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.
