Directed by: Eitan Green
Country of origin: Israel
Starring: Yuval Segal, Dorit Lev-Ari, Ron Jaegermann
This week at the Syracuse International Film Festival, filmmakers from around the globe came and showed off their new arthouse films. There were movies from Korea, Japan, Iran, Canada, Italy, and Israel, where a true gem surfaced. Israeli cinema has very little presence in the medium, primarily because the constant war has left the country and its film fund poor and in shambles. The Israeli Film Fund is really the only real way to get finances for making a film, and when a filmmaker does get his hands on some money, it isn't much. Thus, the number of feature films to come out of Israel is minuscule. But prominent Israeli director Eitan Green brought his work to Montreal and New York and got a thunderous amount of acclaim. He began by telling his audience how he was very influenced by Japanese filmmakers, Ozu in particular, and therefore I thought it only appropriate to give this film the write-up it deserves. I was completely blown away by "It All Begins at Sea". Upon the film's end, I sat there, stunned at the sheer weight of the effect that it left on me. I can safely say that it was one of the best films I've ever seen in theaters, and it's a shame that we couldn't view it in 35mm. "It All Begins at Sea" is my kind of film; its values and its filmmaking styles are similar to my own interests. Its deep tone and execution seem identical with those of Yasujiro Ozu, Takeshi Kitano or other Asian auteurs. Like I said to Eitan in the Q&A, the film is so simple, yet so complex. The layers of meaning are just subtle enough to make the viewer truly think, and its context is one that the viewer can easily empathize with. The tone of the movie seems to vary between the three sections, maturing just like the mind and actions of young protagonist Udi. The word contemplative is so present in most of the elements of the film. The long, stoic stares of Udi. The fluid, paced tone of the narrative flow. The static shots and smooth tilts. Everything seems to benefit the message of the film. The performances of the leads are gripping, to say the least, and the situations where Udi is faced with death are simple enough to really move the audience. I was completely engrossed by this film, and in the third and most impressive part, everything really came together. The symbolism surfaces and a series of tie-ins make for an immensely satisfying conclusive twenty minutes. The hospital power-outage juxtaposed with the desolate sister's room and the parallels between Udi suspended underwater and the baby within the womb are so appropriate, and I can remember getting goosebumps as the realization of the film's motives so suddenly hit me. I fell in love with the characters and the varying tonal changes. The subtle drama mixed with the perfect amount of comic relief worked well. The three returns to the sea were timely and significant. In general, I can't say say enough about how well I enjoyed this film. While it is slow in a couple places, the realism of the piece is stunning. This film should win the festival, and I'd be willing to do whatever it takes to get my hand on a copy of it. I was so compelled, yet slightly sad as we left the theater, just because I knew I'd probably never be able to see the film again. Not often does a film move me like "It All Begins at Sea" did, and now my main goal is to get my hands on other Eitan Green films.
Starring: Wei Minzhi, Zhang Huike
Country of origin: China
Directed by: Zhang Yimou
Not One Less is a very subtle and simplistic film in its context and its approach. Yimou, a renowned filmmaker known for his stylized wuxia films and his post-war envisions of women, does seem to stride away from his typical ways. But his strategy and the film's message run along the identical road which has becomes Zhang Yimou's mission, of sorts. It's no secret that Yimou is a director of the people, and for the people of mainland China. His films, whether in underlying terms or not, all tell stories of hardships or the oppression of the Chinese people. Constantly utilizing strong female leads, Yimou's films really tend to touch home as the young women find themselves in dire straights and are forced to grow, to come-of-age, in order to overcome the ordeal. In a narrative sense, Not One Less runs constant with this. Young substitute teacher Wei Laoshi is forced to leave her small, poor village and find her missing student in the big city. The story is so simple, as is the approach.
The strength here lies in the performances of the young actors, who did add a gripping sense of tone to an otherwise plain movie. But when stepping back, the word plain does most appropriately describe the film. It moves very slowly in the beginning, and even once Wei makes it to the city, the banal sense of stylization is very present, perhaps too present. Yimou makes it a point to communicate the isolation that Wei faces once among the throngs in the city. But realistically, the messages of the shallow symbolism and silent insinuations is just too obvious for me. This is very unlike Yimou, a director who loves to dwell on emotional, borderline melodramatic slow motion shots accompanied by a periodic music and a stoic tone. Stuff like that. And the answer becomes obvious once you read into the film's production. Funded by the Chinese government, one of the most censoring, controlling regimes in the world, the film was overseen by their officials. So whether or not Zhnag was trying to critique or support the Chinese government, he was forced to make a very tame film, and in my opinion, Not One Less suffered because of it. Not that it isn't a good film; on the contrary, various situations and visuals are quite touching and really communicate the hardships of a very underprivileged sector of the Chinese population. But when compared to other Yimou films, Not One Less just seems to slow, too silent, and I wasn't nearly as engrossed.
Following are some of the most important scenes from the most important films in East Asian cinema. These scenes have, in some cases, single-handedly had their influences on the cinematic language. Some establish a style or technique, others have simply become responsible for helping to cement their filmmaker's name into history. Famous or not, these scenes have left their mark on the medium and the millions of viewers that have witnessed them. As a filmmaker, a few of them in particular are some of the most beautiful and inspiring I've ever seen. Enjoy
1. JOURNEY TO THE WEST
I'm starting off with a scene from one of the first Asian films I was ever exposed to, Miyazaki's Princess Mononoke. A fan favorite, Mononoke is up there with Spirited Away in terms of the filmmaker's signature works. In this more mature film, Miyazaki took advantage of exploring more mature themes and showed audiences that he was capable of crafting a moving, beautiful story geared toward adults. Mononoke is stunning in its animation, and in this pivotal scene near the film's beginning, Miyazaki seems to boast the lengths of his talent and shows us the sheer depth of the capabilities that he possesses. From an animation standpoint, this is one of the most important scenes in the master's illustrious career. Up to this point, the viewer had been introduced to some typical feudal Japanese villagers and a somewhat overblown, giant black pig demon. The film feels somewhat typical of Japanese anime up to this point. But it is in this scene, "Journey to the West", that Miyazaki's film begins to break away from the rest. Hisaishi's score, one of the best in cinematic history (in my opinion) gives the scene a certain weight that helps us understand and empathize with Ashitaka. Every shot is calculated. The sweeping vastness of the landscapes down to the detailed glimmering of the water. Mononoke is not exactly a recent film, released in 1997. Techniques in computer and hand-drawn animation have advanced since then, yet we are still able to watch this film and be amazed. This scene proves why Princess Mononoke is a pivotal milestone in modern animation.
2. FAREWELL
Ang Lee moved millions with the neutral ending of his masterpiece Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, leaving many in wonder and others in tears. What he did with this scene was to help establish a new strategy of conclusion, in other words, trailblazing a very new way of ending a film. American audiences had seldom been exposed to this type of ending, where what happened is not completely drawn out for them. Yet, with this lack of concrete evidence (if you will) came this incredible feeling of satisfaction. We don't exactly know what happened to Shiao Long; she could have died, or the story of the old man could have been true. But the tie-in, the bring-around of that story at the films end, is so satisfying that it almost seems to not matter. This is an ending where the viewer itself is meant to make the final decision, and I believe it tells a lot about a person in terms of how they interpret this ending. Setting the element of the unknown aside, the scene is visually stunning, and the classical fluidity as well as the subtle crossfades conclude the film perfectly. With the slow, soothing tunes of Tan Dun and Yo Yo Ma, the viewer almost floats along with Shiao Long into the unknown. It is an incredibly moving and influential scene, and helped revive the presence of Asian cinema in the Western side of the world.
3. PAINTERS
This borderline surrealist scene from Takeshi Kitano's Hana-bi is one of the key elements that helped to establish him as Japan's modern auteur and the heir to Akira Kurosawa. The scene captures Kitano's motives and his mindset outstandingly, taking time to dwell on mysterious, thought-provoking visuals, drawing parallels of extremes between characters, and really (abruptly) diving deep into the mind of his viewer, all with the comfort of a moving Hisaishi score. The scene and the film are very personal to Kitano, documenting fictionally a period in his own life where suicide and painting were prevalent thoughts. This scene may seem confusing by itself, but it is absolutely pivotal to the film's significance, commencing the symbolism between so many of the films motifs, like flowers, gunshots, and the human eye. The scene has an immense presence of experimental ideals, and its the alienating sense that this montage provokes that houses the film's true meaning. I think of it as the heart of the film, and the origin of its many layers of meaning. Mesmerizing scene.
4. FALL OF THE POPCORN
Likewise, this scene from Korean blockbuster Welcome to Dongmakgol is the center of the film's narrative significance. On the outside, the film is just a typical war comedy with a varying tonal color and many moving moments. It's Korean New Wave melodrama at its best. But underneath lies so much subliminal meaning, and in a country where critiquing the tyrant to their north is so dangerous, it's easy to understand why the message is so subtle. It's a lot that I won't get into, but more or less what happens in the scene is a direct result of the mindless violence butting heads with the innocent denial. A grenade, a symbol of the murder and violence that these warring men impose upon the innocent town of Dongmakgol, explodes inside the town's food supply shed. But while this is a true travesty for the villagers, the ordeal just becomes another instance of curious beauty as the popped corn float down upon the village like snow. Instead of crying, they dance and laugh and grasp the moment, and the warring soldiers are lulled to sleep. This ceasing of unnecessary violence, this realization of the beauty surrounding you seems to be a motive that countless Korean films take on, and is noble enough to be called the alternative for what the situation in Korea should be like today. The scene says a great deal about war and the division of brothers, and it turns a new page within the film (afterward the North and South soldiers begin to respect each other. And with a moving Hisaishi score, you can't go wrong. Very moving scene.
5.THE SIXTH STATION
I saved the best for last... This is my favorite scene in cinematic history, bar none. It has influenced and moved me in ways that I cannot verbally express. It is one of, if not the most renowned scene Miyazaki has ever produced. It is one of the most important scenes in the history of animation, simply from a narrative perspective. If I can use one word to help me describe this scene, it would, again, have to be depth. Here we are, absolutely engrossed in this eerily beautiful world that Miyazaki has created for us, consisting solely of the bathhouse and its grounds. Despite the immense size of this building, and the variety of situations that Chihiro encounters inside of it, there is a certain sense of claustrophobia that is created. We feel stuck here with her, with nowhere to run. But then she gets on this train that seems to float on water and an entire world is revealed to us.The amount of elements in this scene that make is so fantastic is uncanny. Every shot reveals a story that could be told. We see villages in the distance, bright neon signs that suggest a city. Miyazaki just slightly hints at the existence of these things, and we do all we can to pounce on them. But the train keeps going, and these beautiful landscapes and locales that we see appear suddenly disappear, never to be seen again. Miyazaki could make entire films based on the ideas represented in this scene, alone. A sense of maturity wafts in and the tone becomes so contemplative and reflective as Joe Hisaishi's absolutely intoxicating melody pushes the train softly on. The floating village. The house on the island. The little girl at the train station. Who are these people? What's happened to them? Who lives there? These are all burning questions, ones we need to be answered. But they never are. It's truly a rollercoaster of emotions watching the stunning movement of this scene unfold. I have never been engrossed by anything so much in my life. This scene has changed my life, I can honestly say it... It seems to mean something different for everyone. To me, this is Miyazaki's imagining of the afterlife, of the new life we live in after this one has passed. It is quiet, and it is beautiful. These floating paradises and endless seas seem to beckon to the viewers. Miyazaki has created a sequence of images that truly transport us. The vastness of this spirit world is shown to us, but only in brief glimpses. It's a place I wish I could revisit again, perhaps maybe one day, in a dream. This is Miyazaki's most accomplished scene, and holds an unfathomable amount of untapped potential and significance. Crossing my fingers he revisits it...
Kitano's first and last directorial endeavor in the United States was the target of a lot of critical jest upon its release, something very atypical to the auteur's work. Roger Ebert praised Kitano as a director, but ultimately denounced the film, calling it "a miss". I can see how many people, many Americans, could watch this film and not like it. But the director does not stray from his typical strategies in this film. Brother is just like any other Kitano film, and it is by no means any "worse" than some of his other works. But because the film was produced under an American team, it does turn out completely different. The schemes and quirks that made Kitano's films significant did not translate over well from culture to culture. The iconic black comedy with hints of stoicism tend to come across as bad American acting. The filmmaker's trademark dead-pan feels awkward in a couple of places. The instances in the film where there are attempts at humor seem to be squandered. We think to ourselves, "Oh, well if he said it this way instead of the way he did it, I would have laughed." But the fact is, Takeshi Kitano was in a foreign place with a very different way of doing things. And although he did surround himself with the majority of his regular cast and crew, the film was going to inevitably be very different. Kitano is one of those complete filmmakers; things have to be specifically how he wants it, and this seems to be an obvious proponent toward his consistent critical success. But under these new constraints, that just wasn't possible.
I realized this, having seen a couple other films where cultural elements haven't crossed borders well. And I liked Brother just fine. The film was funny, had a nice pace, introduced some interesting relationships, all while incorporating some vintage Beat Takeshi. The instances where his comedy didn't convert well were still funny to me, simply because I saw what Kitano was trying to do and connected the dots. In fact, because most of the characters were American, (this sounds horrible) I had no trouble telling characters apart physically, so I felt like I got to know the cast well. Thus, when the film ends in tragic fashion (as most of his do), it was pretty moving. Brother was basically a half Japanese film, half Los Angeles film. The bits that took place in Japan we spot-on. They could have been mix-matched with clips of his other yakuza dramas and the viewer wouldn't be confused. But there was an obvious difference when switching between locales, a lapse. In general, the performances of the Americans felt, perhaps, a little more plastic. But regardless, I appreciated Brother as a film and don't hesitate talking about it among Kitano's other trademark yakuza films. Although he did verbally say he was not happy with the film, and would never film in America again, at least he tried, and now he knows. Hats off to the pioneer.
Directed by: Kim Ki-duk
Country of origin: South Korea
Starring: Cho Jae-hyun, Seo Won
As a pair, I decided to pop in the lesser known Bad Guy to complete my Kim Ki-duk double feature. The film, like all of Kim's works, is very explicit in the portrayal of its themes of and contexts. It chronicles a young college girl who is imprisoned into prostitution by this creepy, stone-faced mute. As the horrors of her new life unveil, the man (who works as some sort of bouncer for the brothel) grows protective of her. He is instantly shown as attracted to her from the beginning, when he sexually assaults her in the middle of a square in bustling Seoul. He then begins to watch her through a hidden vantage point while her "customers" have their way with her, frequently fighting off her frantic screams. The scene in which the girl loses her virginity is particularly relentless, and the camera lingers on the act, perhaps for too long. After that, the job seems to sink in, but the relationship between the girl and the "bad guy" only gets more complicated.
I am not a fan of this film. Frankly, both of the times I've watched it, I came out of it saying the same thing, "What a mindless movie." Obviously. director Kim's mission is to portray the odd relationship and sexual tension between the two protagonists. But the lack or\f moral and conscience in his approach really catches you off guard. The whole film is best described as claustrophobic. Everything is dark and slow. There are little signs of kindness or hope. Violence and graphic sexuality are around every corner. These are themes that are not foreign to East Asian cinema, and I am more than used to viewing them. But Bad Guy just did not click with me. In any other film there would be some payoff, some kind of reason that these things are happening. There was nothing of the sort in Bad Guy. Maybe I just flat-out didn't get it, but I don't think I wanted to. The film was alienating, puzzling, and disgusting, all in equal doses. It was hard to get through, and the typical stylized beauty that plays such a big part in Kim Ki-duk's films is missing, replaced with dank, dusky scenes. I can't say I recommend this one.
Directed by: Kim Ki-duk
Country of origin: Korea
Starring: Seo Jeong, Kim Yu-seok
It seems that, over the past decade or so, Korea has been consistently churning out the best cinema out there. In terms of creative context, technical innovations, and genuine performances, neither Hollywood nor any other industry can seem to match the quality and sheer quantity of great South Korean films. One of the primary figures in their cinematic success has been director Kim Ki-duk, a director and arguable auteur-on-the-rise who has produced some of the most stylized films this side of Wong Kar Wai. One of his art-house favorites The Isle displays the director's ambitions perfectly. The Isle is a simple love story with a pair on strong performances and an intriguing setting. Something that has become Kim's trademark, the visuals are absolutely intoxicating, and will completely engross the viewer. Acting as the art director, Kim Ki-duk had complete control over the aesthetic of his film. The setting and its context, a small placid lake and a half dozen floating huts, are mysterious and gripping in their own subtle ways. Little dialogue and a camera that dwells on the faces of the actors adds to the reserved tone of the film. But at the same time, this reserved sense in The Isle is completely contradicted by numerous instances of explicit sexuality or violence.
While The Isle is a beautiful film, it has also become notorious for its certain anomalies, specifi-cally its non- chalant approach to sexuality and its numerous scenes of animal cruelty (all which, according to Kim, are real). While, in his defense, all of these things do serve a relevant purpose, Kim did take a lot of heat and criticism for these apparently abrupt portrayals. In the film, a frog is stunned and then skinned alive. Fish are shown drowning as the water in their tank winds up missing. A bird is thrown into the lake while still in its cage. In one of the more eerily disturbing scenes, a large fish is caught and filleted alive, then cut loose and left to swim away. Later on, the fish is caught again, still just barely alive. In his own defense, Kim stated, "In America you eat beef, pork, and kill all these animals. And the people who eat these animals are not concerned with their slaughter. Animals are part of this cycle of consumption. It looks more cruel onscreen, but I don't see the difference. And yes, there's a cultural difference, and maybe Americans will have a problem with it - but if they can just be more sensitive to what is acceptable in different countries I'd hope they wouldn't have too many issues with what's shown on-screen." Kim's argument is very admirable, and I fully support the fact that many times American's are very unwilling to accept elements of other cultures. But there's still a little part of me that thinks, in this case, Kim went a little too far. I wasn't offended by the cruelty, per-say, but more disturbed by the actions of the characters and the effect to which those actions interrupted the hypnotic sense of the film. Each of these scenes is in place to draw symbolism between the protagonists and the animals, and this is evident to some extent. But as a whole the cruelty was just downright alienating.
The sexuality and violence represented by the human characters of the film also caught me off guard several times. As men float alone or with a friend in the middle of the lake, isolated from the world in some sense, they could begin to long for the company of a women. Kim seems to love exploring this concept of isolation, and it becomes the base theme of many of his films. Well, in the case of The Isle, all of the patrons are either very lonely or very perverted, and prostitutes (indicatively from some nearby city) are constantly showing up at the lake. Here, Kim includes numerous lines of blatant sexual dialogue and a few explicit sex scenes. Needless to say, he definitely gets his point across. In this case, and especially near the end, it is evident that Kim is using nudity as a vehicle of symbolism (perhaps portraying Seo's lifeless, nude body as a parallel to that of the filleted fish). But the instances that really proved unwatchable for many audiences were those in which the protagonists attempted suicide with fish hooks. After one swallows a cluster of hooks and the other places the same hooks "below the belt", Kim creates a gory scene of pain as gag-inducing visuals flash across the screen. It was reported that, upon seeing these scenes, many people actually walked out or became sick at the Sundance Film Festival. They were indeed hard to watch, and had me cringing. Basically, once again, Kim gets his point across here, but perhaps in a fashion far too explicit. The Isle was definitely quite the experience, even after seeing it a second time. The story is gripping and alienating at the same time, and perhaps its this oxymoronic paradox that Kim Ki-duk is attempting to pull off. While not his best film, The Isle impresses with its deep visuals and intriguing setting, but it's definitely hard to swallow in a few places (... no pun intended!).
Directed by: Akira Kurosawa
Country of origin: Japan
Starring: Toshiro Mifune, Takashi Shimura
Akira Kurosawa's 1954 feudal epic Seven Samurai is a true landmark in the history of motion pictures. One of the most popularly and critically acclaimed films of all time, Seven Samurai is constantly ranked among the best, and it's easy to see why. Doing what he did best, Akira Kurosawa broke barriers with his first take on samurai endeavors, setting new precedents narratively, with the camera, and in the editing room. Common devices that people rarely notice, like parallel editing and cutting on motion, were firmly established in Kurosawa's work, and Seven Samurai is no exception. Despite being completed over fifty years ago, Seven Samurai has aged so well in so many ways. Although filmed in low-quality 16mm black and white and utilizing a very specific Japanese acting aesthetic, Kurosawa's masterpiece feels very modern. Its 31/2 hour length will scare away many moviegoers, but once you get used to the tone, the length is never an issue. With appropriate amounts of action and a refreshing dose of comic relief, Seven Samurai flows very smoothly. But what I remember being so distinctly surprising to me was how truly moving the film can be. Over 200 minutes of screen-time, the viewer really gets to know each of the characters; each one has a unique persona or story, and each one, samurai and villager alike, are equally intriguing. You start to build a bond with characters like Kikuchiyo and Yohei, and when turmoil strikes, it's heartbreaking. When you look at the major films that competed with it (The King and I, Around the World in 80 Days), Seven Samurai is so much more accomplished on various levels. The film had numerous subplot and counter-narratives. It had over six fully developed characters. During almost two hundred days of filming, Seven Samurai was the largest scale Japanese film ever. These facts all contribute to making the movie as historically significant as it is. Kurosawa's Seven Samurai is an expertly directed, pioneering action piece, complete with strong performances and subtle laughs that make it so moving. It gave birth to the legendary career of Akira Kurosawa and helped establish one of the most important genres in Asian cinematic history. This is one of those films that everyone needs to see, and one that continues to leave me in awe to this day
***** / *****
DEEPER IN : KUROSAWAN EDITING
Without cuts, wipes, and dissolves film would feel very fractured, and ultimately the element of story telling would be impossible. Specific artists and auteurs have helped to precedent utilizations of these techniques, but none have done so more than Japanese legend Akira Kurosawa. I believe that Asian cinema has had a subtle yet undeniable affect of American cinema, and looking at the methods of Kurosawa’s works truly helps justify that statement.
Kurosawa made a total of thirty feature films in his illustrious 57-year career, and he was wholly involved in all of them. He was always described as “the hands-on director”, having a part in nearly every aspect of the filmmaking process. Known for his dynamic shots incrementing a deep focus reminiscent of Orson Wells’ work, Kurosawa established a style not only through the camera, but through his work on the flatbed as well. Says longtime production partner Nezu Hiroshi, “…He is the best editor in the world. He is most concerned with the flowing quality which a film must have… The Kurosawa film flows over the cut, as it were.” The editing process was the most important and creatively interesting part for Akira, and certain elements became the signatures of his films.
Specifically, three techniques have come to be synonymous with the work of Akira Kurosawa. His sprawling period epic Seven Samurai, his first work in what would be an anthology of jidaigeki films, is a perfect example of these. The axial cut is an editing technique in which, instead of zooming or tracking away from or towards a subject, a series of jump cuts is used instead. In Seven Samurai, the axial cut is used numerous times, most frequently in the film’s beginning, where it is used to establish the village and many of its central characters and settings. When the distraught villagers seek out the village elder for advice, they go to his shelter, which is situated inside the village mill. Kurosawa uses the axial cut to establish the relationship between the elder and this mill, first showing a long shot, then cutting to a medium shot, and finally to a close-up. This technique has been adopted in Hollywood and is utilized constantly in films today, often to place emphasis on something.
Kurosawa also had the tendency to cut on motion, or in other words shoot the action of a character in two shots instead of one. This can be seen in the scene where lead actor Shimura surprises the bandit who has taken the child hostage. He suddenly rushes into the house, assaulting the bandit and rescuing the child. But instead of showing this as one fluid motion, Kurosawa cuts it in two, showing a medium shot as Shimura is rushing in and a long shot as the audience and the villagers await the result of his actions. In this case, the cut on motion creates a sort of suspense, the audience not knowing what has happened to the samurai or the child. The postproduction choice by Kurosawa is very influential, adding an extra layer for the audience.
What has becomes Kurosawa’s most identifiable cut device is the wipe. Primarily, Kurosawa used the wipe to communicate a transition between settings or time. But in his drama Ikiru, he used the wipe in a satirical manner in several instances. Basically, the purpose of this device evolved over Kurosawa’s long career, and it became precedented throughout his works. Looking at Akira’s films in accordance with cuts and transitions provides many great examples. The director’s editing techniques have become revered throughout the film world, and rightfully so. Single-handedly, Akira Kurosawa helped revolutionize strategies of postproduction, and his efforts have continued to be remembered posthumously throughout the modern era of cinema.
Taiwanese director Tsai Ming-liang veers into much stranger waters with his surrealist take on lust, The Wayward Cloud. Taiwanese cinema often gets a bad rep for having very long and slow narratives; without a doubt, it is an acquired taste. The Wayward Cloud is no exception to this stereotype. The first shot, itself, is a static, high-angle vantage of Kaohsiung's MRT system, lasting around four minutes. But it is the sheer eccentricity that made this film as alienating and as unenjoyable as it was. Basically the acclaimed veteran Tsai focused the entire movie around this relationship between sex and watermelons. Amidst an intense drought, the city of Kaohsiung is without water and air-conditioning. Possibly for the amount of water that it contains, the watermelon is used as a main source of food and liquid. Simultaneously, the watermelon is utilized in pornographic movies, creating a relationship that I didn't understand at all. Basically what The Wayward Cloud tells is a love story between a quiet girl and a porn star, and for whatever reason, there are intermittent scenes of bizarre, unnecessary musical numbers and explicit sex scenes. The premise at its base seems like an interesting one, but it is clouded by many of the films pointless quirks. The actor's strong performances are ultimately nullified by intensely avant garde stylistics. The Wayward Cloud is by no means a good example of Tsai's work, or a good representation of the principles that Taiwanese cinema stands for.
Young up and coming filmmaker Na Hong-jin turned a lot of heads with his directorial debut The Chaser, a strikingly dark film, black, even, that tells the story of a Seoul pimp searching for one of his girls whose gone missing. As ordinary as the premise may sound, the film is anything but typical. Tenured Asian film fanatics may recollect that prostitution and the relationships between pimps and their girls are common topics; Kim Ki-duk touches on this with Bad Guy and hints at it with The Isle, and even Akira Kurosawa insinuates such circumstances. But The Chaser is in a class of its own. It's very possibly the darkest film I've ever seen, relying on bold visuals, opaque twists, and gratuitous violence. It blends the darkest forms of suspense with the most disturbed ideologies or violence and action. If Fincher were to remake his opus Se7en in Korea, you might get about two thirds of the movie that Na delivers to us. Ironically enough, the alienating sense of grimy gore and the truly chilling performance of actor Ha Jung-woo actually compel the audience, and make us more and more curious. The twists in the movie aren't mind-blowing. Some of the scenarios may seem familiar with a much more exposed American audience. But the fact is, Na Hong-jin makes those facts obsolete, with The Chaser's solemn story, strong performances, and air-tight direction. I think that, arguably, The Chaser may be one of the most impressive debut-features in modern cinema, simply because director Na did not hold back. When you see a director's first film, often they seem to tread softly, trying to find their footing. But then you have a director like Na who goes all out on his first go around. It was definitely refreshing. To the South Koreans, Na Hong-jin is their next Park Chan-wook. He is a filmmaker who isn't afriad to tell the controversial, bold stories that are constantly thought of as taboo. The future looks bright for Na......
.... and even more so with his new film. The Murderer looks to adopt the same tone and feel of The Chaser. Even from the trailer one can tell that Na will challenge his audience's conscience with this taut. new thriller, starring Chaser star Kim Yun-seok. Can't wait .
Kim Ji-woon's The Good the Bad the Weird is an action-packed, star-studded blockbuster that may harbor a deeper meaning than its otherwise linear message. Like any American blockbuster, The Good the Bad the Weird is full of long, illustrious action sequences with a good amount of comic relief. In terms of technical structure, The Good the Bad the Weird is nothing different than most big budget, epic Westerns: there's a buried treasure somewhere in the Manchurian desert and three rival criminals all want it. Throw in some bolt-action rifles and the Japanese Imperial army, and you get a very entertaining, meaty action Asian Western film, with tons of gore to go around. Like Stephen Soderberg's Ocean's Eleven, Kim's Western takes three of the most famous actors in the country and puts them together; thus the film was of considerable acclaim among fans. But what sets The Good the Bad the Weird apart from most blockbusters and East Asian films alike is its inclusion of all three of the major Asian languages. The Good the Bad the Weird is very significant to the history and culture of Korea in that it takes place during the 1930's just before the Second Sino-Japanese War. The Japanese army had invaded Manchuria, an area occupied by both the Korean and the Chinese. Throughout the film, language shifts between Japanese, Mandarin, and the primary Korean. This is notable because the film gathers together actors of Chinese, Korean, and Japanese descent, and together they seem to make fun of more serious conflicts of the past that pitted them against each other. But why this is especially significant has to do with the film's title, The Good the Bad the Weird. Sure, it's easy to determine that Park Chang-yi is the "bad", since he's an assassin, and that Park Do-won is the "good" because he's hunting Chang-yi. And I suppose that Yoon Tae-goo would be the "weird", considering that.... he laughs a couple of times in dire situations. But realistically, all of the three characters are bad, because they all murder and steal. And, in a sense, all are good, in that they turn out to be fighting for innocent enough reasons (wealth, justice, etc.) And what's more, all of them could be considered weird. They all have their specific quirks and strange moments. What's more interesting to think about is whether or not the title acts as an analogy of the races in the film. In the eyes of the Korean filmmakers, obviously Korea is the "good", the malicious Japanese army the "bad", and the tribal/opiate Chinese the "weird". It's interesting to consider that this may be a reflection of the Korean view of its neighbors. Looking back, all of the Chinese characters in The Good the Bad the Weird are either strung out on opium, suffer hilarious deaths, or occupy some form of comic relief. The Koreans are always noble and the Japanese always the pugnacious. It may be a stretch, but it does seem to fit! Otherwise, The Good the Bad the Weird is a fairly straight-forward yet thoroughly entertaining movie, an obvious homage to the Clint Eastwood-starred spaghetti-Western classic.
The last standoff
***1/2 / *****
Directed by: Kim Ji-woon
Country of origin: Korea
Starring: Song Kang-ho, Lee Byung-hun, Jung Woo-sung
I don't need to say too much about Ang Lee's masterpiece Wòhǔ Cánglóng. Basically all you need to know is that it is one of the most important pieces of Asian cinema in the past fifty years. Not only did it expose audiences to their first real dose of wuxia films, it is single-handedly responsible for solidifying East Asian cinema's presence in this generation of American viewers. A surprising international success, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon holds the heritage of three country's, Hong Kong, China, and Taiwan, each claiming it as their own. This movie sparked the decorated reputation of choreographer Yuen Wo Ping, who created the film's illustrious fight sequences and trademark "long jumps". It was the first wide-spread mainstream exposition of the works and talents of Asian composers Tan Dun and Yo Yo Ma. The dramatic score was a huge part in what made the film moving. It was the climax of the career of Taiwanese director Ang Lee. The climax of the career of veteran Chinese actors Chow Yun-Fat and Michelle Yeow. The birth of the career of Zhang Ziyi and the Four Young Dan actresses. Because of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, all four of these actors have become world-renowned. The film also sparked in new era in Chinese cinematography, specifically being one of the first films in the 21st century to explore the vast, majestic scenery and capabilities of the Asian countryside. It also fashioned one of the greatest endings in modern cinema, with cinematography, music, and a tie-in that moved audiences around the world. When many people think of Ang Lee's opus, they think its simply an epic movie all about sword fights and kung-fu and feudal costumes. But this film is so much deeper than that, telling a story that has more to it than just mindless violence. And the Academy realized this, awarding it four Oscars, including the cinematography and foreign picture awards. The camerawork is stunning, as is the stoic story. The ending is as moving to me, still, as it was the first time I saw it. Anyone who hasn't seen Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon needs to.
Directed by: Eric Khoo
Country of origin: Singapore
Starring: Theresa Poh Lin Chan, Ng Sway Ah, Samantha Tan, Ezann Lee
Singapore-born Eric Khoo's Be With Me is a film comprised of three stories all documenting scenarios of love in different stages of life. With a fractured narrative structure, similar to films like Crash or Babel, the film skips around between the conflicts of the different characters, comparing them through juxtaposition and eventually revealing the ties that connect them all. Khoo approached this work after spending a lot of time with deaf and blind teacher Theresa Poh Lin Chan, who plays herself in the film.Be With Me is shot with a very minimalist tone, dwelling on specific shots for long periods of time and carefully examining the faces of the actors. Out of the 98 minutes in the film, there are only two and a half minutes of spoken dialogue. All of the information is either communicated by the character's actions or by way of sign language or cell phone. This very cooling approach made the film seem like it was being shot or told by a person with disabilities similar to Chan's. The long, contemplative shots accentuated the beauty of the cinematography and the gravity, as well as the simplicity, of each of the character's situations. Every story was human. No elements in Be With Me were glorified or dramatized. Khoo, like So Yong Kim in Treeless Mountain, went out of his way to stress the amount of ordinary that the situations possessed. In this, Be With Me is a truly relatable and moving film.
Shop-owner "Pa" preparing one of his meals
The three stories seemed to be interesting enough, focusing on an enamored security guard, a complicated young lesbian couple, and a lonely widower who finds inspiration in Theresa Chan's autobiography. Khoo did a satisfying job of connecting the three and transitioning between them in a fashion that didn't confuse me. Personally, I think the lesbian's story seemed lackluster next to the other two. It started off with a sense of immaturity and lightheartedness that the others didn't possess. The girls are shown getting their picture taken, watching a movie in the theater, and feeding each other ice cream. All of this is done to establish the chemistry that had spawned between them, but frankly it all felt very cliche, even down to the story's more serious end. Despite this, there were elements in the plot that seemed to shine with possibility, yet were never touched upon. Each of the girls had very interesting relationships with their parents, and despite small gestures and reactions highlighted briefly, they were never fully addressed. As a whole, that story felt like something I'd seen before. It was beautifully framed and edited, but ultimately there was never a sufficient amount of closure. But for this instance being Singapore's first ever explicitly released lesbian story, Be With Me does a notable job. In contrast, the film's other two stories were very mature and striking. In particular, the narrative of old man "Pa", a widower and shop-owner, has significant weight and becomes the obvious anchor story of the film. The only word the man says in the entire film is "eat", and throughout he is shown cooking various meals and spending time with his ailing wife. The stoic stare that occupies his face does not shift until the film's end, and when the film's climax is realized, and an outpour of emotion finally finds him, it is absolutely heartbreaking. Seeing this elderly, lonely man whom the audience has been empathizing with begin to silently weep and then realizing exactly what has been going on is the film's obvious strong point. It was indeed very moving, and here minimalist director Khoo succeeds. Taking a step back, Be With Me feels very much like a student film, in that the story and composition is simple and the stories all end with a certain lacking amount of closure. To some, this may feel like something of a cop-out, learning about these characters, getting to know them, and then being left unsatisfied. But this seems to fit the film's agenda in highlighting love and its affect on people. There are parts that seem unpolished or verging on experimental, with lengthy, seemingly unnecessary type-writer scenes. But as a whole, Be With Me is a beautiful, moving piece. It definitely lacks a happy ending, and I definitely didn't leave with dry eyes. This simple film struck me, to say the least.
Directed by: Takashi Shimizu
Country of origin: Japan
Starring: Megumi Okina, Misaki Ito, Kanji Tsuda
Takashi Shimizu's Ju-on is probably the scariest movie I've ever seen. I've watched hundreds of horror films, from the bottom shelf FearNet movies to the cult classic thrillers of the 70's, and few come close to matching the sheer terror that Ju-on inspires in its viewers. Like most J-Horror films and most of the more successful scary movies made in the past ten years, Ju-on relies less on gore and more on disturbing images and a claustrophobic sense of suspense. Like Kurosawa's Kairo, Ju-on employs a fantastic use of RGR (rationed gradient of revealing) to keep viewers guessing and to keep them scared. One of the key pioneers of the Asian horror film craze, Shimizu's directorial debut tells the story of a fabled yūrei, a spirit remaining in the world of the living due to some presence of an extreme emotion. In the case of Ju-on, the ghost, Kayako, was murdered by her crazed husband, who then proceeded to kill their only son. The mother and son then proceed to torment the new inhabitants of the house, until they are driven insane and then consumed by the spirit. The symbols and situations in which the film's message is communicated are very original, and with constant sudden sightings of the yurei the audience is kept entertained and on its toes. The narrative structure is also presented uniquely, portrayed in a fractured chronology that reveals more about the past little by little. Director Shimizu approached the making of the film very minimalistically. Locations and characters are average and plain. There is no noticeable score. The deaths of the characters occur in a very uniform fashion. But this "bland" approach is what makes the story so chilling. These horrific images of the ghosts are displayed on-screen with such a lack of hesitation that it catches the viewer off-guard in numerous key points. Due to this simple approach, there isn't much to analyze when it comes to Ju-on. The story is simple and easy to grasp. But again, this aspect seems to deepen the horror of the film. Ju-on is original and horrifying, one of the grandfathers of J-Horror cinema.
Directed by: Kiyoshi Kurosawa
Country of origin: Japan
Starring: Haruhiko Kato, Kumiko Aso, Koyuki, Koji Yakusho
Steering into darker waters, I wanted to clear my palette with some classic "J-Horror". Director Kiyoshi Kurosawa (of no relation to Akira) is one of the more proclaimed Japanese horror directors, and kicking things off with his cult classic Kairo seemed appropriate. Subconsciously, I wanted to turn to the horror genre so I could take a break, sit back and watch a little more leisurely. Come to find out, these films would demand just as much from me as any other. Kairo, or Pulse, is truly a chilling film, both in its horrific imagery and its solemn suggestion. Like most of the more refined J-Horror films, a thick sense of suspense is built by the rationed gradient of revealing (or RGR), in which the menacing presence that has been the source of the story's conflict is slowly revealed over several sightings throughout the film. The viewer sees a character react to something, then that something is revealed as a lurking shadow, then later a voice is added, and so on. This subtle device not only hooks the viewer, forming an undeniable curiosity, but also establishes a distinct sense of fear of the unknown. All of the classic Asian horror films like Ringu, Odishun, Ju-On, and Cure have established this narrative technique, which has been mimicked by countless other screamer flicks worldwide. Anyway, Kairo was made during a time where, especially in Asia, the internet was still very new. People weren't completely sure of what it was capable of, and thus it became an easy catalyst of apocalyptians and superstitious people around the world. Kurosawa took this fact and expressed it in his novel turned film. In Kairo ghosts find a way to manipulate the internet and use it as a gate into the living world. People begin disappearing as they are possessed by the ill wills of the spirits and soon the whole of Tokyo is being consumed by the darkness. In the end, the entire city is abandoned, the majority of its millions of inhabitants turned into dark stains on the wall. The suspense-horror turned post-apocalyptic Kairo seems to suggest many things to, in the director's eyes, a very unaware world.
The image that has solidified J-Horror's mainstay in Western culture is the fabled yūrei, or the pale skinned, long black haired woman, often shown crawling or walking in a crippled fashion. To Americans, the image has become a simple source of horror. We were terrified by the young yūrei Cimarra in The Ring and were chilled by the baby version in The Grudge. Both of these remakes (rather rag-tag versions of far superior originals) became famous for this new style of ghosts. But in Japan, the yūrei had been a presence in folk tales and lore for thousands of years. A yūrei was a restless spirit who would often torment humans because some strong emotion existed that would not let them move on. Like so many things in J-Horror films, the yūrei were significant to the Japanese culturally, just like the red tape and the black stains in Kairo. Also throughout the film are countless recounts and suggestions to certain ideologies regarding death and the afterlife. In what seemed to be one of the key scenes of the film, protagonist Kawashima is affirmed by a mysterious classmate that he isn't seeing things, and that "the realm of the afterlife has finite space", and that it was beginning to overflow. Characters in the film seemed to approach the spirits in different ways, some boldly confronting them, some freezing in fear, and others committing suicide. Ironically, all seem to be way in which people confront death and the impending fear that all face at one point of another in their lives. Eventually this fear consumes all of Tokyo are, suggestively, most of the world, and only those wise enough to ignore the fear, to fight it off, pursue on. Obviously less dense versions of meaning can be derived from the film's end, like "don't use the internet", but these days, where we rely on the internet for so many things in our daily life, that meaning seems obsolete. In the end, I found Kario to be an entertaining, thrilling film, and its intellectual messages made it obvious to me why it was screened under Un Certain Regard at Cannes. Kurosawa crafted a different idea, casted a solid core of young actors, added some chilling visuals and music, and ultimately produced a cult classic. If only American horror filmmakers could come up with original ideas like these...
Directed by: Takeshi Kitano
Country of origin: Japan
Starring: Beat Takeshi, Aya Kokumai, Tetsu Watanabe, Ken Osugi
Music by: Joe Hisaishi
It was only appropriate for me to pair my viewing of HANA-BI with its sister film, Takeshi Kitano's subtle precursor Sonatine. The film is a very typical specimen of Kitano's signature works, involving many of the same themes, motifs, and techniques as most of his films, old and new. But Sonatine holds a special place in his filmography, marking the beginning of a new level of filmmaking that Kitano would begin to undertake. In his early films Violent Cop, Boiling Point, and even the atypical A Scene at the Sea, Kitano approached the very simplistic stories with very simplistic methods of editing and directing. Not to say that this was necessarily a bad thing; on the contrary, Kitano's earlier films were just as fresh to their audiences as his later gems were. But with those preceding three, in nearly all aspects of the film, Kitano took it easy, seeming to tread softly as he gained his footing in the world of screenwriting and directing. But in 1993, Sonatine debuted alongside a newfound sense of entitlement in Kitano's style. Sonatine had an intellectual story, one that relied less on surprising brutal violence and more on thematic methods of cinematic story telling. Although Kitano's signature touches (yakuza endeavors, established motifs, frequent comic relief) were still very much present, the film's purpose seemed more mature, in both its narrative and its general direction.
Innocent fun with an undeniably violent undertone
Sonatine is not a movie-goer's kind of movie. Like many of Kitano's films beyond Sonatine, the predominant message is not entirely clear. One would not necessarily understand the film if only the visuals and dialogue were taken into shallow account. Sonatine is not a Transformers or a Twilight; it's not a mindless film meant to thrill its viewers with cheap spectacles. It relies more on thematic elements like symbolism and subtle analogies to make its true points, and without the right approach, many may find Sonatine to be relatively bland. But on the contrary, the amount of meaning that exists behind those elements is astounding. Very much like HANA-BI, Sonatine has layers of possible interpretations. Words that best describe its approach may be ones like contemplative, methodic, and perhaps even avant garde. Sonatine has very little dialogue and relies more on quality acting and Hisaishi's score, which is like none other the master has ever composed. As seasoned yakuza Murakawa begins to tire of the gangster life, he takes advantage of a mission to Okinawa and decides to vacate his violent profession for the time being. Taking his men along with him, they settle down into a cottage on the beach and enjoy life for a few days. Sonatine is almost like a black comedy, Kitano reverting back to his gag roots. It seems to critique the lifestyle and morals that the yakuza practice by comparing them to childish games. Murakawa and the gang begin to have fun, playing with the frisbee, having a Sumo wrestling match, singing and dancing, and even having a Roman candle war. But amidst the obvious fun that the men are expressively having, there is an obvious presence of danger. A gun is nearly always involved in these games, typically being there for some sort of sadist, suicidal reason. The gunshots almost seem to act as music, as a different language. In the film's famous scene, Murakawa plays a game a Russian Roulette and beams as he pulls the trigger with the last chamber. There ends up being no bullets in the barrel at all, but he later dreamt about the ordeal, beaming as he pulled the trigger and killed himself. This sense of violence is present in each one of their childish games, but despite this, the audience laughs. Kitano masked this danger well, and because of that, something on screen that would normally make us cringe makes us smile. This is a feat that Kitano will continue to achieve in his films even today.
Sonatine's message seems very open to interpretation, and in the end I think the film means something different to each person. To me, the film was relaxing. With Hisaishi's child-like tone and the stoic jokes that make up the film's body, I found myself laughing and watching intently the entire time. But when the character that you grow so fond of are suddenly killed off, and Murakawa barely bats an eye, you and the protagonist are instantly transported back into the real, violent world. Kitano's Sonatine is eccentric, surprising, and new, and because of this it has become a cult classic in America, one of the 90's significant foreign arthouse classics. It seems to breathe a relaxed sense of life. It begins by establishing a tense tone of brutal violence and angry men seeking to vex their manliness. But upon arrival to the ocean, Kitano's ultimate signature motif, those inhibitions melt away and we are left with the mindset that is Sonatine. The word "sonatine" is itself a great definition of what the film stands for: "a piece of music containing shorter movements and demanding less technical aspects than a sonata". Sonatine is simple, and although its message will be vague for many, the film seeks to do nothing less than inspire its audience. The purpose is close to Kitano, the film seeming to be the incarnation of many deep thoughts of the auteur. Sonatine is a moving piece and the first great work of a master filmmaker.
Directed by: Takeshi Kitano
Country of origin: Japan
Starring: Beat Takeshi, Kayoko Kishimoto, Ken Osugi
Music by: Joe Hisaishi
Returning from my hiatus of college beginning once again, I thought it best to start out fresh with one of my favorite films, Takeshi "Beat" Kitano's HANA-BI, or Fireworks, as it was released in the United States. HANA-BI is considered the auteur Kitano's greatest film, covering a vast array of themes and conflicts and giving audiences the best showcase of exactly what "Beat" stands for as a director. Throughout his large list of works, Kitano has experimented with most mainstream Japanese genres; everything from dramas like HANA-BI and Kikujiro to art films like Dolls, and even verging to the avant garde with his "Existential Trilogy". Kitano is most known for his earlier films focusing on yakuza endeavors, which he, in one form or another, incorporates into each one of his movies. HANA-BI is no exception, only this time instead of playing a yakuza, Kitano plays the central role of a disgraced cop turned criminal, giving viewers something of an omniscient view over all of the films' context. HANA-BI is such a successful film because it delivers touches of drama, comedy, action, and a taste of Japanese values to a very unexposed American audience.
Shocked and bloodied Nishi
Kitano plays the central role of Nishi, a quiet retired cop with a troubled past. Violence and death have surrounded Nishi for his entire adult life, with regular violent run-ins with the yakuza, the murder of his old partner, the crippling of his best friend, and the sudden death of his five year old daughter. Needless to say, Nishi has much to be depressed about, and the once cool-mannered and just cop not only resigned his position as a policeman but also adopted a ruthless aggression. At the death of his partner, Nishi's stress overflowed and he emptied his gun into the corpse of the perpetrator. This sparked his downfall. On top of all of this, his wife is terminally ill and has only weeks to live. Nishi seems to contemplate this throughout the film, saying little to nothing but taking the time to stop and evaluate often, Kitano's trademark deadpan doing its trick. As we see this decorated retired cop involve himself with the yakuza, rob a bank, and brutally batter dozens of people, Kitano subtly asks us to decide whether Nishi is good or bad. Although his actions are shocking and immoral, he does everything for honest causes and consistently shows signs of the tenderness that he once possessed. He shares innocent jokes with the junkyard owner, his partner in crime of sorts. He stands up for his wife and tends to her in silent fashion. The audience cheers for the antihero Nishi, and we find ourselves laughing and empathizing with him even as he abruptly beats and kills people. In a nutshell, Nishi as a character is very complex, both intellectually and in regarding his past. We never really know what's going through his head, and even in the film's last seconds, when we think we have him figured out, the plot twists one last time.
One of many of Kitano's own painting featured in the film, symbolizing his real-life experiences
Like all of his films, HANA-BI is a very personal piece to Kitano. He wrote the screenplay while recovering from a traumatic motorcycle accident and also took up painting during his hiatus. The situation that the crippled detective Horibe finds himself in is in fact a parallel to Beat's own experience. The crash left half of his body paralyzed, thus leaving him trapped in a wheelchair for several months. When you look at the emotions that Horibe went through, you begin to realize how sad Kitano's life was at that point. Suicide was such a vivid motif throughout HANA-BI, and one can only come to wonder how prevalent the thought was inside Kitano's own head. But he did eventually rehabilitate and overcome his injury, and from it it seems as though he discovered one of life's true gifts, in his case his passion of painting. HANA-BI has such an array of symbols and hidden themes, critics could watch it time and time again and still find new layers of meaning. The gunshot resembling the sound of a firework, the firework resembling the shape of a vibrant flower, a flower symbolizing the purest, most beautiful form of life. The motifs go on, and dozens of conclusions can be drawn from the film's varied phases of emotions and particular visuals. Which is the right one? Well, perhaps none are wrong. After all, I firmly believe HANA-BI to be the direct translation of the mountain of thought and emotion that was built inside a lonely man. When Kitano was injured, people verbally doubted that he would ever return, but instead of an early retirement, he produced Fireworks. Like himself, Nishi was a broken man who was forced to act, and no matter the manner or consequence, he did what he had to do to meet his goals. This seems to be a motto to live by, and one that Takeshi constantly relies on throughout his works. To me HANA-BI is a veritable rainbow of messages and emotions and one of the finest pieces of modern Japanese cinema. I could sit here and write pages about what the film says and what it does to me as a viewer. Needless to say, Kitano's classic has reinvigorated me once again, and I'm all the more eager to jump back into some more spectacular cinema.
Directed by: Yojiro Takita
Country of origin: Japan
Starring: Masahiro Motoki, Ryoko Hirosue, Tsutomu Yamazaki
Last night I decided to revisit Yojiro Takita's Academy Award winning drama, Departures, and tonight my eyes are still sore. Departures is a powerfully emotional film, director Takita moving his viewers through stoic cinematography and through an emphasis on his strong leads. Okuribito is a softly spoken film, relying on visual symbolism to completely convey its deep messages. A significant amount of time is taken to dwell on the faces of the film's major characters. At various times in Departures, the camera remains stable upon Daigo Kobayashi's face, perhaps motioning to the depression that he's been harboring, or to the gradual emotional progression that he undergoes during the film's duration. This stasis of the camera is a common element in the cinematography of Departures, giving the film a very somber, even existential tone.
At its heart a very human and simple film, Departures is a character study and a reminder to the viewer that life is simply what you make it. Motoki plays the lead role of Daigo, an unemployed cellist who was abandoned by his father at a early age. Over the time that we spend with him, we realize how much this absence has effected his life. The film begins on a depressing note, Daigo landing the symphony position of his dreams and losing it after his first gig. He decides to move back to his hometown to start new. This serves as a reminder that our dreams may not always be that realistic. Director Takita frames Daigo's life very simply, seeming to accentuate the normality of it. Digging deeper, one realizes that all of the deaths and general conflicts of the supporting characters are reflections of what Daigo's life is or could be. Yojiro Takita manages to find someway to make each of the casketting scenes, or nohkan scenes, so heartbreaking. Each of the scenes seems to create a miniature subplot within themselves, introducing a series of complex characters or family conflicts. But through subtle, brief writing and strong acting, the viewer is able to understand what those families are going through. Each nohkan scene is completely different, yet so sad and happy at the same time. I found myself crying for the families who had lost their loved ones. There was always a break-down, a moment in which a family member, usually a male, just can't hold his sorrow in anymore. It's revealed in the end that each of these scenes is a foreshadow of the release that Daigo finally feels in the film's last scene. It all comes together satisfyingly well. Many call Departures a slow film, but the smooth, meditative pace in which the story is portrayed was refreshing and effective for me. Like so many Asian films, Takita stopped to dwell upon the subtle beauties of the characters and their surroundings. Departures is so successful due to strong leads and its human message, and has me crying like a baby as it all came together. A beautiful film, Yokiro Takita's Oscar winner forces the viewer to pause an appreciate life.
Steelhead and the illegals taking the Taiwanese district
Directed by: Derek Yee
Country of origin: Hong Kong (2009)
Starring: Jackie Chan, Naoto Takenaka, Daniel Wu
I was feeling a little lethargic last night an decided to sink my teeth into a more of a bottom-shelf type film, one requiring less thought or attention, and I got just that with Derek Yee's Shinjuku Incident. I'll give any film with Jackie Chan in it a chance; there's nothing like seeing one of his highly stylized martial arts fight scenes in the wee hours of the morning. But, frankly, Shinjuku was a very muddled, borderline corny film. It tells a fictional tale of a Chinese man (Nick Steelhead) who illegally immigrated to the Shinjuku district in Japan. Supposedly his goal was to move there in order to live a better life, but this motive automatically fell short after seeing how happy Nick was in his village. All the flashbacks of him in the China showed him with shelter, food, loved ones, and generally in good spirits. Why he would leave all of that for the filthy streets of Japan was beyond me. Sure, he primarily did so in order to find his loved on, Xiu Xiu, but that necessity becomes obsolete early on when he finds a new girl in Shinjuku. In general, the Shinjuku's story just takes itself way to seriously, and places that could've shined are ultimately ruined by poor acting or an overdose of melodrama. Cliche becomes a huge element in Shinjuku's demise. Instances of sudden intense violence and even a scene of graphic sexuality are really the only things that merit Shinjuku its "R" rating, all of which are completely unnecessary. The potential of its unique premise is undoubtedly squandered, and reading reviews and seeing awards it was nominated for, I found myself asking what idiots actually thought this film was great. It was entertaining, and that is an overstatement.
Jackie Chan's performance is definitely the saving grace of Yee's Shinjuku Incident, if there is one. Yee pushed back the production of this film for two years because he believed Chan was perfect for the part. I do agree with him there; the dark, relatively silent role of Nick Steelhead does seem to suit Chan well. Yee said in an interview that "people are too familiar with the image of a fighting Jackie Chan. It's time for him to move on to drama." While this may be true, Shinjuku may not have been the best vehicle for Chan to kick things off in. Jackie's acting is really hit or miss. It was a hit in The Karate Kid. A hit in the Rush Hour films. But in Shinjuku it was ultimately a miss. He definitely gave the role his all, but the story was too ridiculous for him to truly shine. The scenes where he had to cry were the nails in his coffin; they reeked of cheese. And after sitting through 120 minutes of Shinjuku, wouldn't you know it, there wasn't a single Jackie Chan fight scene. He didn't block a single punch or hit a single person. On the contrary, Nick Steelhead was a big pushover. He possessed courage, but everytime he stepped up, he ended up just running away. It was very disappointing.
In the last scenes of the film, the warring Yakuza gangs ended up bombarding Steelhead's apartment with stones and samurai swords....... This justly sums up the ridiculous style in which the Japanese mafia was portrayed. After seeing Kitano's masterpieces like Sonatine and Hana-bi, the Yakuza in Shinjuku Incident were laughable. They were shown more as lowlife thugs and bodyguards, and spoke slowly and simply like they had only an elementary school education. They were a bunch of cowards, and the fact that they did their bidding with samurai swords was absolutely inaccurate and borderline stereotypical. The last scene played out almost like a wuxia film, in which the yakuza, for whatever reason, decided to chuck stones at Nick's building before charging it ninja-style with Japanese steel. Shinjuku Incident was mildly entertaining in its ridiculous. It was cliched and overblown, and as much as I love Jackie Chan, not even he could save it from being another violent flop.
