Recently Viewed: Mikey and Nicky

I should have my head examined for sleeping on Mikey and Nicky for so long; it’s the exact flavor of old school indie cinema that I adore: scrappy, cynical, minimalistic, deeply personal, and aggressively ‘70s in its sensibilities. Whatever the film may lack in visual polish, it more than makes up for in sheer attitude. Elaine May’s directorial style is simple and rough around the edges, but also admirably unobtrusive, giving the actors plenty of room to breathe, experiment with the material, and thoroughly inhabit their complex characters.

And what marvelous performances they deliver! Peter Falk and John Cassavetes are perfectly cast as the eponymous odd couple; their believable chemistry and naturalistic improvisations lend the turbulent relationship around which the conflict revolves an air of authenticity. The narrative crackles with excruciating tension and urgency as our flawed, morally ambiguous protagonists bicker, reconcile, confront their mutual resentments, and ultimately resign themselves to their tragic fates.

Goes to show that you don’t really need an astronomical budget, gratuitous stunts, and spectacular special effects to craft a suspenseful thriller (or “dark comedy,” if you subscribe to conventional genre classifications)—just a solid script, a few buddies to bring it to life, and a camera to capture the magic. Hell, even lighting, ADR, pulling focus, and consistent continuity are of secondary concern.

Recently Viewed: Dreadnaught

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Although the Criterion Channel’s description neglects to advertise it as such, the 1981 kung-fu horror-comedy Dreadnaught belongs to Yuen Woo-ping’s loosely connected Wong Fei-hung series. Whereas the original Drunken Master featured the historical figure turned folk hero as a mischievous student (portrayed by the inimitable Jackie Chan) and Iron Monkey explored his childhood (as the son of professional badass Donnie Yen), this film depicts him as a wise old mentor—played, appropriately enough, by Kwan Tak-hing, who starred as the character in approximately seventy-seven movies (according to the notoriously reliable Wikipedia’s undoubtedly accurate count, anyway).

The plot (minimalistic as it is) revolves around Mousy, a meek, cowardly youth constantly terrorized by local thugs, corrupt cops, and… adorable puppies. Since it’s his job to collect on overdue bills for his sister’s struggling laundry business, his timid demeanor is a significant problem; thus, at the insistence of a sympathetic friend, he seeks tutelage under the esteemed Master Wong. The perceptive teacher quickly intuits that his reluctant disciple is a naturally gifted martial artist; he merely lacks the confidence required to effectively utilize his innate skills. When a convoluted sequence of events makes him the target of a deranged, bloodthirsty assassin, however, necessity might yet transform our pussycat of a protagonist into a courageous lion.

Yuen’s greatest talent lies in his ability to convey story and characterization through fight choreography, and Dreadnaught certainly delivers in that regard; every punch calls back to a narrative seed introduced in an earlier scene—a deliciously satisfying display of setup and payoff reminiscent of Edgar Wright’s Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. During the climactic showdown, for example, Mousy discovers that his family’s trademark “two-fingered grasp” technique is useful for more than just drying clothes; his firm grip strength—developed from years of wringing out wet fabric—gives him an unexpected advantage whilst grappling with his savage opponent… until his foe simply rips off the tattered remnants of his shirt, at least.

That deft juggling of tones—effortlessly transitioning between humor and suspense—elevates Dreadnaught, compensating for its relatively superficial flaws (particularly its uneven pacing). Yuen is justifiably renowned for his contributions to The Matrix and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, but I hope that more of his work as a director becomes (legally) available in the West; while his movies may not be conventionally “prestigious” or stylistically polished (compared to those produced by, say, King Hu), they are consistently entertaining.

Recently Viewed: Blast of Silence

Having just belatedly watched Allen Baron’s Blast of Silence, I need to reevaluate my perception of an entire subgenre. Although the movie is, in many respects, rather typical of classic noir—featuring voiceover narration that epitomizes purple prose, moody black-and-white cinematography that reduces the visuals to blazingly bright lights and shadowy silhouettes, and a tone boiled so hard that it’ll crack your molars—its comparatively minimalistic, postmodernist approach to the otherwise unapologetically pulpy subject matter (probably necessitated by its evident low budget) shares far more stylistic and thematic DNA in common with Le Samouraï, Branded to Kill, and Taxi Driver—all of which it predates.

Please note that in this case, “minimalism” is not synonymous with “subtlety.” There is, for instance, nothing understated about the score, which blends bongo drums, jazzy trumpets, glockenspiels, and choral hymns into a cacophonous symphony that mirrors the protagonist’s fractured, chaotic psyche. Such blatant “symbolism” permeates the whole narrative. Setting the story in New York City during Christmastime, for example, is as inspired as it is obvious; the cold, brutal urban decay reflects our rugged antihero’s emotional isolation, while the rampant commercialism of the holiday season perfectly complements his mercenary motives. Indeed, the first image that we see is an evocative POV shot of a train speeding through a dark tunnel—a metaphorical “birth” that fires the audience into the film’s violent, morally corrupt world like a bullet erupting from the barrel of a gun.

Bearing these apparent aesthetic contradictions in mind, where does Blast of Silence “belong” in terms of its historical relevance—to the Old School or the New Wave? Should it be ranked alongside the seminal works of such Golden Age Hollywood masters as John Huston, Howard Hawks, and Billy Wilder? Or does it share a closer kinship with the deconstructionist efforts of indie luminaries like Godard, Schrader, and Scorsese (hell, there’s a valid argument to be made that it is, at the very least, a distant cousin to Chantal Akerman’s News from Home)? Ultimately, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that these distinctions aren’t truly important. Art is, of course, a cultural conversation—but confining it to rigid, inflexible “categories” is counterproductive, diminishing the value of individual pieces by arbitrarily attaching them to broader “movements.” Blast of Silence succeeds on its own merits; that it clearly anticipated The American and David Fincher’s The Killer is simply an amusing bit of trivia.

Recently Viewed: Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

What is “bravery?” Is it dying for one’s cause without hesitation, even if the sacrifice is ultimately fruitless? Or is it surviving by any means necessary, using wit and cunning to carry on the fight another day? This is the central theme of Nagisa Oshima’s Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, a World War II drama that explores the conflict between the Imperial Japanese officers occupying the island of Java and the Allied POWs under their supervision.

As far as the tyrannical Captain Yonoi (Ryuichi Sakamoto, pulling double duty as the movie’s star and composer) is concerned, the foreign soldiers in his charge are subhuman wretches, inherently unworthy of respect—that they allowed themselves to be captured is irrefutable evidence of their dishonor. Yet these “cowards” consistently refuse to be intimidated, enduring starvation, solitary confinement, grueling interrogation, and unimaginable torture in order to protect their comrades from accusations of espionage and subterfuge.

Major Jack Celliers (a positively angelic David Bowie)—who surrendered to enemy forces only after they threatened to slaughter innocent natives—is particularly vexing in this regard. His arrival throws the camp into utter disarray, his audacious insubordination and stoic defiance inspiring small acts of disobedience and rebellion among the ranks. When the men are denied food for some minor infraction, for example, he smuggles rations into the barracks; when the guards retaliate by raiding the medical tent, he encourages the patients to sing as loudly as possible, their voices drowning out the barked orders to submit to inspection.

Perhaps this selflessness is what attracts the deeply closeted Yonoi to Celliers. The major’s unwavering loyalty appeals to the captain, who secretly sees himself as a disgrace to the Bushido code for his failure to die alongside his fellow radicals during the thwarted 1936 uprising; this irresistible admiration, which directly contradicts his prejudices, consequently manifests as infatuation, obsession, and insatiable carnal desire—with tragic repercussions.

Beyond the obvious and frequently discussed queer reading of its narrative (which is, to be clear, a totally valid/inevitable interpretation of the material), Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence is ultimately about challenging the characters’ inflexible preconceptions. To quote the eponymous Colonel Lawrence, who serves as a mediator between the two opposing sides (albeit with limited success):

Indeed, both the Japanese and Westerners seem to consider “guilt” to be a relative and irrelevant term. Yonoi, for instance, is quite forthright about his policy of punishing arbitrarily-selected scapegoats as a warning to future saboteurs; the victorious Allies, meanwhile, are likewise perfectly content to incarcerate and execute only the lowest ranking military personnel for atrocities committed on the battlefield, all but pardoning their equally culpable superiors.

Such is the senseless nature of war, violence, and power.

Recently Viewed: Solaris (1972)

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

I didn’t fall in love with Solaris at first sight. Its pacing is languid and glacial even by director Andrei Tarkovsky’s usual standards; by the time the protagonist arrives at the eponymous space station, over forty minutes have elapsed—and the story doesn’t exactly pick up momentum from there. Exposition is delivered with all the urgency of a trickle of molasses and all the clarity of a technical manual that’s been printed in the wrong order.

And yet… the film lingered in my mind, gradually, seductively revealing the beauty beneath its introspective navel-gazing. Indeed, it is only appropriate that the movie continued to haunt my dreams like a cosmic phantom long after the end credits rolled, for memory is its central thematic concern.

The plot revolves around a small team of astronauts studying a seemingly sentient planet. In response to being bombarded with radiation, the intelligence governing the alien world probes each researcher’s subconscious, constructing neutrino-based doppelgängers of their friends, children, and family members in an apparent effort to communicate. But because these “Visitors” are shaped by the host’s inherently subjective personal experiences, they can only ever be shallow, two-dimensional imitations of the individuals from whom they were copied—ethereal specters torn out of a dreamlike past. Even when the simulacrum of our hero’s wife begins to develop an identity of her own, she is defined entirely by how she diverges from the original—and this uncanny dissonance between the rich complexity of life and the insubstantial hollowness of its reflection slowly drives the crew to the brink of insanity.

Solaris concludes with a visual bookend, repeating the poetic montage that served as its prologue: green reeds sway gracefully beneath a gently flowing stream, red leaves dance lazily in the breeze, sunlight glistens brilliantly on the surface of a placid lake. Replication, however, has greatly diminished the vibrancy of the imagery: the once vivid colors are now faded and muted, and a thin layer of ice creates the illusion of unnatural stillness, as though time itself has frozen.

The implication is clear: nostalgia has irreparably tarnished the characters’ perception of reality, leaving them incapable of distinguishing between an object and its shadow on the wall.

Recently Viewed: The Comfort of Strangers

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

The Criterion Channel categorizes The Comfort of Strangers as an “erotic thriller,” but I would instead describe it as a sensual drama. With the exception of Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters, it is director Paul Schrader’s most visually stylish film. His camera glides along like a disembodied spirit, stalking through dark alleyways and lavishly furnished apartments as though haunting the spaces it inhabits. Composer Antonio Badalamenti’s score likewise soars, evocative and ethereal. And cinematographer Dante Spinotti’s giallo-flavored lighting lends the ominous architecture depth, dimension, and texture. The imagery and sound design perfectly complement the tone—simultaneously beautiful and foreboding.

Structurally, the movie is also a tragedy. As I watched it, I was reminded of a quote from Ari Aster’s Hereditary:

From the moment they enter the narrative, The Comfort of Strangers’ hapless protagonists—an English couple on holiday in a last desperate effort to rekindle their romance—are doomed. They blindly, aimlessly wander the labyrinthine streets of Venice, blundering into dead ends, penned in by a network of crisscrossing canals—all the while oblivious to the fact that they are being led to the slaughter by a stealthy, enigmatic predator. By the time the cunning malefactor (played by Christopher Walken, who is equal parts charismatic and intimidating) has sprung his trap, they’ve had ample opportunity to escape—indeed, they even discussed rescheduling their flight home in an earlier scene— but they remain blissfully unaware of the peril until their final, fatal mistake.

If only the audience had the luxury of such ignorance! The inevitability of characters’ fate is evident from the very first frame. We pray for some miracle to avert the impending disaster; the urge to shout warnings at the screen is almost irresistible. Alas, our efforts are in vain; the gate has been checked, the picture locked.

Never has dramatic irony been so torturously, deliciously suspenseful.

Uh, pretty sure he’s been out of there for quite some time, Criterion...

Recently Viewed: The Ladykillers

In some movies, the setting can be as much of a protagonist as any human character. The Ladykillers, produced by Ealing Studios in 1955, provides an excellent example of such a film. The action unfolds almost entirely within the cramped interiors of a cozy cottage nestled at the end of a row of tenement houses overlooking a rail yard. Every inch of every room positively radiates personality: portraits hang crookedly on slanted walls, stubbornly refusing to be straightened; the elderly landlady has to hammer on the pipes with a wrench in order to get the water flowing; and tropical birds chatter incessantly in the parlor. Even Alec Guinness’ quirky criminal mastermind—with his snaggle-toothed grin, bug-eyed glare, and slicked-back hair—struggles to upstage such an idiosyncratic and colorful backdrop.

Recently Viewed: A Colt Is My Passport

Watched A Colt Is My Passport on the Criterion Channel. Directed by Takashi Nomura, this deliciously pulpy, noir-flavored yakuza thriller isn’t nearly as stylistically bold or narratively subversive as the offbeat, oddball masterpieces that emerged from the twisted imagination of fellow Nikkatsu workhorse Seijun Suzuki (Tokyo Drifter, Branded to Kill, Youth of the Beast), but the elegant, efficient, competent craftsmanship on display still manages to make it a memorable cinematic experience.

The story is the epitome of minimalism: after being betrayed by his employers, a taciturn contract killer (played by Joe Shishido, who personifies “cool” despite his comically chubby cheeks) must evade two rival gangs as he attempts to escape the country. The plot never really gets any more complex or nuanced than that, though Nomura elevates the somewhat thin material by lingering on smaller, subtler details—in one particularly captivating scene, for example, our protagonist takes a moment to admire a bird through the scope of his sniper rifle while awaiting his target’s arrival. Such juxtapositions of beauty and bloodshed become a recurring theme, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm (aided by composer Harumi Ibe’s Spaghetti Western-inspired score).

This perfectly balanced blend of “classy” and “trashy” elements makes A Colt Is My Passport the quintessential B-movie—a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but nevertheless effortlessly enjoyable. Indeed, one could even argue that its few superficial flaws only enhance its inherent charm.

Jim Jarmusch and the Poetry of the Mundane

A film’s setting shouldn’t simply lie flat on the screen; it is, after all, a character in and of itself, and must therefore be imbued with a certain degree of texture, color, and atmosphere. In Taxi Driver, for example, Martin Scorsese lends New York City a bleak, hellish, Stygian quality, with gaping sewer grates that belch steam into the night air and neon lights that bathe the streets in an eerie red glow. Joel Schumacher’s Falling Down, meanwhile, immerses the viewer in the oppressive heat of a Los Angeles teetering on the brink of explosive violence.

No director, however, shoots locations quite like Jim Jarmusch.

While the camera inherently distorts and transforms its subject, Jarmusch refuses to glamorize, romanticize, or exoticize the cities that he visits; instead, he makes a genuine effort to depict reality as it truly is. Rome, for instance, has never looked as gloomy, barren, and lonely as it has through the windshield of Roberto Benigni’s taxicab in Night on Earth. Similarly, Mystery Train avoids Memphis’ major tourist attractions (with the notable exception of a brief and somewhat... underwhelming trip to Sun Studios), preferring to explore the greasy eateries, smoky pool halls, and cheap hotel rooms frequented by the locals.

Although these portraits might seem unflattering at first glance, Jarmusch actually crafts them with a great deal of care, love, and affection. Indeed, his unostentatious visual style perfectly complements his aimless, rambling plots. His protagonists (especially those appearing in his earlier movies) tend to wander around without a concrete goal, discussing nothing of particular importance—and yet, the dialogue works in perfect harmony with the soundtrack (usually composed in collaboration with such esteemed artists as Tom Waits, John Lurie, RZA, and Neil Young) to create an almost musical rhythm.

The result is cinematic poetry that celebrates the transcendent beauty of the ordinary, the everyday, and the mundane.

[Yes, I know it’s a pseudonym for actress Yukiko Ehara. Still got a chuckle out of me while I was browsing the Criterion Channel.]

Recently Viewed: Leningrad Cowboys Go America

How does one approach describing a cinematic experience as singularly unique as Leningrad Cowboys Go America? Watching it is like unearthing a forgotten series of Saturday Night Live skits directed by Werner Herzog. It’s like discovering an unreleased film about Borat’s extended family. It’s like learning that the USSR collaborated with the Zucker Brothers to produce its own bootleg version of The Monkees.

It is, in short, a delightfully bizarre movie.

The episodically structured plot revolves around a Soviet band that is banished by the Communist government for, ironically enough, “lacking commercial appeal.” Assured that “Americans will buy anything,” our intrepid (and incompetent) heroes travel to the United States—depicted here as a hodgepodge of Cold War-era stereotypes that eviscerates both sides of the conflict—where they must contend with such obstacles as a tight-fisted manager, a tagalong village idiot... and the fact that one of their members is literally a frozen corpse. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that their traditional folk music won’t win them any fans; if they want to make it big, they’ll have to study and master the mysterious art of rock and roll.

The result is absurdist comedy par excellence. Sure, the humor is a bit one-note (even the title cards are presented in intentionally broken English)—but hey, it still manages to consistently deliver huge laughs!

Scorsese Sunday - American Boy: A Profile of Steven Prince

[The following analysis contains MAJOR SPOILERS; you have been warned!]

Contrary to their ostensible purpose—i.e., to depict an accurate snapshot of reality—documentaries are inherently untrustworthy. The very nature of cinematic language (from framing to editing to sound design) distorts the “truth,” allowing carefully constructed dramatizations to masquerade as objective facts. Martin Scorsese’s American Boy: A Profile of Steven Prince could almost serve as a thesis statement on this phenomenon.

Scorsese’s documentaries tend to be just as much about their own production as they are the stated subject, and this biographical portrait of former roadie and recovering heroin addict Steven Prince (best known to the public at large for his small role as an arms dealer in Taxi Driver) is no exception: the director frequently appears onscreen, consulting a schedule and muttering verbal notes to his editors; crew members nonchalantly lounge in the background of several shots; and little effort is made to hide the lights, microphones, and other equipment. The overall atmosphere evokes a film student’s midterm project: casual, improvisatory, and charmingly low-budget.

Until, that is, the movie reaches its final interview segment. Prince’s usual manic energy subsides as he reflects on his current relationship with his father, whose physical health is rapidly declining. Once he’s finished speaking, Scorsese asks him to elaborate; after a jump cut, Prince complies, telling the same story in greater detail. Scorsese then instructs him to repeat the anecdote again, but with slightly revised phrasing in order to convey the intended emotional effect.

This brief moment forces the viewer to reevaluate every previous scene: suddenly, the artifice is stripped away, the illusion exposed. How many of the conversations between Scorsese and Prince are actually spontaneous, as opposed to meticulously coached? The answer is unknowable and unattainable, because the audience is never privy to the whole “truth.”

We see only what Scorsese wants us to see.

Abbas Kiarostami and the Subtle Art of Shot/Reverse Shot

Shot/reverse shot is about as basic as film language gets: one character speaks; a second responds, back and forth in perfectly matched medium close-ups until the conflict is resolved—the cinematic equivalent of ping-pong. Plenty of video essayists on YouTube have lambasted the technique as the epitome of laziness in visual storytelling, but it does have its defenders—most notably Every Frame a Painting’s Tony Zhou, who argued that it is “still powerful when done precisely,” using the Coen Brothers’ body of work as a prime example:

From there, Zhou focuses on dissecting how the Coens’ stylistic approach creates a sense of intimacy, isolation, and entrapment, but I believe that it also has another potent psychological effect—one that I only consciously recognized after watching Abbas Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry for the first time.

Like the Coens, Kiarostami foregoes traditional “over-the-shoulder” coverage in favor of giving each character his own individual shot (partially by necessity; much of the action occurs within the cramped confines of an automobile)—and because the camera is therefore situated in between them, so too is the viewer. We, the members of the audience, inhabit the space where the conflict unfolds, soaking up all of the unspoken, sub-textual tension. Thus, we remain at the edge of our seats—even when nothing particularly exciting is happening.

Indeed, the vast majority of Kiarostami’s dialogue is utterly banal: the protagonist is vague and evasive, talking in circles around his emotions; nuggets of philosophical wisdom are granted just as much thematic significance as driving directions. Yet every single word, no matter how seemingly unimportant, absolutely crackles with suspense and urgency—all because of where the director chose to place the camera.

Recently Viewed: A Face in the Crowd

My brother gifted me a one-year subscription to the Criterion Channel for Christmas, and since I was stuck in bed with a nasty cold all day, I decided to finally make use of it—starting with a screening of Elia Kazan’s A Face in the Crowd.

Andy Griffith, here making his feature film debut, positively ignites the screen as Larry “Lonesome” Rhodes, a charismatic drifter that unexpectedly rockets to superstardom following a fateful man-on-the-street (or, in this case, “man-in-a-drunk-tank”) radio interview. From hosting hokey variety shows on television to masterminding advertising campaigns for multimillion-dollar corporations to rubbing elbows with influential politicians, nothing can stop his meteoric rise—and the farther he gets from his humble beginnings, the more ruthless he becomes. Eventually, his transparent lust for fame and power even alienates Patricia Neal’s Marcia Jeffries, the plucky reporter that discovered him and nurtured his “redneck guru” persona. Like Citizen Kane, A Face in the Crowd is a deliciously dark deconstruction of the American Dream; rags-to-riches stories are lovely in theory, but in reality, the privileged few that manage to make such a transition rarely reach the other side with an intact moral compass.

It’s worth noting that some modern viewers might find Kazan’s frank depiction of racial inequality to be mildly… off-putting: the county lockup glimpsed in the opening scene, for example, is segregated, with the African American prisoners separated into a significantly smaller cell. Rest assured, you’re supposed to feel uncomfortable; A Face in the Crowd forces the audience to confront a grave injustice that was, at the time, tragically commonplace. For a movie produced in 1957, the social commentary is particularly scathing.

Abbas Kiarostami’s 24 Frames is a beautiful ode to photography—that mad compulsion to capture a perfect instant in time, when the forces of nature submit to the will of the lens and shutter. Watching it has inspired me to share these pictures I snapped at work a few months back. Cheers!