I have reconsidered the way I use my multiple blogs and realized that I’m going to stop posting on this blog. Everything film related will go to the new Forced Perspective blog and everything else will be posted on my Twitter.
The goal of this blog will change soon since I’m going to form a collaborative blog with other film buffs. Instead of being the place for my writings on cinema this blog will literally be my “side dish”: I will throw anything mildly interesting here. You can expect anything from musings on music to quirky Internet gems.
Mamoru Oshii is a film maker that manages to drive me nuts – in good and bad ways. He is capable of creating superb films such as Ghost in the Shell, but he has a tendency of often going completely pretentious. Usually he relies too much on expository dialogue and ridiculous, obscure references to literature. Because of this I doubted that The Sky Crawlers (2008) could be magnificent despite hearing praise from reliable sources.
The Sky Crawlers tells the story of a “Kildren”, a boy who cannot grow up and experiences life as if it was a blur. He serves as a pilot in a meaningless war that rages on without an end in sight. Above all, it is a film that relies on mood since most of the film focuses on the pilots who hang around lifelessly at their base. Even the few action scenes are surprisingly distant: a fine line between intense thrills and alienating, unglorifying portrayal of action is somehow reached.
The CG animation of the battle scenes is marvellous, but Oshii restricts the form to make the action intentionally monotonous and gritty. The pacing is slow, but hypnotic in its own way. Kenji Kawai’s haunting soundtrack evokes a melancholic but gripping feeling – yet never falls for sentimentality somehow. It has a spellbinding effect on the viewer and especially when the main theme starts playing during the end credits you will most likely be in awe of its mysterious power.
Oshii lulled me into this intriguing world that initially seemed to offer anti-war ideas which I found fascinating (due to a personal opinion of mine). The emotionally hollow yet complex characters never failed to distract my attention from the film since they always offered something new to contemplate upon. Oshii doesn’t use dialogue blatantly and leaves most of his ideas deep beneath the screenplay’s superficial level – and thus the characters are mostly saved from the expository lines that could have destroyed the film – like they harmed Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence. The only bit where he resorts to this functions surprisingly well and it causes way more good than bad in the end.
Eventually Oshii extends the story a lot further, into a complex social critique that I would love to write about, but Justin Sevakis’ review on Anime News Network is as perfect as a reflective review of the film can get. I strongly recommend reading it here. Despite its strong nihilism, The Sky Crawlers manages to be a genuinely intellectual and powerful cinematic experience that refuses to leave my mind at peace.
Kon Ichikawa’s Kokoro (1955) is based on a famous Japanese novel written in the 1910’s. Now you are probably wondering why I insist on using its original Japanese title over a translated title. The problem is that the word has complex nuances that are utterly lost in the translation and many consider it impossible to come up with a sufficient English title. Even Eureka, the company responsible for Masters of Cinema DVD and blu-ray releases, decided to stick with Kokoro, simply because “The Heart” would hardly do it justice. On a basic level Kokoro means exactly that, but it is also heavily tied with the themes of isolation, guilt and psychological torment – which are explored in Ichikawa’s film.
Essentially, the movie is about the dramatic consequences of a love triangle between two childhood friends and a woman. At first it seems like a rather simple and worn-out premise, but it is approached in a refreshing and sophisticated way. It dives deep into its characters psychological state. Especially the teacher’s heavy burden is given a lot of attention, which has a devastating effect on the viewer – at least it did that to me. In terms of storytelling, Kokoro remains quite conventional until the final third which twists the chronology around a lot. However, by this time the events of the entire storyline are quite clear and the ambitious use of chronology works well to give more emphasis (and more depth) to the film’s themes. It also supports the emotional punch the climax will deliver. Haunting as a character study and tragic as a love story, Kokoro is a fine achievement in writing.
Next to the impeccable screenplay, the film’s form is rather disappointing. It might be intentionally formulaic and humble so that the viewer is distracted by nothing. However, the lighting is simply marvellous and the compositions are pleasant as well – but hardly live up to the high standards the other films from the period have set. It might be an insignificant complaint that the movie isn’t formally more ambitious or interesting, but it’s the only thing holding me from calling it a true masterpiece.
Ming-liang Tsai’s The River (1997) was the third film for the Taiwanese arthouse director. As usual, Lee Kang-sheng plays “himself” in the lead role. This time he suffers from a severe neck injury after floating in a filthy river (as an extra for a film). As silly as that sounds, the film seems to disregard the premise’s irrationality and simply lets its metaphors loose. The River is yet another exploration of sexuality, alienation and loneliness for Tsai and in a way it’s harsher than what he has made afterwards (although arguably less disturbing).
Formally the film is very Tsaiesque as well although his long takes don’t stretch as much as they would in his later films. There’s one thing that does stand out in The River’s form: he uses reflection in his compositions a lot more than in his other films. Especially mirrors seem to be everywhere. Sometimes it’s there so that he can simply avoid cutting (in order to get one take per scene), but sometimes there seem to be different reasons for this. It’s a fascinating thing to notice throughout the film, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the form wouldn’t be interesting either.
I don’t know if it is because I saw Tsai’s recent films first, but I have a growing feeling that I do not appreciate his early work as much. His 90’s films are very good without a doubt, but none of them is nearly as strong as his 2000’s films like What Time Is It There? (2001) and Goodbye Dragon Inn (2003). Maybe I don’t find his unrefined direction as interesting as his completely refined take on the same themes – which I often find funnier even though his early work does not omit comedy. The River certainly falls under the category of “being very good, but it would be quite forgettable without Tsai”.
A Gentle Breeze in the Village (2007) is Nobuhiro Yamashita’s most recent film. It focuses on a small school (only 7 students) and the students’ adventures after a new student comes from Tokyo to confuse their daily routine. Because Yamashita is the one responsible for Linda Linda Linda (a magnificent film about 4 high school girls forming a band for their culture festival) I set myself relatively high expectations for this film and I will naturally compare it to his earlier masterpiece. To make writing and reading this review easier, I’ll refer to these two films simply as Breeze and Linda.
Judging from the films I’ve seen, Yamashita is interested in youth more than anything and because of that both take place at a school. However, they are structured in drastically different ways: where Linda had a clear goal Breeze wanders completely aimlessly for an hour and after that it tries to get its act together. Without that narrative tension Yamashita’s vision seems to stumble because he is utterly lost during the first hour of the film: bland characters doing bland things in a bland story and a bland romance of utter blandness. The humor works only on a few occasions – otherwise it’s just awkward.
Then, in all of a sudden, something happens. Yamashita finds a thematic current running through the story as the two oldest students of school realize their graduation will happen soon. The result is a mildly fascinating coming of age story combined with a bittersweet meditation on the passing of time, which is still hindered by occasionally weird writing. For example, the final sequence of the film is a complete blunder on all fronts.
Despite the chaotic and flawed screenplay Yamashita’s form is still very effective and interesting. It has that same charm that Linda had. The takes are neither long or shot; he has found some sort of calm average that flows naturally throughout the film. Camera movement is restricted – or at least that’s what it seems like. It does move quite a lot when you pay more attention to it, but it’s so smooth and only moves so little during one shot that it feels more like a restrained camera than a truly moving camera. This method supports the glorious photography which makes the film’s ordinary imagery seem ethereal. The subtle but cheerful soundtrack adds a lovely finishing touch to the visuals.
In overall I can say I feel puzzled over this film. At the same time it is a formal miracle and really horribly written turd.
You have most likely heard and read so many complaints of the “death” of cinemagoing, the act of actually watching a film in a theater on a big screen (sounds daft, doesn’t it?). Don’t worry: I’m not going to write about that. I was pleasantly reminded of them when I decided to go watch Michael Haneke’s Das Weisse Band (The White Ribbon, 2008) on the big screen when I had a rare chance to do so. I haven’t found the time or motivation to explore the director’s filmograhy before and I didn’t have high hopes for the film, but it was the first time I could watch a possibly pretentious arthouse film in a comfy theater so I naturally went to watch the film. It also helped that it won the Palme d’or award at the Cannes film festival in 2009.
I used to go to the movies often as a kid, but in the past few years it has become a rare occasion for me. Partly because I’m terribly dissatisfied with the films screened at the local movie theaters. The screening for The White Ribbon was … refreshing, to say the least. Firstly, the theater was run more comfortably and humbly than I expected when the ads promoted it as “Arthouse cinema” which is sort of fitting: they only screen films aimed at hipsters and artsy people. The tickets were sold unglamorously in a hallway and the other moviegoers seemed nice enough. I found myself a seat from the third last row, almost at the midpoint of the row. The seat was comfortable enough although my butt was numb after two hours and thirty minutes (one of the common downsides). The screen could have been a bit bigger, but I can’t complain about it since the visuals still sucked me in. After the loud noises of the trailers the sound was convenient as well – possibly because the film is relatively silent.
In comparison to my earlier cinema experiences the audience was vastly different: they made almost no sound throughout the film, which was refreshing to the crowded and noisy theaters. There were no loud kids, no disgusting eating habits, no telephones, no talking and no awkward bursts of laughter. There was also one interesting tidbit I’d like to mention: instead of being a mixed bag of all sorts of people the audience clearly consisted of two groups: elder women and hipster students – try to figure out which one I belong to. Despite the slightly injured film print and badly handled subtitles (on a few occasions they were to impossible to read) this screening is certainly the best one I’ve ever been to. Was it necessary to go watch The White Ribbon in an actual theater? Probably not, but it does make any film more grand and effective its own way – depending on whether the theater is great or not.
So did Haneke’s exploration of human cruelty impress me? Yes and no. If anything, The White Ribbon is formally one of the greatest efforts of the past few years. The black and white long take aesthetic has caused many critics to say it only imitates Ingmar Bergman’s trademark style. I find the similarities only superficial since being black and white and using long takes are the only things Bergman and White Ribbon have in common. The editing patterns, camera movement and the use of close-ups is drastically different, but Haneke’s form is still nearly as effective as Bergman’s. The film is surprisingly “silent” althought its brilliant sound design is menacing and dominating.
The film’s problems lie in the content. It’s almost as if Haneke was thematically bankrupt and decided to repeat vague and brutal acts of cruelty for 145 minutes with a terribly heavy-handed and unfunctional historical context (= tries to provide some sort of roots for the Nazi regime). Even though the screenplay manages to create distinct and interesting characters at the beginning of the film they all disappear into obscurity by the midpoint of the film since the failing foundation derives them of any depth or interest.
Heck, the film even has a strong narrative – which can be both elliptical and direct – which can easily be forgotten next to the terrible aspects of the writing. I loved how the central moments of cruelty and pain were mostly omitted or filmed offscreen in the first third of the film. Thanks to this distant approach the entire film had an unnerving atmosphere that paid off at the end of the film when Haneke didn’t look away anymore.
It’s not as if The White Ribbon is a waste of time because it is so pretentious at its core. It is technically marvellous and still somewhat interesting thanks to the clever storytelling. However it proves to be rather shaky upon reflection and that’s why I find it hard to appreciate what Haneke achieves with the film.
Ozumaniac 