Macabre (2009)

This run-of-the-mill survivalist horror entry from Indonesia is proof that globalization is indeed a threat to regional filmmaking. Still, it features enough action and bloodletting to keep any horror fan interested until the end, although many of them won’t be able to refrain from constantly checking out the clock on their DVD player as the narrative sluggishly unfolds.

I think I speak for everyone when I say that Macabre’s plot can be accurately predicted from watching the box art alone. Having a strange-looking woman wielding a fork sunk into a loose finger isn’t exactly subtle, right? Well, neither is the film itself. At least, there is no higher pretension here than to entertain. There is no moralistic “high ground” to be found, nor any deeper “meaning” about the evils of capitalism. There is only a bunch of college kids (what else?) getting trapped in an old country house (where else?) by a family of flesh-eating weirdos (whom else?). That’s the gist of it. And while the film does involve some peripheral plot points about the rejuvenating power of human flesh, it very much walks along the dotted line inherited from decades of similar horror efforts. Hence, you don’t run the risk of being surprised over the course of the narrative. Not ever.

This happy crew of archetypes

is driving right to the abattoir. 

As is the case with almost every single survivalist horror entry starring a bunch of expendable college kids, nothing happens in the first half hour. Nothing at all. There’s no real exposition or characterization to speak of, because every single character is an archetype. There’s the horny guy, the short-tempered guy, the repressed beauty, and so on. The first half hour is merely a set-up for things to come. Here, the vacationing characters are lured into a secluded country house by a seductive young woman who claims to have been robbed by ruffians. Once there, they are invited to dinner, during which they are drugged and sequestrated. There IS a short prelude to all of this, a series of 8 mm images featuring a family feasting on what is certainly human flesh. Judging from the apparent age of these images, and the youthful appearance of the weird hosts, we can only infer that the consumption of human flesh has somehow slowed their aging process, an assumption that is validated when the matriarch of the group claims to be much older than she appears. All of this is later explicitly confirmed, but at that point, you won’t care and will want to get on with the butchery instead

Luckily, the dreary first half-hour of runtime gives way to a somewhat exhilarating last hour full of bloodletting. In fact, the film only seems to come alive in that last hour, as the direction tightens by drawing on the action film arsenal. All of a sudden, we get canted shots, shaky shots, fake split screens, contrapuntal sound, POV shots, alternated editing, and depth of field starts playing a crucial role, especially in those many “chainsaw cam” shots where the rotating weapon is shown in the foreground of a nasty POV shot, plunging into the soft flesh of the expendable heroes. Everything suddenly becomes more dynamic, as if the directors had suddenly woken from a deep slumber and finally decided to shoot a film. Why they were satisfied with such a drab, eventless opening remains a mystery, but at least they eventually made some efforts to create a somewhat exciting film.

The "chainsaw cam" is not a novelty per se,

but it greatly helps dynamize the film. 

Of course, we’ve seen it all before: good-looking youths are chased by chainsaw-wielding maniacs in a series of bland decors until they regroup and use the weapons at their disposal to exert their own brand of retaliatory violence. As expected, they can’t manage to find a way out of the house, even though it is immense and full of potential exits. As expected, a handful of policemen eventually get involved, but they are revealed as bumbling incompetents who merely add to the body count. Fortunately, the brutality, and variety of the violence onscreen and the sheer amount of bloodletting more than compensates for the overwhelming use of common grounds and general lack of suspense contained within, which should please any thrill-seeker tuning in solely for the gore.

Amongst all of this overdetermined bullshit, the film does contain an intriguing novelty and I must say that it is used to great effect. You see, since the consumption of human flesh has given all four weirdos eternal youth, it has also made them supernaturally strong. Hence, they have much more stamina and endurance than the average psycho. This results in some really intense, and lengthy fight scenes in which the protagonists must work together to withstand the numerous hits delivered by the bad guys and to deliver a copious amount themselves. This makes the overbid of violence that much more ludicrous and entertaining, with the exhausting battle against Adam ranking as one of the film’s highlights. I tell you, this battle alone will give you something to look forward when you are yawning and afraid that your jaw will fall off.

Superhuman villains make for lengthy fight scenes.

Oh, and you can see the extent of the bloodshed on the walls.

While totally unoriginal, and anemic from a narrative standpoint, Macabre still gets the job done, by piling up the kills in a crowd-pleasing way. When the heel of the matriarch’s shoe sank into the eye socket of a half-dead cop, I couldn’t help but think about the raucous Fantasia audience. I even heard joyous cheers coming from all around me. That said, it will not be so hard to precipitate the following conclusion: if you’d rather remain within the comforting familiarity of genre staples, and simply enjoy the overbid of gore, then Macabre is right up your alley. If not, then the best you will get out of it is a mild kick.

**  Formulaic survivalist horror film has enough gore to keep thrill-seekers interested.  

Red Room 2 (2000)

The Japanese mind will never cease to amaze me, especially as the cradle of outrageous gore melodramas such as Red Room 2. It may be hard for us Westerners to fathom, but there really can be a certain naïve sensibility to a low-budget horror film featuring lengthy sequences of puke-eating and forced manual abortions. But only if that movie hails from Japan, a country where emotional immaturity informs all of genre cinema, an extremely prolific entity in those parts, and a particularly fertile soil in which to express the visceral humanity hidden under layers of civility and the slavish observance of tradition.

Red Room 2 is a film that was shot without means, without flair, and without any compromise to good taste. It looks absolutely dismal by North American standards. But somehow, it manages to grab you, if only through its near infantile candor and involving story structure. As for the gore, it is actually a step down from what I had expected, not in terms of execution mind you, but in terms of sheer brutality. It will certainly pale in comparison with what you might find in other Unearthed Films releases such as the Guinea Pig series. But as a whole, the film itself surpasses those purely exploitative quickies by probing Japanese angst with far greater insight, not unlike the superior All Night Long and Evil Dead Trap series.  It is quite decent in fact, for those who can appreciate that kind of stuff…

Red Room is quite literal a title, and it accurately

sums up the lack of means involved in the production.

Being confronted with such a film gives me the opportunity to reflect on the bowels from whence it came, and thus make a tentative correlation between the Japanese predilection for crude melodrama (such as the original Gojira, by the way) and their attraction toward unbridled gore, both of which are often featured side by side in various genre offerings. There is a certain repressed passion in Japanese society, and it seems to find its quintessential expression in the country’s bulky pop cultural output. Here, it spews unfocused like the water from an unclogged pipe, like the puke, blood and semen that gushes profusely within the narrative. In that regard, Red Room 2 might be understood as both an implicit and explicit depiction of that visceral undercurrent of passion that runs deep beneath the national veneer. And while that could be said of virtually every cheap gore job or other digitally-shot B film that Japan has ever produced, the present work does boast a slightly superior dramatic structure, one that greatly emphasizes the cathartic operation at work in its structure while ultimately insuring its long-term sustainability.

The premise of the film is quite simple, and so is the execution. Four people are selected to partake in a competitive game of “King”, the last of which is a mysterious female substitute who seems to have been “programmed” to win the game (get it?). The rules are quite simple: every round, each of the four contestants must draw a card on which a crown appears, or a number ranging from 1 to 3. The person who draws the crown is King for the round, which means that he or she must issue an order that two random contestants will have to follow. For example, the King might decide that Number 1 will disrobe while Number 2 masturbates to her/his naked body. But there is also a variable time limit. In the previous example, contestant Number 2 would have to cum within the allotted time frame, lest he/she be disqualified. This might look like harmless fun, but the orders actually become increasingly damaging to the contestants as time elapses, until only one of them is left standing. The whole thing takes place in two barren, contiguous rooms featuring red spots and a box full of random items that the contestants are to use at their discretion. Oh, and there’s an unseen film crew shooting the whole thing, scarcely intervening by way of an intercom.

A pressing question, which will find an answer

in the darkest reaches of the human soul.

With nearly non-existent production values, and an apparent absence of direction, it first seems like there should be little more than the anticipation of atrocities to keep us interested in the film. Luckily, the screenplay is smart enough to generate interest on its own by constantly playing on our expectations and providing a non-linear plotline that highlights the dramatic tension between the characters. Opening in media res, with a gross close-up of an old man’s fat ass as he pleasures himself to a kneeling woman licking a lightbulb, the film slowly pieces together a narrative that constantly picks up speed until the ludicrously amusing finale. Following an obligatory money shot, which looks as fake as any bloodshed or gore effect in Japanese cinema, each of the three human contestants are introduced by way of a crimson-lit interview-style close-up wherein they explain their motivations for playing the game. After that, the contestants are left to fend for themselves in a dark, dreary basement with concrete walls and a steel cage wherein the two active participants of any given round are left to carry on with their dirty business.

Luckily, the plot is non-linear, jumping back and forth between introductory scenes and actual “game time” to better delineate, and highlight the dramatic issues unfolding during that time. The increasing animosity between the protagonists is actually crucial to the unfolding of the game, as things are settled within the cage, which have started outside thereof. This adds a great deal of relevance to the film as a character study and not simply a succession of sordid torture scenes. The “game” format also helps the narrative by constantly subverting our expectations, and making the very unfolding of the plot entirely unpredictable. Don’t expect a simple alternation of Kings here, as card drawing is also engineered to heighten the dramatic potency of the film. Even the contents of the box is made to challenge our expectations as each spectator will surely have his own interpretation of how the items can, and will be used within the context of the film, almost all of which find usefulness outside of these expectations.

Luckily, there is more to the gore here, 

than the spectacle thereof.

Despite its lack of pretension, Red Room 2 is far more than a crude attempt at pleasing indiscriminate gorehounds. It is a genuine dramatic effort meant to probe the depth (or shallowness) of the human psyche. More to the point, it does not merely involve throwing the viewer a bone, but engaging him and his expectations in a cruel game of wits. I would be tempted to say that you won’t come out of the experience unscathed, but that would be a lie, considering how full of peachy sentimentalism the finale is, sort of a reminder of what humanity is really about: compassion and understanding. And although the film eventually falls into the realm of sci-fi, it only does so to better highlight the redeeming qualities of humanity. Which is a nice lesson that helps dissipate the bleak cloud of brutal selfishness that has engulfed us over the course of the narrative, dragging us upwards into the higher levels of existence from the squalor and darkness of those lower, most visceral levels. Hence, humanity is revealed in all its contradictory nature by a final push that is equally uplifting as it is improbable. A true testament to Japanese humanism, hidden under a veil of ruthless conservatism.

Red Room 2 was better than I expected. Its narrative structure and the relevance of its social discourse were far superior than what is usually found in such drivel. Unfortunately, this doesn’t change the fact that the film is technically inept, with nearly non-existent art direction, boring photography and some really plain mise-en-scène. As a Westerner breastfeed with lush Hollywood productions featuring A-list casts and costly set design for even the poorest of genre films, I hesitate to render a definitive verdict. But seeing how I am mostly catering to other Westerners such as myself, I will go with the following total score:

**1/2:   Behind the guise of a cheap gore job, Red Room 2 is a film that actually contains some decent characterization and an intriguing screenplay that skillfully juggles with our expectations.  

Fantasia 2012 (Day 4)

DAY 4 (JULY 22, 2012) - "A quick foray into madness"

The Haunting of Julia

Despite being the bastard son of The Exorcist (1973), Rosemary's Baby (1968),  and a slew of other superior supernatural horror pictures, The Haunting of Julia (or Full Circle as it was first released) remains one of the very best Canuxploitation titles out there, as exemplified by its clinching the Grand Prize at Avoriaz in 1978. Produced jointly by UK and Canadian concerns, the project was made to take advantage of the Canadian government's tax shelters for film producers. Seemingly patched up from several different trends in the film market, the end result is surprisingly cohesive if not entirely overwhelming.

 The Haunting of Julia is full of overdetermined imagery: 

 here, the seance reaps the exact results one would expect.

In here, Mia Farrow is, you guessed it, a crazy modern woman with a debilitating trauma to overcome. But the reason for her madness is somewhat original. In the very fist scene, which follows a clever tracking shot that shows her entrapped in an imposing London house, protagonist Julia is seen serving breakfast to her kid and uncaring husband. When the kid suddenly starts choking on a piece of breakfast pastry, the panicked mother quickly performs an improvised tracheotomy that proves fatal. It's a parent's worst nightmare, and the posh family house is nothing to cheer Julia up. Momentarily granted her leave from the hospital, where she's been under scrutiny for a nervous breakdown, Julia runs away from her husband and buys a house of her own. Obviously, she chooses a haunted house, a nice piece of Victorian palace on a lively London street that's full of kids... But there is something that lurks beyond the lustrous veneer of the bourgeoisie, something that's hardly a mystery to whoever has looked around for a spell. It is something that Julia will come to know very well thanks to a revelatory spirit that will cause a lot of overdetermined turmoil before finally helping the young woman overcome her trauma and escape gender shackles.

I would be hard-pressed to try and find a novel way in which the spirit interacts with the living here. Besides the obligatory occult seance, it provokes a series of simple misunderstandings that merely help depict Julia as a madwoman. With her mother and ex-husband working in tandem to bring her back to the corral, the noose soon tightens around her and a local antiquarian with whom she entertains an ambiguous relationship of commensalism. Interestingly however, what would have pushed a normal woman to the brink of hysteria fails to rattle Julia completely as she eventually manages to ascertain herself as an active hero and not simply as passive victim. This emanates from a deep-seeded, almost motherly desire to learn about her spectral guest (a dead child). In turn, this helps her forget about the mundane reality of unrequited love. In fact, it helps the entire narrative divert from the path it had set out, namely that of the supernatural thriller feeding on a poor woman's descent into madness. With Julia slowly taking control over her life, she simultaneously leaves the inside of the house in which she has been entrapped. Taking to the park first, then to the British Museum library, the asylum and the dens of two former killers, she eludes her strictly feminine role of stay-at-home wife and helpless victim. Instead, she delves into the world of forbidden knowledge and becomes another genre archetype altogether. She becomes a supernatural inspector, instead of remaining an overdetermined victim. Through efforts, she starts to have a nearly scientific understanding of her spectral guest, and she acts on it to better free herself from its influence, and thus metaphorically evade her strict gender role. At the same time, she manages to stay feminine by toiling to aid a murdered child and simultaneously exorcize her own child's death. What's truly beautiful however is how Julia's eventual liberation stems from her own initiative and gutsy inquiry into the mystery and not her agency with men, which proves to be nearly useless but for some occasional comfort.

Luxurious houses are a prison for the protagonist.

(Spoilers ahead) Although I do not specifically wish to spoil the film's denouement to eager thrill-seekers, I think it is particularly important to address its implications within the framework of British  genre cinema. Although it is based on an American novel (Julia by Peter Straub), the narrative's transposition to London is extremely relevant here as it helps us prefigure a major theme in contemporary British horror, children's horror, which can be traced back even further with Village of the Damned (1960). At first, the horror of Julia is that of her own dead child, claimed by the Reaper before she has had any significant experience. Then, it becomes the horror of a murdered child, claimed violently by the Reaper for reasons unknown. But it is in the end that horror is paramount, when we discover that the latter child was claimed by peers, other children who trade their own roles as victims for those of tormentors. Once more, appearances are deceiving and this gives some more water to the wheel, which is smoothly driven across the finish line. Juvenile violence first intrudes into the narrative when Julia spots a knife in the playground. This prompts other parents to infer violence exerted by adults on children, while it actually points to something more sinister altogether. After all, it is those very children who are responsible for the death of Julia's elusive friend. That is the shocking truth that we slowly uncover, a truth that will resonate across time and space to include contemporary British films such as The Children (2008) and Eden Lake (2008).

On a purely technical note, while I know that the print on display was hardly the best ever shown (thanks to the rarity of the film itself), I must say that the overall quality of the lighting is atrocious, with a few scenes being filmed in near-total darkness. This isn't too bad, since atmosphere eventually becomes subservient to the thematic and narrative needs of the screenplay. As for the locales themselves, they contribute a classical sense of nobility to the characters' lives, whose belonging to a nearly-defunct social strata is unchallenged and unquestioned. London's architecture is gorgeous and the film takes full advantage of it. As for the two stars, they're equally tailor-made to fit the part. In a type of role she was used to, Mia Farrow seamlessly brings her natural sensibility to great use as the traumatized mother while opposite Keir Dullea uses the appropriate restraint to depict the unflinching manipulative husband. With Colin Towns' nearly-superfluous giallo-inspired soundtrack stealing the show, it's a miracle that The Haunting of Julia came out as well as it did. A surprisingly potent effort.

*** Sumptuous London decors, a seamless performance by Mia Farrow as a refreshingly active character and a synth-heavy soundtrack help distinguish this quick cash-in from others of its ilk.

.........................

Massacre Gun

This typical Nikkatsu gangster film from the 1960s uses Joe Shishido's stature as a genre icon and the jazzy aesthetics of American noir to frame the compelling story of three brothers and their brushing with the mob. The result is a marvel to look and a nice reminder of how the young Japanese directors of the 1960s shared the Frenchmen's preference for American genre cinema. The many sumptuous tableaux comprising the criminal underbelly of Tokyo are captured with great flair in this low-budget production as if by the best artisans of the Hollywoodian Golden Age. With nearly-Shakespearean fratricidal struggles as key to narrative construction, Massacre Gun is a virtuoso effort in bringing a distinct Japanese flavor to the American masterpieces of old out of pure love for the medium.

 Three brothers united? (I suggest you 

linger on this image for a while.)

Baby-faced Joe Shishido is a hired gun for a local mob boss here, the same mob boss who oversees the boxing career of his younger brother. But when a heated argument leaves said brother with broken hands, the two men, along with their musician brother start their own organization dedicated to taking over the crime syndicate owned by their previous boss. The subsequent struggle sees Shishido's character confront a former friend and colleague, whose jazz bar is a frequent meeting place for the two men. Ultimately, it's an epic highway that will decide which gang will rule the city, if any.

The incarnation of the yakuza code, or jingi (which translates to "honor and humanity", as popularized by the eponymous series by Kinji Fukasaku), Shishido's Ryuichi is a classic romantic anti-hero. First having to murder the woman he loves in order to please his superiors, he then turns the table on them as their authority comes into question. In keeping with the romantic ideal of the yakuza, or that of the criminalized biker from our own Quebec mythology (see Mom et moi, part of the double bill screened on August 5th), the hitman becomes a protector of deeper social values and an exterminator of unfair leaders. He is the ruthless thug with a conscience that we would all love to be, and a classic archetype of genre cinema. His slick clothes and sharp wit are those of such classic anti-heroes such as Rick Blaine while his proficiency as a gunman would equal any of Clint Eastwood's characters'. Watching him evolve throughout the narrative is a treat in itself. Shifting from the Casablanca-inspired café held by his brother, the posh jazz bar held by his former partner and the various gambling dens which he vies to control, he remains a classic figure in all aspects, one that commands immediate respect from the audience.

But then there is the ambiguous relationship he entertains toward his many brothers, most important of which is the young boxer, whose lack of direction could be said to derive directly from Ryuichi's bad influence. Although bound by the classic rules of tragedy, the two fratricidal conflicts at the heart of the narrative are also strong elements pertaining to the jingi code, and especially the Confucian virtue of filial piety. As such, they impregnate the film with a fortified dramatic power arising from the heated personal conflicts which oppose the characters. By deciding to embark his two brothers, one of which is a harmless musician, into his nefarious enterprise, Ryuichi puts both their lives in jeopardy, and especially that of his younger brother, for whom the image of the gangster is like a drug. But on top of this three way struggle between the protagonists, there is the personal battle of Ryuichi against his former partner, with whom he shares a reciprocal respect, and yet another brother-to-brother relationship. This provides a crucial narrative twist when the current mob boss is gunned down by Ryuichi during an exciting hostage situation because it puts that very ex-partner in charge of the concerted effort directed at the protagonist. This leads to an insane gun fight set in a empty highway stretch where the film's title finally takes all of its sense.

Wild action at the end of Massacre Gun,

the epitome of reflexive genre cinema.

While great dramatically, and a successful transposition of the gangster archetype into the world of Japanese yakuza, the film is primordially a visual treat, if not for the gorgeously dignified black-and-white photography or elaborate sets, complete with erotic dancers and endless gunshot sounds, then for the actors' presence onscreen. With their slick classical look and nearly natural nobility, they make for a great trio of modern Robin Hood. As such, they become timeless genre archetypes, immovable heroes of urban mythologies and eternal staples of cinema itself. Their very presence in this attempt at rejuvenating the classic images of old is proof that they still belong, and probably always will belong to the silver screen.

**** A perfect example of the New Wave's reverence and dedication to the Hollywoodian excellence of old with a distinct Japanese flavor provided by local gangster etiquette and the importance of filial piety.

.........................

Possession

At once a very personal and universal story of separation, this hysterical exercise in over-acting is the pinnacle of raging modern expression. Involving highly intricate camerawork and a heavy dose of surrealistic imagery, it is a surprisingly sharp, passion-driven account of a couple's descent into madness on the back of a heated separation. But it is not a clean separation, and that is precisely where the shoe pinches, as there results a constantly hurtful brushing that gets progressively worst until the narrative goes completely overboard and into the realm of symbolism, slimy or otherwise. The end result is unique precisely because it reflects the director's very own experience in a very emotional way. It's like experiencing madness firsthand, as if being personally affected by the scourge of love and its necessary outcome, abandonment. Very powerful stuff.

Couple therapy at its best: Zulawski frames

a super nasty separation to exorcize his own.

Sam Neill plays a well-read, but emotionally weak protagonist here, opposite gorgeous French actress Isabelle Adjani, both of whom are engaged in a maddening tug of war over the custody of their young son following a violent trial separation. Momentarily returning home from a mysterious business trip, Neill's Mark finds proof of his wife's infidelity on a postcard she has received from a mysterious suitor named Heinrich. After confronting his wife Anna with the dire truth, he finds out that she has been with him a few times before and, most importantly, that sex with Heinrich is far better. That is what truly pushes the protagonist over the edge, this sort of overwhelming helplessness that comes over a man when his sexual proficiency is put into question. Now, you'd think that Mark would simply plot to kill Anna, hence removing her once and for all from Heinrich's grasp. But that's not what happens. It would be far too simple for a film of such symbolic and emotional magnitude. What happens instead is that Mark and Anna continue to take care of their kid alternately, with Mark retaining their repulsively modern Berlin apartment and Anna living on her own in a undisclosed location. Such arrangements quickly cause friction, and from that friction emerges the fire of madness, which quickly consumes the two protagonists until death becomes involved. Throw in a few peripheral eccentrics (paramount of which is Heinrich, the self-styled German lover) and you've got a film that's absolutely unique, a rare and very intense experience in madness.

Aside from the humbling beauty of Isabelle Adjani's face (which is featured prominently in screen-wide close-ups), Possession's most salient, and most expressive feature is the brilliant camerawork by Andrzej Jaroszewicz, a frequent collaborator to director Zulawski*. His camera is so incredibly volatile here that it manages to fully immerse the viewer in a world that is constantly shifting and constantly menaced by the lingering presence of madness. Using hovering or cyclical tracking shots, as well as canted angles to create a warped sense of space, we are quick to share the protagonists' sense of emotional disorientation throughout their ordeal. But then, the camera also exists as a lingering, one could even say tormenting presence in both their lives. Its groundless incarnation and constant intrusion into their intimacy makes it akin to madness itself, which menaces to violently intrude into the narrative from any given offscreen space. The camera becomes especially abrasive in its unflinching, often lengthy scrutiny of the characters' worst episodes. During the famous subway scene, in which Adjani is framed with painful proximity during a particularly violent psychotic episode, duration takes a particular significance as it allows us to probe deeper into her pain and more cinematographically into her character. In the end, the film could've eschewed dialogues altogether based solely on the camera's expressive power as a crucial vector in the depiction of madness.
* Jaroszewicz and Zulawski won the Camerimage award for best Polish duo in 2002.

But then there is overacting, which flamboyantly manages to convey both Mark and Anna's hysteria over their separation. There is such passion in that overacting that it soon becomes akin to an infectious disease. Those wall-shattering screams, those endless "AAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAA!!", these are the true expressions of desperate people, people who are literally inflamed by their emotions to the point of insanity. And it gets increasingly worse, until the whole film sinks in a surreal maelstrom made of horny tentacles and casual murder. The two main actors are pushed to such extremes that the film manages to achieve a somewhat miraculous authenticity in its depiction of traumatic love stories. People cut themselves here, they brutally slaughter opponents and casually indulge in the most animalistic behavior that one could expect either Neill or Adjani to. The emotional level of the performances, and hence, of the whole narrative, is elevated to unnatural heights by those performances, heights where only abandonment can seemingly push you.

 An actress' worst nightmare: Isabelle Adjani is

pushed to weird extremes in the famous subway scene.

The sharpness of the screenplay and its crunchy dialogue is another worthy feature here and it evolves quite organically from an early scene in which Mark shares a meeting with his shady employers. In this scene, he is seen as perfectly in control, with James Bond's uncanny quickness at repartee. He remains absolutely unflinching while being challenged with tough questions regarding a mysterious new assignment. The reason he dryly invokes in order to elude said assignment is: "family", which turns out to be an harsher assignment still. Momentarily returning home to Berlin, Mark is stripped of his professional mystique and uncomfortably contorted in the mold of married life. As such, he constantly comes at odds with an ice-cold wife who seems increasingly estranged from him. The slow tracking shot over their still bodies lying in bed is quite informative in that regard. Although they are framed side by side, there is a strong sense of distance which manages to seep into the diegesis. The stillness of both bodies, their lack of passion while in bed is absolutely shocking, especially in light of Mark's long absence and the couple's would-be happy reunion.

That is how the archetype of the cold professional à la James Bond is deconstructed along the lines of sexual potency. In the 1960s, Bond was created as a phallic remedy to man's increasing apathy and growing distaste for war. Thus his sexual potency and ruthless womanizing were key to making him the man that he is. His relationship with Ursula Andress' character from Dr. No is perhaps the first test of this "fortified" manhood that Fleming's character soon came to embody. To paraphrase Jonny Lee Miller's Sick Boy from Trainspotting, "Andress [is] the quintessential Bond girl. [...] The embodiment of his superiority over us. Beautiful, exotic, highly sexual and totally unavailable to anyone apart from him (emphasis added)." In this regard, Isabelle Adjani's character could thus be understood as the Bond girl who is slowly slipping away from the protagonist's grasp, a "prize" with a will of her own, and a desire to get out of it. While she first exists as a mere crutch for Mark's flinching ego, a prize made to prove his manhood, she subsequently becomes a crotch as the whole narrative eventually becomes solely interested in her sexual antics. Simultaneously, Mark's stature is quickly deflated until no semblance of control is left and his manly grasp has all but vanished. And from that confusion, a new modern definition of gender starts to emerge. 

Evolving from a slightly impressionistic depiction of separation, with the lingering presence of madness expressed by the volatile camera, the film eventually sinks into a world of unrestrained symbolism and damaging imagery. Both protagonists end up being doubled and replaced by their better halves. First, Mark creates a docile version of his wife in the person of blonde school attendant Helen. The young woman is eager to help him out with the kid and to provide kind words. She shares all the beauty of his former wife, but without Anna's sharp edge. She would be an ideal partner if only we knew for sure that she was true. As for Anna's own fantasy lover, he seems to have emerged out of her primordial lust and uncontrolled passion. He is a dark version of Mark, with a sharp penetrating look. He seems to have all the sexual resolve which his counterpart lacks. Like Heinrich before him, he is a bothersome reminder of the protagonist's impotence.

But then, the film also draws from Japanese imagery to better depict the sexual angst at the center of the narrative. Isolated in a dilapidated apartment in the sketchier parts of the city, one that stands squarely for her own decaying state of mind, Anna indulges in casual sex with a viscous tentacled creature. At the height of its power, once it has been fully formed and thoroughly wrapped around Adjani's porcelain-white limbs, it becomes the epitome of the Japanese rapist, an entity oozing sexual power and putting the surrounding males at shame. It is Zulawski's contribution to Hokusai's woodcut depicting the dream of the fisherman's wife. The uncanny sexual potency of the creature takes all of its sense here, as a fearsome challenge to Mark's own impotence. And the phallic confusion permeating the film remains whole, a powerful testimony to what men fear deep inside of their hearts. The whole weight of the world, the culture of performance, the unbridled expression of manhood and the very expression of passion all limited to sexual proficiency. All within the confines of one author's nightmare, who uses the screen as a means of exorcizing his demons.

Hentai imagery helps us understand the protagonist's

obsession with phallic power.

Possession is a film like no other precisely because it is made to depict one very specific separation. All narrative threads are but spiderweb strands fastened around the protagonist and author's limbs, a testimony to his flickering resolve. But above all, Possession is a visceral cinematic experience and it is full of unforgettable imagery. If not for the horny octopi, nasty knife wounds, incongruous karate chops, symbolic doubles and decaying city apartments riddled with litter, then you should see it for Isabelle Adjani, an actress whose captivating beauty is a powerful dramatic engine and a narrative goal in itself. At 26, Adjani's features were striking. The refinement of her face perfect. She is the ultimate object of desire. Yet, she is so much more, a fully-fledged dramatic character driven to madness by her ex-husband's own insecurity and overwhelming desire to get her back. Adjani's onscreen presence is actually unforgettable. And that subway scene... a classic cinematic moment that screams to be rediscovered. And if Adjani doesn't do the trick for you, then you can still watch Possession as a simple expression of the madness that is love. Not unlike Tokyo Fist, which I previously reviewed on this blog, the present film is a stellar experience in couple therapy, at once a powerful cinematic experience and a cathartic reflection on passion. If you haven't heard about Possession, then seek it out immediately. It will provide you with many unforgettable memories and an uncontrollable urge to scream: "AAAAAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

****1/2  Intricate camerawork, hysterical acting and shocking imagery all contribute to this very personal, yet universal depiction of love and passion. A stellar example of an auteur's take on genre cinema and a full-fledged cult classic with international potential. 

Fantasia 2012 (Day 3)

DAY 3 (JULY 21, 2012) - "The very good, the very bad, and the very ugly"

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!

 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. 
 

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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.

 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...

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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...

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.

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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. 

 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.

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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.

 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.

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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.

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.