters. Learning the trade together, and indulging in careless games of shoulder-punching, the four characters emanate a powerful feeling of camaraderie, which warms us down to our soul. After all, isn’t agency what we all strive for? It’s hard to say… especially for imperfect human beings such as ourselves. But then again, the film is all about humanity, hence about individual outtakes on life and the uneasy balance that it creates between us. That is why the title is plural, and so too are the emotions and interpretations resulting from the viewing of this film. All in all, a straightforward, but deeply meaningful effort in indie road movies.

***   While it lacks the sharp wit necessary to make it a classic, this minimalistic road movie has enough humanity and emotional honesty to keep you interested throughout. 

Fantasia 2013 - Saturday, July 27th

Here are some brief impressions on the two films I saw on Saturday, July 27th:

Animals
This powerful and intricately textured character study cultivates nuance and tension like none other, creating a coming-of-age narrative that is just as complex as the troubled teenager that it vies to depict. While heavy on symbolism, Animals never provides easy answers, respecting the spectator to make his own decision as to the nature of the protagonist’s angst and his confused sexual preferences. The breathtaking photography of natural landscapes and evocative soundtrack further help creating a vibrant portray of childhood lost to hormonal mood swings and the primal fear of change, providing subtle and not-so-subtle hints as to the protagonist’s busy, but unavowed inner life. A stellar example of smart teenage cinema.

Animals follows Pol, a reserved high-school student living with his estranged cop brother and sharing his time between school, hanging out with pretty friend Laia and band practice with his talking stuffed bear. A constant reminder of his childish candor, the bear acts as an anchor into the past, preventing Pol from flying on his own toward the scary world of adults. You see, Pol is troubled about his identity, and particularly his sexual identity. Unresponsive to young Laia’s advance, he does not fail to notice the sudden apparition of charismatic new student Ikari at his school. Drawn to him by an attraction that he struggles to explain, he eventually manages to move in closer, but only to discover a scary world of self-abuse and careless abandon that he is not ready to embrace. Left even more confused than he was in the first place, Pol starts regressing back to a childlike state, unwilling to make the leap into what appears to be a dark and distressing world, choosing instead to share the carefree life of the animals.

Reverting to childhood as a solution to teenage angst

(I push back tears from my eyes as I write this).

What first strikes us with Animals, aside from the highly unnatural, computerized voice of Pol’s teddy bear, is the sheer majesty of the natural landscapes surrounding the protagonist's school and home. Gorgeously photographed (even underwater), these landscapes will in turn allow the director to organically depict the protagonist’s inner turmoil as well as to draw him back to the primordial nature of existence. The characters are actually dwarfed by nature here, as if their importance was as that of a scratch on some tree bark, pointing out to their finite and highly corporeal existence, even in the face of teenage narcissism. Hence, the depth of field finds huge relevance here, not only as a narrative device, but as a way to merge the characters with the background. As for the titular critters, they also carry some powerful symbolic worth, especially in their untimely and largely unsung deaths…

Further symbolism is to be found in the figure of the bear, which stands at the crossroads of humanity and the animals, a constant reminder of the simplicity of the childhood and its intrinsic ties to the world of nature, untainted by the presence of either cars or complex human emotions. His impersonal, computerized voice does not even suggest a friend, but more of a wiseman, willing and able to dispense the reassuring compliments necessary for Pol to accept his condition. The scene in which the protagonist drowns the bear is absolutely traumatizing in that regard. Filmed like the execution of a rival in a gangster film, this sequence sees Pol fastening the toy to a rock and throwing it in the lake. But the talking bear doesn’t plead for his life. He merely asks why, further making the reality of his demise painful to us. All in all, the sacrifice of childish innocence is depicted as something highly distressful and dark, a necessary but painful passage that Pol will eventually fail to complete like so many of his peers, choosing to rejoin the bear in neverending childhood instead.

***1/2   This smart and singular coming-of-age film is highlighted by some gorgeous photography, a highly evocative soundtrack and the striking emotional honesty of the screenplay.

Commando: One Man Army 
This cheesy Indian import, complete with incongruous musical numbers, seems to have come straight out of the 1980s, with a resounding soundtrack and a barrage of cool dramatic poses to boot. Star Vidyut Jamwal is great at kicking ass, but his talent is marred by uninspired action scenes and the ever-present promise of crude characterization or the inane chatter of co-star Pooja Chopra. With the film drawing constantly from the lexicon of romantic comedies, the gritty references to Stallone’s First Blood are also marred by confused intentions, which infect the whole narrative to the point of near-pointlessness.

In the story, Karan is a commando, and as such, he is the pride and joy of his former commanding officer, who lovingly  recalls his training in a flashback/montage that borders on the comedic. But then, the man is captured in Chinese soil, where he is tortured for one year after being shunned by the Indian government. Not unlike James Bond in Die Another Day, this does not contribute to the protagonist’s characterization as he flees from his captors and returns home to distribute his own brand of justice not on the people who left him behind, but on a random bad guy, criminal kingpin Amrit, whose lust for gorgeous Simrit provides fertile soil for a romance with courageous Karan. Forced to hide in the jungle, Karan and Simrit will tediously slaughter each of Amrit’s henchmen until only he is left standing and ready to face justice for his crimes.

That's what a bad guy looks like! 

There’s no shortage of boisterous music in Commando, and the narrative does not dab in subtelty either. Hell, the main antagonist is a white-eyed, acne-scarred, soulless killer born on a moonless night. He’s even got a Damian-inspired theme song that plays when he strolls around. As for protagonist Karan, he is the selfless, uptight go-to guy that anyone would expect. In comparaison, John Rambo seems like a Shakespearian hero, devoid also of the bothersome, obligatory love interest. Obviously, Pooja Chopra looks quite nice, and she’s awesome at striking a sexy pose, but she hardly brings any meat to her insufferable, blabbermouth of a character. She’s just a girl, stuck inbetween two guys vying for her love, with everything else around them being a mere afterthought. The musical numbers being the high points of dramatic expression, there’s little meat left on the bone after one has grooved to the perplexing images of armed henchmen indulging in intricate dance choreographies.

Filled to the brim with cool dramatic poses and cheesy romance, the film remains purely superficial throughout, skipping over the more palatable aspect of the screenplay, which concerns the capture and torture of Karan by Chinese agents. As for the relationship between Karan and his former chief, it borrows almost directly from First Blood, but without any of the dramatic or socio-political relevance associated with the latter film. Again, all is played just for laughs. And it wouldn’t be so bad if only the fight scenes were well-orchastrated. But these are also found to be lacking in both rhythm and spectacle, doing very little to lighten the punishing 110+ minute runtime. This film actually had one of my friends swear never to see an Indian film ever again. And while I won’t go to such extremes, I will say that the present example is not only a sloppy byproduct of Hollywood, but a sloppy byproduct of 1970s Hollywood.

*1/2   With a handful of musical numbers providing the dramatic crux of the film, there is little else to appreciate in this clumsy throwback, not even the action scenes.

Fantasia 2013 - Thursday, July 25th

Here are some brief impressions on the one film I saw on Thursday, July 25th:

Szamanka (The Shaman)
Purposefully crude in its construction, with abrupt cuts constantly attacking our senses, this late effort by director Zulawski is a redundant and indulgent exercise in repetition, fore-fronting many of the director’s leitmotivs from a slightly novel, but politically relevant perspective. There are no genre undertones here, no familiar dramatic crutches on which to rely, but merely a returning fascination for passionate love and the notion of duplicity, the depiction of which amply showcases the director’s knack for intricate long takes and hysterical over-acting. The result is something that feels entirely familiar, a universal tragedy that borders on pure madness, but with enough political undertones and deep symbolic power to grant it renewed relevance. Released in the mid-1990s, as Poland was emerging from nearly 50 years of Communist rule, Szamanka is one of Zulawski’s few “Polish films”. As such, it becomes simultaneously lesser and greater than a simple genre film, trading a certain universal appeal for a chance at specific, but credible social commentary. Articulated around the idea of still life, the film thus becomes a passionate and deep-seeded answer to the opportunistic rise of Catholicism and capitalism in post-Communist Poland, with its titular figure reminding us that the human soul is unchanging in its abandon to unfocused passions and its subsequent slavery to the power of influences.

The narrative focuses on the torrid love affair between a young anthropologist (Boguslaw Linda, from Man of Iron and Blind Chance) and a mysterious engineering student (the enigmatic and beautiful Iwona Petry), who celebrate life and humanity in a nearly constant sexual embrace. But while it borders on the pornographic, the film does bear far deeper implications as to the nature of human life itself, showing a reality that is both finite, but cyclical, a reminder of both the idea of still life and the literal stillness of humanity in the face of social transformation. Hence, the narrative also finds depth through time, for as the young man probes the increasingly uncontrollable young woman, so too does he probe history itself by studying the decaying corpse of the titular thaumaturge. By extending his influence through time, the figure of the shaman is thus "brought back to life", putting the past on a collision course with the future, with humanity remaining a still catalyst of unchecked passions, ready to be molded and transformed through the suggestion of "exalted" leaders. And in the end, the cycle is completed with the return of ritual sacrifice, at once a reminder of our primordial barbarity and the power of our passion, at once a reminder of death and of rebirth. Now, this is perhaps a tad intangible as a synopsis, but so too does the film often prove intangible, proceeding from a certain expressionistic manner that seems to break down space and time with equal ease.

Warsaw is a living still life.

While it is hard for me to collect any truly matured thoughts on this film, which I enjoyed only mildly at first, I seem to constantly uncover some deeper significance as I scrutinize not only the symbolic aspect of the narrative, but also its broken story structure. In all honesty, my appreciation of the piece was marred by the circumstances under which I experienced it. The screening I attended was actually delayed 45 minutes as director Zulawski (who received a Lifetime Achievement Award on the night) wished to do the Q&A prior to the film. With uneasy silence being broken by the mildly relevant questions of film historians and drooling fans alike, it was all a very tedious affair indeed. Then, the curtains opened and the madness began. I had to struggle to keep my eyes open during this brazen and unfocused display of carnality, often wondering about the fate of leading lady Iwona Petry (rumored to have been tortured extensively by the director) and the relevance of the entire enterprise in the perspective of Polish liberation. Being little more than the umpteenth exposé of Zulawski’s many quirks, the narrative plays out almost like that of a porno film, dishing out sex scenes at a brisk pace, showing once more how primordial and immediate human emotions are. But then, there is deeper meaning to be found in the broken story structure and the distressing sense of space created from the accumulation of jump cuts. This first pertains to a purely Zulawskian depiction of passion, but as it spreads across the board, it creates a literal contraction of time, making the past and the present nearly undistinguishable, not unlike the past and the present of Poland itself, caught inbetween the interests of dogmatic leaders feeding off the very unchecked power of human emotion. By using a dizzying abundance of abrupt cuts, the film constantly blurs the distinction between locales, creating a nearly oneiric sense of space that puts humanity itself as the only common signifier. This also helps create an expressionistic portrayal of passion as an unfocused human trait that comes to infect the whole of reality. This complex relationship between the director’s trademark quirks and the political needs of the film might not result in a harmonious whole, but it creates an ebullient manna of symbolic power. 

And then, there is the idea of still life, which infects the narrative in a very crude, very aggressive way, first with the location of the action in the historical city of Warsaw. Home to the biggest Jewish ghetto during WWII and a vast number of similar war scars left opened by all the plaques and reminders scattered around, Warsaw is living testimony to the finite nature of human life. Warsaw is a living still life, dead but stubbornly alive, not unlike the rotting shaman of the title. The fascination with his corpse, at once an earthly remain and an everlasting object of influence, then ties this idea of still life with that of “rebirth” as part of a never-ending cycle. Hence, the reminders of life and death, which clutter the film in alternation. Sex is the most tangible signifier of life here, as it unites living bodies and passionate minds in one indivisible embrace. But sex constantly mingles with death, putting the everlasting nature of passion at odds with the reality of time and its lethal power. Bent over a piece of draped furniture in a dead still apartment full of antiques, poor Iwona seems to merge with the white shroud underneath her wriggling body, at once an active object of passion and a corpse to be. Actually, the look of her apartment seems to constantly remind us of the still life. First, with the shrouded antiques, earthly riches to be left behind in death, then with the scientific photographs of humans, who mock us with their simplistic depiction of our selves, then with the climactic act of cannibalism, which stands as a culmination not only of the narrative, but of Zulawski's entire work. At once a depiction of life, death and rebirth, this brutal and beautiful event also proves to be the ultimate depiction of passionate love. And as such, it provides a golden key to understanding all the intricacies of the director's philosophy. This might not make Szamanka a great film, but it sure makes it a relevant one, especially when it comes to understanding the Zulawskian mindset as a whole.

***   Purposefully disorienting, this intricate and deeply symbolic film finds relevance both in its political outlook on post-communist Poland and its exaltation of the director's take on passionate love.  

Fantasia 2013 - Wednesday, July 24th

Here are some brief impressions on the two films I saw on Wednesday, July 24th:

Uzumasa Jacopetti

A reference to the «magical realism » of South American novelists could be helpful in describing this  quirky yet bleak family drama, but so would a reference to the homegrown lyrical humanism from the land of narrative excess. Truth is, Uzumasa Jacopetti is a very challenging film, sometimes nearing dramatic catharsis, but mostly indulging in tiresome digressions, a perfect example of the Janus-faced nature of Japanese storytelling, at once looking eastward and westward with stricken uncertainty. Rooted in the depressing reality of the titular Kyoto neighborhood, the narrative often drifts into a parallel world of abstraction thanks to its expressionistic depiction of casual murder and the strange perspective of building a house out of large flying magnets. The result isn’t entirely satisfying, with some enlightening "slice of life" episodes managing to create a captivating and earnest social panorama that is constantly flattened by the recourse to bothersome fantasy elements. Hence, the recurrence of absurd violence and the constant intrusion of aggressive industrial sound, while it adds an intriguing dimension to the film, also robs it of its legitimacy as an engrossing melodrama. The subplot involving an idealistic cop never really gets off the ground and the whole experience of the film eventually becomes a daunting affair aimed at schizoid sensibilities. 

The narrative concerns family man Shoji’s effort to build a customized house for his wife and son using large round magnets and cowskin walls. Entrapped in a cluttered apartment in Kyoto’s busy Uzumasa neighborhood, the rationale behind his project is as sound as can be : to engineer a solution to his lowly existence through a flight of wishful thinking, relegating the mundane aspects of poverty to a mere afterthought and making reality itself appear porous and malleable. But wishful thinking is not enough to build a house; one also needs money. But that money needs not be obtained through tedious labor in the loopy narrative world of the film, for Shoji soon crosses paths with a helpless local cop, who commissions his help in punishing local criminals who have eloped from justice. But while this job provides Shoji with a few million yens, it quickly turns his wife into a frenzied mass murderer. There is no strong emotional motivation for her to do so, just the malleable texture of reality as warranted by the protagonist's project. But in the end, despite the piles of corpses amassed at their feet, Shoji and Sana can be united in the simple dream of a house, which binds their family together halfway between the gutter and the stars.

Pondering on the feasibility of a

flying magnetic house.

Straight from its expressionistic opening, featuring Shoji at work on the prototype of his intricate magnetic apartment in a stuffy industrial decor, Uzumasa Jacopetti doesn’t abide by traditional narrative rules. While he relies on a mostly controlled, intimist mise-en-scène, director Miyamoto often digresses, using contrapuntal sound to infect the realistic settings in which the story takes place. Sound is actually the primary vector of absurdity here for it creates a constant distanciation between the urban auditive background and the industrial noise from Shoji’s dream world of flying metal disks. The use of exacerbated squishing sounds near the end as a means to portray three parallel events (the consumption of crab fried rice, sex and a jog through a mud puddle) further distances the narrative from reality and into the dream world of film, where not only is everything possible, but everything can become undifferentiated. The recourse to casual murder also helps deconstruct the dramatic structure of the film, away from reality and into a dream world of childish abandon. This is emphazised by Sana’s shocking addiction to casual murder halfway into the film. Helping her husband in beating up criminals, she develops a taste for blood, which is found akin to her systematic destruction of insects. From her childish outlook on life, it seems that even the act of murder can be playful and spontaneous. And so is her confidence in Shoji’s hairbrained project. As for ours, it seems to rest in the constant abandon of our disbelief, which is violently encouraged, even in the face of true-to-life poverty and crime.

Uzumasa Jacopetti is certainly a challenging film, but it is also quite self-defeating, putting its greatest dramatic assets and most powerful imagery (the sensuous panorama of urban and semi-urban life) constantly at odds with a morbid sense of wonder and some aggressive reminders of industry. Hence, Shoji’s candid proposition is marred by the depressing acts he must carry out in order to materialize it. In similar fashion, the light-hearted jokes peppered throughout are systematically defused by the dreary showcase of mutilation and torture, giving the film a distinctly schizoid and unfocused feel. As for the varying degree of emotional involvement shown by the protagonists, it constantly puts the credibility of their actions in jeopardy, especially given the extreme nature of these actions. But most importantly, the film is self-defeating because it generates interest in a realistic universe that it constantly challenges. In the end, magic DOES triumph, but that merely provides an anti-climax, making Shoji’s plight and unlikely success all the more unintelligible to us. For a superior example of Japanese humanistic fantasy, one should turn instead to the uplifting cinema of Satoshi Miki, whose recent Instant Swamp is a key example of the successful bland of human drama and unbridled fantasy that the present film fails to achieve. 

**   This intriguing, but self-defeating adbsurdist melodrama constantly undermines its own dramatic potential through the multiplication of loopy ideas. 

Big Ass Spider! 

As clever a meta-joke as you’ll find anywhere in the film, the title of this flat arachnid romp perfectly embodies the lack of innovation within. As it suggests, we are in the presence of a contemporary reworking of the giant monster movie of the 1950s and 1960s, when the radioactive scare was at its height and the catastrophic sci-fi narratives were legions. Today, it is growth hormones that are to blame, and the clean-cut teenagers of old have now been replaced by rude service workers. However, everything else is just as it was way back when : overdone tribulations, campy dialogue, crappy FX, underwhelming action and improbable science. It’s fun, but it’s dumb and forgettable, a mere passtime for a rainy night out with your better half. But hardly anything worth mentioning otherwise.

The skeletal premise focuses on Alex, a bug exterminator inadvertedly thrown on the path of the titular arachnid, struggling to rid L.A. citizens of the beast as well as to find love in the person of a cold, blonde military operative also hot on its trail. It’s all a tedious cat and mouse game as the humans run around town and the spider constantly grows bigger and bigger, eventually nesting atop a giant skyscraper from which it throws sticky webbing on incoming helicopters and cinder blocks on passerbys. As if things weren't bad enough, there’s also a clichéd Mexican sidekick thrown in the mix to provide comic relief, and a tired-looking Ray Wise hamming it up as a discouraged military man. If you've seen any number of such films in the past, you should know what to expect almost all the way through…

  

There's very little inside or outside the frame here.

There’s nothing really positive to say here, expect that Big Ass Spider! is not bad. It is an earnest effort in formulaic b-movie fare, but it never manages to find a distinctive voice amidst an already overcrowded genre. There are fun little nods to monster movie classics such as Alien and Aliens, but there’s very little in the way of original gimmicks or plot twists. That is why the most fun you will probably derive from the screenplay is when characters brazenly declare that they are faced with "a big ass spider"! Other than that, the narrative very much runs on tracks, using olden tribulations over and over in a bid never to bring the spectator outside of his comfort zone, basking instead in tried and tested formulas meant for slight kicks. Spider escapes from corpse. Bites mortician, then escapes through a vent, while being chased by the protagonist. After that, it escapes into the sewer, setting up a scene in which the army personnel finds a roomful of cocooned victims, reaches up to the surface for some mayhem and wiggles a bit to provide a highly underwhelming climax. The end. There’s nothing to catch you off guard here, but an absolute barrage of gags that will make you smile and cringe alternatively.

There was no inspiration involved in making this film, especially from lead Greg Grunberg, who tries hard to come off as a quirky everyman, but fails for an absolute lack of charisma. His Mexican sidekick and unlikely love interest similarly come off as obligatory, blandly characterized archetypes worthy only of superficial dialogue and motivations. There’s Ray Wise in here too, but he runs on autopilot in a role unfit for his expressive potential. Further adding to his defense, I must say that director Mike Mendez is no David Lynch. Hell, he is no Jean-Baptiste Andrea. He is just some guy with a camera and a childish fascination with the harmless genre narratives of old, but without the talent necessary to update on those narratives and give them a truly contemporary feel. He also lacks any sort of technical means to bring some of his greatest ideas to fruition, including a would-be exhilarating action scene set in a busy park, but which comes out as a weirdly choreographed ballet of bad effects and unconvinced acting. The whole thing actually never really lifts off the ground, and the extra-short, highly unexciting climactic confrontation doesn’t help bringing a much-needed sense of breathd to this project, which dies as candlelight under the wind right after the final frame.

**   Earnest, but forgettable monster movie features a plethora of crude characters and narrative devices, with a barrage of joke to help you swallow the pill.