Only This Much Shadow Left: The Day I Became A Woman (2000)

I am going on the record as saying that were I afforded an unlimited amount of time, brain power and ability to master an understanding of cultural mores and language that I would wholly spill my time into understanding all things related to Iranian cinema.  While it is not my primary focus or even one of my sub-research interests as I become more invested in my academic endeavors I am quite certain in my assertion that it has produced some of the best films in the past two decades, hovering almost entirely around the wonderful offerings of Abbas Kiarostami.  However, he is far from the only director working in the country and others have produced keenly meta-cinematic works that manage to consider the state of identity in Iran both on a literal and metaphorical level, all lending in some degree to the impossible, yet perfect, blending of the realist and allegorical tradition of this countries cinematic output.  I adore these works, A Moment of Innocence and Close-Up being two notable works, however, upon the discovery that there existed a film by an Iranian woman that had achieved equal status demanded its being sought out, or more accurately introduced to me by a professor, and the result was nothing short of an evocation on art and the nature of the self when it is in contrast to competing notions of what one should do in a society whose history is a maddening conflation of contradictions as well as rich and proud history.  The Day I Became a Woman is the poetic and magical work by Marzieh Meshkini and it is nothing short of pure cinematic perfection.  Told in a tripartite narrative, this film manages to cleverly navigate tenuous boundaries of temporal and spatial existence to show that perhaps not everything is as idyllic in a country whose global exoticization, paired with a particularly tense relationship with the "western" world has resulted in a cinematic experience so inherently unique that to place another layer of non-normative identity upon it causes it to take on an ethereal and outright moving quality.  If cinema truly has the ability to move beyond the real into another layer of understanding, The Day I Became a Woman is the backbone to such an aesthetic argument.

Clearly divided between three stories, The Day I Became a Woman begins with the experiences of Haveh (Fatemah Cherag Akhar) a girl on the island of Kish who has just turned nine years old, therefore making her subject to the wearing of traditional chador (Islamic headdress for Iran).  Confused by this demand, enforced by her grandmother and own mother, Haveh simply wants to spend the day playing with her friend Hassan (Hassan Nebah).  While she cannot put off her becoming woman she is able to bargain for an extra hour of play with Hassan that is limited by his having to complete homework, thus resulting in her having only time to share an exchange of a lollipop with Hassan before being placed in the chador and carted off by her mother.  The second story centers on Ahoo (Shabnam Toloui) a young woman who is shown competing in a bicycle race with other woman on the island and while she seems content with simply riding with the pack when a her husband approaches on horseback demanding that she give up racing and return home, the panicked Ahoo continues to ride forward never stopping or appearing to consider giving up.  Indeed, as her husband and other men from her tribe approach demanding that she stop, Ahoo drives forward blowing past all the other women in her race, however, when the tribe gets their leaders involved, including some of Ahoo's brothers, their blocking of the road prevent her from moving forward, becoming a thing in the background of another riders line of sight.  The third portion of the story focuses on Hoora, or Houra (Azizeh Sedighi) an elderly woman landing in Kish in hopes of doing some extensive duty free shopping.  Houra, complete with a series of strings on her fingers to remind her of the items she needs, begins accruing furniture and appliances at an alarming rate, her source of money is confusing to all involved.  Yet when she completes her list, save for one item on her finger which she cannot recollect, she is not quite ready to leave, therefore she sets up her wares on the beach in a sort of house without walls much to the elation of the boys she has hired as help and the confusion of two women who have approached on bicycle, purportedly having just finished the race involving Ahoo.  Regardless, Houra has the boys build her a raft that allows her to float her goods onto a ship in the distance skyline, all the while the newly chador donning Haveh looking on with an enigmatic look that suggests both despondence and curiosity.

Time, space and identity are all clear themes within Meshkini's stunning film.  However, to some degree, these are also central issues in pretty much every film, although uniquely so to Iranian cinema and its bizarre world of hyper-censorship.  I, however, am fascinated with the ways in which Meshkini uses movement to suggest something transitory, if not constantly liminal.  The figures in her film seem to be caught in an impossible space between the world of representation and the reality the viewers are living.  Take for example, the innocent, yet highly sexualized sharing of a lollipop between Haveh and Hassan.  The continuity in this shot is off, but it would appear to be a choice on the part of Meshkini, as the two are now split off from the world, the cutting of the scene never showing the two children (or new adults?) in the same frame, it would break censorship, yet through a stroke of delightful precociousness, the two share in an intimate encounter, overlaid by suckling sounds on the overdub soundtrack that moves between the diagetic and non-diagetic simultaneously.  The two move in impossible ways because to depict them in a normal encounter would be to face off against strict censorship.  Incidentally, even in its cut off manner, censors still suggested that Meshkini remove the scene altogether.  Ahoo's movement is perhaps most evocative, because the constant shots from the forefront of her biking towards the screen invoke the same sense of terror that occurred in Arrival at the Train Station or the Klans ride in Birth of a Nation.  However, what is impending and fear inducing, is instead a shared encounter between Ahoo fleeing an oppressive past and the viewers, assumedly the women encountering the film.  The intercuts of Ahoo's peddling feet and the clomping of horses chasing the rebellious Ahoo suggest a movement both transitionally, but also metaphorically as she becomes animalistic in her flight from illogical oppression, but more importantly, an unseen predator.  Finally, it is worth quickly noting Houra's own movement which is decidedly more aided by the mechanical, whether it be her landing in the space on a plane or the aid of her extended wheelchair/pushcart, Houra represents a figure whose movement is figuratively disembodied and requires the help of others.  Her female identity overlaid by this and a desire to consume all that she never had speaks to immobility of women in the space of cinema and culture in wild and transgressive ways.  Again it is worth noting that the film was made within censorship restrictions, but manages to knowingly contradict them at every opportunity.

Key Scene:  The lollipop scene is seriously one of the most complex of cinematic encounters I have ever witnessed and this is in a film full of visually transgressive commentary.

The DVD transfer is not great, but aside from a Korean region 3 DVD it is the only option and it looks phenomenal regardless.  As such buying a copy is a MUST.

I Cook A Local Stew, Stewing In My Own Juices: One Sings, The Other Doesn't (1977)

I recently obtained myself a MUBI account, not because I really need another venue to stream movies from, but mostly because I caught wind of an ultra rare Agnes Varda film being offered from the seventies.  Knowing that I adore her work, I decided at 2.91 a month MUBI was more than well worth my time.  However, this post is not intended to hype MUBI, I do enough of that for Criterion as it stands.  I do not mind in the slightest hyping Agnes Varda, whose work has always challenged, enlivened and generally enriched my understanding of cinema, this her "musical" focusing on two women's experiences during the tumultuous rise and fall of women's liberation as it relates both uniquely to France, as well as how it extends to spaces one does not immediately think of when discussing women's issues in the 1970's.  Indeed, the very nature and subject manner of this film are well within my interests and, again, having Agnes Varda helm the filmmaking only verified that I would be taken a back in wonder by all it had to offer.  Then the magical moment involving the "Papa Engels" song happened and I came to realize I was consuming what might well be the greatest offering in French cinema for all of the 70's.  Indeed, this film exists in the middle of two cinematic bookends by great French male filmmakers in Godard's Weekend from 1967 and Truffaut's absurdly underrated The Last Metro from 1980.  Here with one master stroke, Varda is able to create a work that cements her place in the highest of rungs for French filmmaking and deservedly so, because this list is often invaded by the greats of The French New Wave, which deserve praise, but would also be nothing without Varda's preliminary steps in the movement, as well as her continued presence in the world of filmmaking.  Rocking the same excellent haircut for the entirety of her career, Varda is the definition of an auteur and a reminder of the very real presence a woman and can should be afforded in the world of filmmaking, just in the same way that there would be no French New Wave without Varda, the cinematic perfection that is a work like Zero Dark Thirty would not evoke the commentary and feminist undertones it does today, without Varda's willingness to go all out in her own political, social and personal beliefs.  Sure the singing is a bit silly, but the subject matter is far too serious to be easily dismissed.

One Sings, the Other Doesn't focuses on the relationship of two women during the world of seventies counterculture.  The first girl, Pauline (Valerie Mairesse) the young wide-eyed idealism of France with her endearing nickname Apple, her wild red hair and general curiosity about all things against the norm, she exists purely with the hopes of making it as a singer.  Stumbling into an artist's shop, Pauline notices a photograph of one of her former neighbors from her youth.  The woman, Suzanne (Therese Liotard) is a mother stuck in a less than thrilling marriage, captured in photographs by her lover Jerome (Robert Dadies).  Pauline asks Jerome if it would be possible to meet Suzanne, to which he sees no problem.  The two immediatley form a deep bond between one another, sharing in the unique troubles that faced women of the time, Pauline dealing with the oppressive expectations of her parents who want her to succeed in things that are decidedly of the feminine realm, while Suzanne stumbles through the threats of yet another child on her freedom.  When Pauline offers to accrue the necessary funds to afford Suzanne and abortion, Suzanne comes to realize that the bond between the two is of the deepest level of friendship, so much so that when Pauline is kicked out of her home for her choices, she immediately moves in with Suzanne and Jerome.  This choice, apparently leads to Jerome going into a severe bout of depression and eventual suicide and act that leads to the first splitting apart of Pauline and Suzanne, not out of anger, but economic necessity.  During this time, Suzanne creates a space for herself in the family planning world of social work, dealing with both rewarding and frustrating cases of introducing women to the liberating benefits of the pill.  Meanwhile, Pauline, fully appropriating her Apple identity, takes up a life as a folk singer, traveling about France, Amsterdam and even Iran singing songs on issues of abortion, domesticity and the wonders of communism, meeting a man named Darius (Ali Rafie) along the way, whose faux-feminist politics trap her into a marriage and role of motherhood she immediately regrets.  Suzanne finds her own relationship which is one of comfort and complacency, only seeking solace in her communication with Pauline.  The two continue to exchange letters and occasionally meeting up speaking to the woes of feminine oppression, while expanding their own friendship to a level of almost romantic intimacy.  The two women's lives intersect and move apart in unique ways, always, however, sharing in the bond of womanhood that transcends all the absurdity of the world they face.

So it is rather clear that this film has open feminist politics in its frank discussions of abortion, family planning, domestic oppression and issues of property.  These things alone could make Varda's One Sings, the Other Doesn't a work in feminist filmmaking on level with Chantal Akerman's Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, which is by all accounts the most feminist of films to date.  Varda, however, is not simply concerned with verbally affirming a narrative of feminist politics, she accepts that individuals like Simone de Beauvoir and Betty Friedan have already done so by the time her film emerges.  Instead, Varda wants to specifically consider how such rhetoric and ideals can invade and influence the space of filmmaking.  The very title One Sings, the Other Doesn't considers how silencing affects certain female bodies, Varda affirming that Suzanne through her forced life in domesticity is incapable (either by choice or limitations) of singing out, therefore, while Pauline has not necessarily experienced the same types of domestic oppression, nonetheless, shares in the larger oppression of womanhood, thus singing about the woes of domestic depression, in her previously mentioned song Papa Engels.  In this way, Pauline becomes a voice for the feminist movement, one that is often wily, but always astute.  Suzanne, however, is not completely at a loss in activism, wherein Pauline speaks, Suzanne acts.  Involved heavily in what could be seen as the French equivalent of Planned Parenthood, Suzanne is giving escape to woman who have found themselves trapped into unplanned pregnancies or simply want to avoid the danger of pregnancy in their youth.  What Varda does brilliantly in the film, is provide both verbal and physical activism the same degree of validity, by suggesting that Pauline and Suzanne are one in the same, both moving throughout their lives with a constant reminder that each decision speaks to their larger endeavors of feminist activism.  By the time the two are shown in the closing moments of the film, it is suggested through a brilliant panning circle that the two are at the very least sharing the same space, if not outright the same person within the filmic world of One Sings, the Other Doesn't.  I would also posit given Varda's concern for the types of activism that an appropriate alternative title for this film could have ben One Sings, the Other Performs.

Key Scene:  While I am a fan of the Papa Engels song, I also found the abortus song on the boat to be clever and politically profound.

This is currently only available to view on MUBI.  Get the seven day free trail or just get an account, either way it is worth it for this rarified cinematic gem.

I'm An Australian, And I'm Looking For A Friend: Stoner (1974)

Sometimes movies emerge into the world without any rational explanation or justification, and their very existence defines what the collective of moviegoers know to be absurdism.  The thing with this is these movies often tend to present themselves as such, focusing on the non-normative in cinema or completely rejecting constructs to allow for their desired message to emerge.  In other cases, the films simply manifest themselves because it is clear that nobody told the people involved not to do so and the result is one part baffling and another part profoundly transcendent.  At least I keep telling myself that is what is going on with the wild film that is Stoner, also known as the The Shrine of Ultimate Bliss.  I want to say that it is a film that is so terrible that it exists as being good, but it would be misguided to call it such, as it is rather clear that everyone knows what is going on and no sense of over-enthusiasm emerges.  Indeed, if any such zealousness were to come forth on the set of this film it is quite likely that it was devoured by the gross mustache that George Lazenby rocks for most of the film.  Stoner, bearing one of the worst conceived titles in the history of cinema, exists almost as two separate films that have a feeling of being paired together rather hap hazardously and even when the two protagonists meet up in the closing twenty minutes of the film it is rather hard to concede to it being anything but forced.  Indeed, where other blaxploitation and kung-fu films of the era would work because of their navigation and reconsideration of race relations in the venue of film, Stoner fails simply because it suggests that a fish-out-of-water film can work with a character who is a white Australian male.  It is no small bit of irony that it is George Lazenby who is cast in the role of Stoner, as he was himself James Bond, albeit for only one film, a white figure who moves through spaces he is deemed non-normative with the assumption that he is indeed still in a possession of power.  Stoner extends this commentary by making it work within the context of a kung fu flick, where in a hulking white guy beats down a ton of Asian bodies in the name of a vague narcotics bust.  It could have worked, were the film a little bit more self-aware about its absurdity, but Stoner fails by taking itself way to seriously, existing not as a accidental statement on a cultural issue turned into cinematic magic, as is the case with Reefer Madness, but one of a condemnation of a particular social pandemic that is so on-the-nose and poorly executed as to fall flatter than the obnoxiously awful Birdemic.

The bizarre world of Stoner focuses on the title character played by George Lazenby, an Australian narcotics officer who has been sent to China to explore the production and disbursement of a controversial drug known as "the happy pill."  The name suggestive of an antidepressant, actually appears to have more in common with modern day Viagra and other performance enhancement drugs, although this particular version works for both men and women and seems more indicative of an aphrodisiac.  Assumedly doing this task because the drug is highly addictive Stoner, moves about the streets of what is assumedly Hong Kong fighting of henchmen and mobsters who seem him as a threat, while moving through the various brothels and bars that have become the hotspots for the drug trafficking.  Meanwhile the film also focuses on Li Shou-Hua (Angela Mao) a Taiwanese detective who has also been tasked with breaking up the drug cartel, although she, as opposed to Stoner, finds herself with more access to the inner circles of the trafficking, particularly sources directly tied to Chin (Joji Takagi) the drug kingpin and maniacal leader who is credited with creating the happy pill.  The two separately navigate China, Stoner using brute force and a wicked mustache to get what he needs in various situations, while Li must be more crafty, relying on disguises as a salesgirl to infiltrate the inner circles of the mob.  Eventually, both Stoner and Li get to Chin's headquarters, simultaneously, and instantly befriending one another when they realize they have both arrived to take down Chin.  When they meet, however, Li is dressed in masculine clothing, therefore, Stoner assumes her to be a young man.  Eventually, the two are capture and it is revealed that Li is indeed a girl, at which point Stoner takes a clear sexual interest in Li, an act that is further problematic when considering that Chin injects Stoner with the happy pill juice to drive him to be sexually rampant.  Locking the two in a cell together, Li finds herself in a constant state of evasion from Stoner's unconscious, bumbling sexual advances.  When he awakes the next day to discover that not only has Li blocked of his attacks, she has also freed them both from their restraints, the two take it upon themselves to duke it out with Chin and his men, ending his production of the drug, while also coming into a ton of money, an amount that is immediately decided should go towards fighting narcotics traffic in Hong Kong.  Nothing is said about the future of either Stoner or Li, aside from showing a plane flying into the air, assumedly carrying Stoner back to Australia, whether Li joins him remains decidedly uncertain.

Transnationalism?  The dangers of addiction?  Passing as a different gender?  These could be possible things to talk about with a film like Stoner, but I just cannot get over the idea that it is a film in which George Lazenby, who played James Bond in On Her Majesty's Secret Service, moves about Hong Kong as a huge white guy beating up guys and sleeping with women, much like his British cinematic counterpart.  It is as good a time as any to mention that I am on the way to having an article published in a book regarding this very theme in James Bond films.  I cannot give details at the moment, but it is nice to be able to make the connection to a non-Bond film that happens still to include a James Bond actor, particularly since I do not include On Her Majesty's Secret Service in my paper.  Much as he does in On Her Majesty's Secret Service, Lazenby, as Stoner, arrives in Hong Kong and assumedly takes control of the situation demanding what he needs and desires with little concern for others around him.  Indeed, nobody seems to have asked the Australian to come, but it holds a sort of colonizing expectation that he can simply emerge and take what is his, doubly problematic given the relationship between Britain and China historically.  What makes Stoner starkly different from its Bondian siblings though is that the character of Li is not the submissive Bond girl, but instead a bad ass woman all her own, one that can pass as a man or woman as she sees fit, while also avoiding the very intense advances of Stoner.  In the Bond films he always gets the woman, even if she professes to be a lesbian, Bond finds a way to woo, often by force.  Angela Mao, does not allow a character such as hers to be taken by force, her prowess and skill evading and denying the oppression that comes from the lurking colonial figure.  True his wild chases are spurred by a heavy dose of drugs, but that does not mean they are any less problematic, particularly since the drugs were injected in him by another male figure.  Interestingly, Li is the only character who does not consume the drug and rejects it, adding a layer of sexual politics that suggest the "happy pill" to be a fabrication intended to justify male sexual prowess and dominance.  I know this is speaking in a lot of generalities, but I do not want to draw on anything that might show up in my publication.  When it becomes available publicly I will certainly refer back to this post with a more drawn out discussion.

Key Scene:  No scene, just Lazenby's mustache that inexplicably disappears by the film's third act.

I would avoid this film, there are much better Golden Harvest kung fu films to watch and in terms of George Lazenby, I would just check out his criminally underrated turn as Bond in On Her Majesty's Secret Service.

Acting Out Their Dreams, It Came To Be: How The West Was Won (1962)

Epic of epics...all is epic.  I begin with this play on the classic Bible verse because I am rather certain that How The West Was Won may well define the greatest of filmic endeavors.  Sure a ton of people love Gone With The Wind, but it also has a tone of social problems and suffers from historical detachment, where as this sprawling western, even in its set of troublesome imagery, is so grand and epic in proportion that it required an entirely new filming style all its own to be undertaken.  Shot in Cinerama, a film and projection style that required three cameras of film to be recorded and, subsequently, projected separately, to view this film is to see something break the very wide boundaries of the cinematic western landscape.  I have a nice television and one of decent size and even I found myself hoping that it would extend beyond the edges just a bit more, as though my widescreen television was somehow preventing this film from reaching its full potential.  If this new style were not enough, How The West Was Won is also set up in an episodic format showing a somewhat connected history of information answering the statement in the title.  With directors like John Ford offering segments, as well as sections including a veritable who's who of Classic Hollywood stars, How The West Was Won is easily one of the greatest achievements in the dwindling days of the old style system that would be turned on its head only years later.  Borrowing heavily from the cinematic experimentation of Abel Gance and the desire for the grand of D.W. Griffith, How The West Was Won is definitively and undoubtedly a masterpiece.  I really wish I had saved this as the last film of the marathon, because it is easily the culmination of all that is glorious and adored about the western as genre, is a what one should think of when considering a film to be "sweeping" in its narrative.  It has a two and a half hour runtime, but with the intermissions, fully realized storyline, even if segmented and some of the most awe inspiring cinematography I have seen in a film in quite some time, the winding down of this film and its brilliant burst into the future came all to quickly and left me hoping for another set of stories.

How The West Was Won, as noted, is a series of stories, all focused on creating narrative as to how the west, or more specifically, the expansion westward influenced the persona and history that would be America.  The film begins with a story entitled The Rivers focus on Zebulon Prescott (Karl Malden) and his family as they make their way west via a large raft, making said journey along with another family.  Along the way they meet a fur trapper named Linus Rawlings (Jimmy Stewart) who one of Prescott's younger girls takes a liking to, despite Rawlings's suggestion that he is not the marrying type. Although when their paths repeatedly intersect it becomes clear that marriage is a necessity. The next story The Plains  centers on another member of the Prescott family Lilith (Debbie Reynolds) living as a showgirl in St. Louis, only to discover that she has obtained through the donation of a wealthy admirer a stake for gold in California, which leads to her being followed by gambler and pseudo-admirer Cleve Van Valen (Gregory Peck) whose debonair manners woo many women, but he proves to need real feelings to eventually win over the suspicious Lilith.  The next section focuses on The Civil War and the experiences of young soldier Zeb (George Peppard) whose parents are Linus and Eve (Carroll Baker) of the earlier river story.  He, despite Eve's reluctance joins the war effort and becomes a hero after taking down a rebel deserter who infiltrated the ranks of the Union in order to assassinate high ranking officers, one of which is played brilliantly by John Wayne.  Next the section called The Railroads focuses on the invasion of the "iron horse" into the plains and its particular affect on the native populations, a group which wild man Jethro Stuart (Henry Fonda) attempts to protect, only to realize that he can only promise natives safety and trust for himself and not the entirety of the colonizing white man.  Finally, the film ends in a section titled The Outlaws in which Zeb who is now a marshall in a western town takes on an infamous enemy and outlaw named Charlie Gant (Eli Wallach) resulting in an intense and high-paced shootout on a moving train.  After Zeb slays Gant the film focuses on Lilith and the rest of the Rawlings family returning home, before the film takes to a visual flight from the desolate landscapes of the old west to the modernized and skyscraper heavy modern world of Los Angeles suggesting an evolution over a length of time, but one that is always tied to the endeavors of the early settlers.

I cannot get How The West Was Won out of my mind and it is almost entirely due to its unusual cinematic style.  The triptych style of Cinerama filmmaking allows for the narrative to unfold as something very much out of a story book, each character moving throughout the space from being minor almost incomprehensible characters in the background of shots to larger than life figures occupying the space at the center of the screen.  The sort of wide-angle/fisheye visual style that results form this particular filmmaking style also intensifies the emotions of characters within the narrative, Jimmy Stewarts fumbling suaveness heightened to a point of inescapable charm, or Debbie Reynolds's ethereal beauty consuming the entire space of a shot, making each scene melt behind her.  Similarly, it allows for an understanding of how truly consuming the landscapes of the west would have appeared to  the initial settlers, with plateaus and valleys seeming to stretch on into some eternal distance, again a result of the way the juxtaposed images create a new degree of depth.  What is also magical about this particular style is that it captures action and movement in a degree that arguably has the same effect as 3D or IMAX in that the images pop-out of their space when coming into the screen, although Cinerama has an extra layer, because it will also as easily pull a viewer into the centrifuge of a piece of action, the oncoming train scenes and the barrel rolling wagon scene serve as two opposing examples of the possibilities that this new depth allowed.  It was a brilliant choice to cast huge names in these roles, even in uncredited parts, such as Lee Van Cleef and Harry Dean Stanton, because their larger-than-life personas match the intensity and grandiose nature of the filmmaking.  Think here of John Wayne's presence, even if incredibly brief, he steps into the room occupies the space and seems so at ease that one forgets that he is only occupying one of three possible frames.  However, what proves to be the most rewarding element of this style is the moments when the films flicker differently if ever so briefly. My favorite one being a moment when Lilith is dancing and she appears to leap through a frame without touching the ground, these accidents, could be chastised as problematic, but in this context they add a layer of mythology and adoration to something that is decidedly larger than life.  Cinerama aimed at blowing the lid of of filmic possibilities, and in the same vein How The West Was Won aimed to do the same for the genre.

Key Scene:  While every moment is excellent, I would say to get a full feel for what is made better by the choice to use Cinerama then The Railroad section is perhaps the best example of all the elements working simultaneously.

While I watched this on the DVD version, I cannot begin to imagine how much better it would look on bluray, particularly since it offers the option to watch it is "smile box" format which aims to recreate the feeling of attending an original Cinerama screening of this work.  I mean look how much I had to minimize these pictures just to fit them into the blog format.

Don't You Ever Call Them Tattoos: The Illustrated Man (1969)

I am beginning to think that Ray Bradbury may well be the ideal author to have his works adapted for the screen, considering my apprehension regarding Truffaut's adaptation of Fahrenheit 451, a book I am very fond of, it was a pleasant surprise to find a film that completely embraces and properly appropriates the world and themes of Bradbury's seminal novel.  Of course, I have only read this singular novel by the sci-fi giant, but when I discovered that The Illustrated Man was an adaptation of a Bradbury short story I had considerable degree of excitement, only furthered by the excellent cover work on the DVD copy I obtained.  It is difficult to fully break down what is excellent about this film because it is not necessarily linear and has layers of stories intersecting and is certainly not a perfect film.  However, considering that it was made in 1969, it adheres to a certain stylistic construct to which I am quite fond, one of heavy lighting in a natural setting and experimental match and jump cuts that help capture the viewer within a dreary and dreamlike trance.  While I would never suggest that The Illustrated Man exists on the same plane of brilliance as, say, 2001: A Space Odyssey, it does seem to commit to the same degree of grand introspection and evocative imagery.  What The Illustrated Man does brilliantly is take a set of themes, most of which center around notions of unity, authority and a sense of loss and disconnectedness in an increasingly modern world, much the same as Bradbury's collective works.  However, where his novel and adaptation by Truffaut entrench themselves within the optimistic, The Illustrated Man is a highly pessimistic piece, taking careful strides to note that somewhere in the near future people will simply wander about seeking their own sense of self worth, and while doing so they will constantly run the risk of encountering people who sensibilities favor the highly violent and are completely willing to destroy in the name of self-understanding.  Of course, there  is the more blatant level of the narrative, emphasized in the obvious visual elements of the film that reminds viewers that to truly where your past on your skin, is a jarring and disconcerting thing to encounter, even for the most progressive and idealized of individual.

The Illustrated Man technically falls within the narrative space of a single valley, assumedly somewhere in the Midwest of a futuristic America.  While this world is covered in dirt, brush and a bit of water, the evasive cinematography and generally stark state of nature suggest a dystopic future scape.  It is in this world that we are first introduced to Willie (Robert Drivas) a young man who has taken it upon himself to wander about America in a quest to find himself before meeting up with a family member to get a job.  During a moment of rest he is approached by a hefty man named Carl (Rod Steiger) whose intrusive nature is bizarre on its own, yet when he becomes increasingly evasive and inquisitive, Willie accepts that his presence will not go away soon.  As they begin to talk, Carl shows off his "illustrated" body, which he makes sure Willie knows are not tattoos.  A bit confused as to its relevance, Willie is quickly told that the illustrations were acquired from a elusive woman, while Carl was working as a carnie, each tattoo having a story, such as the one with a rose, which he obtained from the as reminder to carry her in his hand.  These illustrations are more than simple body art, as Willie quickly realizes when he discovers that simply staring into any of them will result in the world of the artwork literally unfolding before his eyes.  One story focuses on a futuristic child's playroom that allows them to play in various dangerous worlds whether they be medieval castles or African savannahs, while another considers the plight of astronauts who have crashed on a planet that is in a constant state of torrential rain.  The final story considers the ethical issues of two parents who have been informed of an impending natural disaster and the choice regarding whether to poison their children in their sleep to avoid suffering.  It is this sense of loss and death that seem to tie the narratives together, both within the illustrations, as well as in regards to Carl's own story as he recollects the tattooing woman and how she inexplicably disappeared when he awoke after receiving the illustrations.  Willie, now being witness to the various stories, envisions his own death as taking up a patch on Carl's unpainted body, leading to him attempting to kill Carl to no success, thus fleeing in fear.  However, Carl, seemingly immune to physical pain, arises and begins a slow chase of Willie.

The film is chocked full of varied and detailed social critiques, which is not really a surprise considering that it is lifted from a Bradbury short story.  However, the one that seems to be the highest concern, at least in regards to the adaptation, is the idea of the sensory experience of the present being ignored in the futile quest to understand the future.  While I am not sure if this is entrenched within issues of drug use, or simply a consideration of technology as evolving to placate the human body and its ability to experience events, it is rather clear that at no point does a sensory experience seem to be an enjoyable thing.  The most blatant case of this comes in the way of the astronauts whose entrapment on a planet that continually rains is not so much an issue of health regards to catching a cold, as much as it is a result of their psychological breakdown as a result of being harmed by the dampness of the rain, or going deaf and eventually insane from the constant pattering of rain drops inside of a cave.  The closing moments of this particular vision witness the captain of the ship finding shelter in a "sun dome," which is a lavishly designed modernist house where sensory pleasure is placated by a sterile environment.  In this case it appears as though the film suggest that modernity has led to man's complete disconnect with the natural, so much so that to step outside of their technological shell is to assure their slippage into insanity, or worse death, which given the wired-in nature of our society at the moment, I would suggest that Bradbury made a rather astute observation.  However, Carl seems to be the exception to sensory suffering in his relationship with the illustrator, one needs to know very little about tattooing to be aware of its truly painful nature, and as Carl openly notes he has been tattooed everywhere from head to toe, suggesting that some incredibly sensitive portions of his body were marked.  It would seem as though he is callous to such sensory pain, in which case the drug element of the film seems to emerge, particularly since for all intents and purposes the work simply manifests itself upon his body, perhaps in the form of a non-physical vision, as opposed to an actual tangible piece of artwork.  If one is to read the extension of the sensory to the non-physical state, it helps to explain Willie's vision of his own death at the films closing moments, as the imagined entering into the real in a very intense and destructive manner, perhaps, again, as the result of some psychotropic experimentation.

Key Scene:  I want to note the overall degree of experimental cinematography in this film, it was what helped push this film from simply being excellent, to being brilliant and worth heavy consideration, there are moments that could rival Welles in their composition.

This is a magnificent film, but it is also one that has suffered from distribution rights issues.  As such, I would suggest renting it until a cheap copy becomes available, although the twenty plus dollar price tag on this film is well worth the investment.

Fear, Belief, Love. Phenomena That Determined The Course Of Our Lives: Cloud Atlas (2012)

Cloud Atlas will stand to be the most ignored work of 2012, only receiving half-inspired reviews by critics, mostly for its cinematic and effects elements, not to mention a complete snubbing by the Academy for any sort of nomination, ignoring even its stellar use of costuming and make-up to transport actors between different eras and spaces.  While I usually ridicule the absurd reviews written about films via Netflix, I cannot help but agree that a viewer must be "open" to a film like Cloud Atlas, especially since it does not exist in any sort of cinematic convention, aside from its sheer grandiosity and willingness to exact some melodramatic elements as necessary.  For some absurd reason, Cloud Atlas has been describe as a messy film, one that throws together stories without assuring their unison, but this is simply not the case, for the vision helmed by The Wachowski's and Tom Tykwer is exceptionally ambitious, perfectly crafted and perhaps one of the most rewardingly perplexing philosophical statements ever offered in the history of cinema.  While I am not committed to the handful of people suggesting that this will prove to have a similar impact as Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey, in where it was initially shafted only to reemerge as a stellar, much accepted masterpiece, I do think as individuals come around to this film over time they will too come to realize it is a sleeper hit for one of the greater cinematic offerings ever, or at the very least in the last ten years.  Perhaps in a year that seems to embrace cinematic traditionalism, or complete independent artful offerings, Cloud Atlas fell to the wayside as something in-between, yet I would contest that a majority of audiences, as one Netflix defender seems adamant to argue were unwilling to open their minds to a vision of existence that dismisses Western ideals of a higher being and power through force, as well as undermining the means by which films navigate the producer/finance oriented systems of America specifically.  An expertly directed film involving dueling visions has never merged so seamlessly or beautifully and should not be overlooked.  Beyond the beautiful music, the masterful acting and a perfect script one can quickly connect with this film on a very emotive level, drawing moments of beauty and heartbreak from the genre-varied set of intersecting stories.

Cloud Atlas in a nearly three hour passion project proves to cover so many varied stories that, nonetheless, engage with one another on a very connected level, in that faces and memories move throughout.  The film begins with the narrative of Zachry (Tom Hanks) a man living in post-apocalyptic Hawaii who serves as the intersection between a set of narratives which are best briefly described, because any attempt to explain their interconnectedness would only ruin the complexities and beauty of their unfolding.  The first portion focuses on a young man named Adam Ewing (Jim Sturges) as he traverses across the Pacific Ocean falling victim to a disease only to be aided by a stowaway slave.  Second their is the narrative of a relationship between two gay lovers set in early twentieth century London, in which Robert Frobisher (Ben Whishaw) leaves the arms of his lover Robert Sixsmith (James D'Arcy) to seek a job as an assitant to the great conductor Vyvyan Ayrs (Jim Broadbent) in hopes of paving his own musical career, despite a stained reputation as a homosexual.  The next narrative focuses on emerging journalist Luisa Rey (Halle Berry) as she uncovers the lies spouted by a big-time oil company, particularly the hired killing being exacted by tycoon Lloyd Hooks (Hugh Grant).  Next is the contemporary narrative of Timothy Cavendish (Jim Broadbent) whose stroke of bad luck as a publicist leads to his being locked in a retirement home, only to plan an escape.  Next is the futuristic world of Neo-Seoul and the life of Sonmi-451 (Doona Bae) whose only world seems to be engaged with being a servant to wealth full-breed persons, it is not until her eventual freeing from a regimented lifestyle that she realizes the lies of Neo-Seoul and the very real world existing layers below the skyscrapers.  Finally, we are brought to an earlier time in Zachry's life in which he deals with his tribes threats from a warring rival, as well as his own religious convictions, mostly the fears of an evil figure known as Old Georgie (Hugo Weaving).  This essentially only covers everything that happens prior to the credits...it is that serious of a vision and ambitiously complex.

Having only given a cursory explanation as to what occurs in the film, I will hopefully be able to glean some of the the philosophies occurring within the film, as well as some of the social commentaries.  My personal favorite (not to discredit the other exceptional portions of the film) would have to be the world of Sonmi-451, in its clear drawing upon not only the Allegory of the Cave, which so greatly influenced The Wachowski's earlier work The Matrix, as well as the tips of the hat towards many classic sci-fi dystopic films, notably Logan's Run and Soylent Green.  Furthermore, my girlfriend keenly noted this particular sections ties to the meat industry and American consumption habits.  The other sections deal with variants of philosophy and social injustices, whether it be the narrative of Adam Ewing and abolitionist philosophy as it relates to human slavery, or the notion of Nietzschean evolutions of good and evil as they relate to Zachry's internal struggles and ideas of moving away from the safety of normalcy.  The narrative also asks viewers to consider othered bodies cinematically and throughout history in the images of a gay couple (which led to one woman's obnoxious condemnation throughout the screening I attended, assuring that it was not an issue relevant only to the 1930's), as well as images of various racial bodies.  Hell, the film even considers the means by which we, as a society, deal with the aging body.  Finally, the film clearly condemns the acts of big oil companies, in so much as they are willing to kill persons to assure a future reliance on oil, a very real occurrence that has been well documented in a variety of outlets both political and social.  However, it is absolutely the Buddhist approach to universal and transcendent interconnectedness that makes this movie a beautiful thing, going so far as to use a very prescient ocean and drop of water metaphor to make some connections, a statement that is backed visually throughout.  I would love to elaborate more, but doing so might ruin the initial viewing experience that is certain to be rewarding, although I cannot wait to reconsider this film many times in the future.

Key Scene:  While I am partial to a certain scene involving a China shop, as well as Hugo Weaving's performances as Old Georgie (Not to mention the role he plays in the Timothy Cavendish section) each portion of the narrative has at the very least one moment of transcendent cinema that will leave viewers in moments of breathless exaltation.

I know I say this for a lot of films, but I truly urge you to watch this in a theater, it is meant to be grand and cinematic and one can only appreciate the ambitions of The Wachowski's and Tykwer by seeing this on the largest screen possible, and yes I added twice as many pictures because it is necessary to show the cinematic scope of the film.

Magnetic Roses, Stink Bombs And Cannon Fodder: Memories (1995)

While I have been ashamedly voiceless on this blog about my love of Akira, both as a perfected piece of anime, as well as being transcendent of its style into an exceptional piece of cinema, I have not shied away from defending Japan's long standing animation tradition as deserved of receiving discussion in the same voice as the auteurs and the larger cinematic history.  I cite Miyazaki and Kon as particular examples of this, although I must give all credit to Katsuhiro Otomo for my love of anime as a genre of film, in fact, Akira is easily one of my favorite films of all-time and were it not for the unfortunately high price of the available bluray copies I would own this masterpiece in the highest definition possible.  Memories, like Robot Carnival, which I have yet to see, stood as one of the works that sat on my shame list for not seeing, fortunately, I finally got around to watching it and it was more than a revelation, three unique yet undeniably bonded stories about the idea of reflection, one cannot help but bow to the unique cinematic magnitude offered only within animation.  The first story Magnetic Rose is sci-fi perfection made all the more gripping by the writing of the late Satoshi Kon, whose desire to challenge and undermine viewers assumptions burst through perfectly.  Second, is Stink Bomb, which is easily the weakest of the three stories, although this should not cause concern, because its deceptively light-hearted narrative allows viewers to consider the tradition of various filmic genres in Japan as well as a controversial relationship with the Western world.  Finally, to say that Otomo's own offering to the compilation, Cannon Fodder, is unique is a blatant understatement.  Watching the disheveled, dystopic clearly steampunk influenced world Otomo depicts, one cannot help but have everything they have understood about animation completely reconsidered, because the poetics and artistic level exuding from a half-hour anime short manage to provide for a deeply moving and heartbreakingly tragic piece of cinema on innocence and its unknowing loss.  Memories is everything one could want from a compilation piece, unique stories, powerhouse names providing these stories and a revelation on human existence worth many revisitations.

Memories exists, as noted, of three different stories, the first being Magnetic Rose, which borrows heavily and respectfully from the world of Alien, however, where Scott's film contest the nature of consciousness and a desire to live, Magnetic Rose, under the writing of Kon asks viewers to reflect on how memories influence our desire to support or destroy the world we live in.  It centers on a crew answering a distress call from a large ship at the center of a space ship graveyard.  The emergence onto this large vessel reveals a grandly realized simulacrum so deceptive that it proves to trap even the most rational of minds into the cold abyss of space.  The second story, Stink Bomb, centers on the accidental consumption of government funded medicine by a lab assistant who thinks it to be heavy power cold medicine.  The pill, however, causes the hapless scientist to become a walking weapon of nuclear warfare, in that he emits such a foul odor that it causes anyone in its path to lose all control of their nervous system and pass out for lengthy amounts of time.  In the process, the young chemist comes to understand the backdoor dealings involved in the world of pharmaceuticals, as well as the levels of transnational corruption involved in such engagements.  Finally, Cannon Fodder, centers on a city whose sole job appears to be firing off cannons at an nondescript location in the faraway distance, looking specifically at one boys struggle to transcend his working class identity via aspirations to become a high ranking officer in the system of cannon firing.  The narrative, as should be obvious, considers the issues of class mobility and consciousness, as they relate to the problems of an overtly regimented, clearly fascist form of bureaucracy.  The three coalesce beautifully and manage to reflect on levels of the personal, the national, the global and to some degree the universal, showing both the beauty and tragedy in each.

It seems as though the particular approach to memories within these three distinct stories manages to piggyback of these varying notions of interactions, firstly considering the idea of personal memory, which clearly affects the actions and eventual submission of the astronaut Heinz who clearly suffers from his accidental involvement in the untimely death of his daughter, something that is eventually exploited by the corrupt computer to cause him to stay onboard assuring his death.  This personal notion of memory is also challenged by a universal one in so much as the junk and rocks floating freely throughout space represent a physical memory that can either be seconds or billions of years old, all of which move towards a magnetic center overtime, a hugely realized commentary on existential woes.  Furthermore, Stink Bomb suggests the lingering effects of a historical memory, particularly one that is formed between The United States and Japan in regards to nuclear warfare, in focusing on the accidental emergence of a nuclear weapon at the hands of a clumsy scientist, viewers are asked to consider the very human element involved in even the thought of testing nuclear warfare.  The unconscious bodies littering the streets of tokyo take on a very real call back to the tragic loss of persons in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  It also considers the way in which dueling memories of the act of nuclear warfare affect how groups engage with one another, which is excellently depicted in the splintering relations between the Japanese and American generals throughout the work.  Finally, the film considers the issue of fabricated memories, explored in Cannon Fodder via a fictional fascist state in which the entire town fires cannons day by day with little or no question to its purpose.  In fact, the only point of contention emerges via a brief scene in which a few works demand that the chemical used to launch the cannons be cleaner thus equating to safer working conditions, ideas of armistice are irrelevant.  In a rather Foucaldian ending one cannot help but consider why the boy is ashamed of his father, particularly since it appears as though the ever-present search lights and indoctrinations of this town demand that he aspire for greatness, although the promise of his future is of course a guise, any one familiar with the history of fascism will easily pick up on this idea.

Key Scene:  There is a moment of childlike animation in Cannon Fodder that is completely unexpected and would be foolish or irrelevant in most animated films, yet its commentary and evolution into another image is so tragic that it cannot, and should not, be overlooked.

This, unfortunately, is currently only available on DVD, but that does not mean it should not be purchased, it is well worth owning and revisiting regularly, it has certainly inspired me to look back on Akira in the weeks to come.

The Spider Web Drips With Water: The Day A Pig Fell Into The Well (1996)

Yet another Korean film and yet another piece of cinema I find myself enamored with.  While The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, manifests itself somewhat differently from many Korean films I have viewed, as well as those mentioned on the blog here, not because it is non-linear or multi-narrative, but because it is a work solely concerned within the tragic monotony of a few middle-class individuals in modern Seoul.  In that aspect, it is similar to other films I have seen in its fear and frustrations resulting from improper dealings with modernity, however, the better portion of this film just depicts a group of people failing on a large scale.  This is a poetic, highly sexual and incredibly watchable film, yet it is also a tragic film in which characters possess very few redemptive skills, lack the will to advance beyond their  insufferable existence and constantly cross behind each other back to engage in devious monetary mismanagements and a seemingly unending set of infidelities.  All that being said, director Hong Sang-soo in his debut manages to offer something so inherently realized and necessary that I am not surprised by its great success at the festival circuit and its constant mention in the various books on Korean cinema that I read.  I am a bit bothered though by its lack of familiarity on a larger cinema scale, not only on the stage of world cinema, but within Korean cinematic history as well.  Sure it is not Oldboy, or a classic Korean melodrama, but it is an opulently cinematic film that masks itself within the veneer of a gross and reprehensible set of characters, managing to create something that borders perfectly between disturbingly sparse and melodramatically grandiose.  The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, is a work that should stand as a lesson in how to produce an independent work that is always and at once well-acted, forward thinking and earnestly reflective of its previous influences.  While not one of the best made films by a long shot, perhaps a sounder made film does not exist.

The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, is a set of heavily interconnected stories about a group of individuals who exist within deceitful lives, in terms of monetary engagements, job related tasks and most importantly sexual exploits.  Arguably the largest factor within this film centers around characters going behind one another to engage in sexual acts, whether it be a writer who is having an affair with his wife, by having sex with a woman who is having an affair with her husband.  However, if this were all he was doing it would be one thing, the man also borrows money from one female only to turn around and give it to the person with whom he is having an affair.  Another segment of the narrative focuses on the cuckolded husband as he makes a trip to Seoul for business, only to turn around and sleep with a prostitute, something that leads to him getting an unspecified venereal disease, which in turn leads his wife to realize that he too has cheated, even though she is guilty of similar actions on a far more frequent basis.  We are even provided a glimpse into the writers other lover, who is head over heels about him, going so far as to buy him presents and swoon over him, yet when she comes to his apartment and finds him with another woman she becomes upset, leading him to chastise her and kick her around in the street.  Eventually, by some means of absurdism the group comes together at what is assumed to be a wake or funeral, the levels of infidelity become clear yet little confrontation occurs.  It is only in the end that the husband reasserts his masculinity upon his wife, but as the narrative suggests she has yet another relationship on the back burner.  Also some people are killed at some point, but that is almost a trope within Korean cinema at this point.

I cannot begin to expand on the possibilities for interpretation within this film, one could always touch upon the fears of modernity within contemporary Korea, a theme that I have mentioned frequently on this blog, but these are obvious critiques something not worth reiterating at this time.  I could even talk about the gender components in this film, because at times they are glaringly problematic, while in other moments they are quite revolutionary, however, I have an academic paper I am currently working on which will afford me that opportunity.  Instead, I am going to glean something from an article on the film that I have yet to read that discusses temporality and repetition in the work.  This seems to be a rather keen focus for this, film considering that it is essentially the same group of people, committing the same acts in somewhat similar spaces.  In fact, the only separating factor appears to be time a very temporal thing, but one that serves to solely sever a direct tie between each act.  Psychologically speaking this is what allows the characters to commit awful acts, ranging from money laundering to murder, a disconnect not by spacial awareness, but one of time, which I know makes little to no sense, but something about detaching oneself from a moment as it relates to spacial recognition is far more difficult than detaching oneself from a differing time period.  An obvious example is how we often overlook previous acts of genocide, because if we were not there we would not have committed them, this film suggests the opposite of that notion to varying degrees.  An individuals acts are contingent to a moment in time, we could all commit the crimes if they time, not the space allowed for its occurrence.  I know I have not hashed this theory out very well, but it is something I want to look into more and perhaps reflect on better in a later review.

Key Scene: The means by which sexual acts abruptly intercept scenes is so jarring and appropriate that it might be one of my favorite uses of intercourse in a film to date.

This is yet another film suffering from region blocks, once again, making Youtube your best viewing source.

I Am Somebody Who Is Profoundly Attached To Images: Beyond The Clouds (1995)

This Korean bootleg DVD was a blind buy from a local Goodwill, mostly with the intent of reselling, after I did a quick Amazon scan and realized it was worth a few bucks, however, when I further examined the case it came to my attention that the film appeared to be directed simultaneously by Michealangelo Antonioni and Wim Wenders.  At that point I could not resist grabbing the work only to later discover that the film was something initially created by Antonioni, only to be finished by Wenders after the late Italian director suffered another crippling stroke.  This knowledge makes an already cinematic and sweetly saddening film that much more sentimental and profound.  While I know I have professed an up and down relationship with Antonioni, it is works like this that have helped me come around to the director as a whole, particularly in that there is perhaps no better director to map philosophical evolution with than Antonioni, to me he is a director who continually greatened in the works he produced, coming up with some particularly key social work, most notably Zabriskie Point.  In fact, the addition of Wim Wenders to this film is the proverbial icing on the cake, not to mention the ambient soundtrack help of U2, as well as a personal favorite of mine, Brian Eno.  This film begins with its head in the clouds and, as the title suggests, goes some were far above them, questioning lust, friendship and sexual awakening all along the way.  Furthermore, you can easily see the very personal touches in the film despite being an adaptation of short stories, particularly considering that to one degree or another Beyond the Clouds is, ultimately, about imagining and creating movies.  There are a handful of moments that come throughout the movie that had me at a loss for words and catching my breath at the simplistically grand nature of the scenes composition, often the camera lingers in this film capturing lengthy reactions the events unfolding, but do not let the stagnant nature of the cinematography fool you, because this is a film about imagination and desire, two things constantly moving.

While the film is a set of different events, to call it a series of short films or even vignettes would be to miss the entire point of the work altogether, instead, I would argue that it is a series of interconnected moments, neatly and cleverly tied together around the reflections and memories of the main character simply known as The Director (John Malkovich) as he drifts through what we assume to be Italy.  The stories all involve some degree of romantic connection, whether it be the initial encounter between two hesitant lovers, only to reconnect a few years later, with an intimate fire, or two older individuals who meet up after one's wife leaves him as he is meeting a wife who has recently left her husband.  Occasionally, The Director will interject his thoughts on a specific situation, often in hyperbole or roundabout poeticism.  The moments of intimacy are rarely subdued and often become quite intimately intense, as is the case with two lovers who engage after seemingly having nothing in common, the guy an atheist free floating individual and the girl a deeply religious individual who is to commit the convent life the very next day, yet something transcendent of spiritual leanings allows them to connect physically in a new definition of a religious experience.  Even the moments in between seem to consider the possibilities of love, as occurs when one man reflects on the nature of art, recreation and admiration.  Even The Director engages in his own moments of intimate reflection, one that causes him to exit from it with a smug sense of happiness as he looks upon his decision through a window of the very recent past.

Beyond the Clouds is an incredibly poetic film, often taking long moments to consume the landscape, or gauge an emotion, something that does not seem to occur, nor does it ever seem to bode well when directors take this approach, popularly speaking at least, as has been the case with more experimental narratives released by say Soderbergh or Van Sant.  It begs to be asked what can be gained from this approach, and what, if anything, is lost.  Certainly a poetic and surreal approach in a film like Beyond the Clouds allows for multiple narratives that do not require a logical connection, often transcending time, as well as space in order to occur, which is seen from the onset in this film, as new stories often overlap the very places in which The Director resides, perhaps suggesting a multiplicity of times occurring at once, or more likely the physical yearning that so often comes with bittersweet memories.  The notion of memory with in a surreal sense often adds new layers to seemingly simple acts as well, heightening the metaphor of something like riding in a plane or staring longingly at the ocean from a swing seat, events that happen quite beautifully in the films many dreamlike sequences.  This is all fine and well and something I favor as a film viewer and critic, but I am fully aware that such approaches can become a cause for disconnect and discontent in viewers, when such filmic constructions do not have an ultimate unifying force.  Fortunately, Beyond the Cloud unites quite brilliantly and makes viewers long for a continuation even after the screen fades to blue, it reminds those watching that life does end and no matter how greatly one desires to return to its moments of beauty, they are and always will be tragically fleeting, so embracing the moment is quite important.

Key Scene:  It is a dead tie between The Director at the park and the couple falling in love at church.

This movie is a bit hard to come by and the copy I found was purely by luck, unfortunately, the Korean copy I have also censors all full frontal nudity which gets old really quick.  I would say check this movie out if you find a decently priced copy, but for now we will have to patiently wait and hope it gets save from obscurity.

I Like You...: V/H/S (2012)

I will be the first to admit that this was the most anticipated of the films I would be reviewing this month and was quite worried when my car got put in the shop limiting me from going to the theaters to see this  film, however, thanks to its somewhat limited release and a watch instantly option on Amazon I was able to catch up with this found footage anthology with much elation.  I am aware that there are two camps for this film, the first claiming that is lack of plot and non-notable performances result in a weak film overall, while another camp claims it to be the savior of the horror genre and a veritable renaissance in scary movie creation.  I have firmly centered myself with the latter group, because not only did I find this conceptual horror film to be intensely scary, but it went far above any level of expectation I had formulated.  Sure some of the segments in the film are weaker than others, but overall each story commits to an idea or form within the horror genre and creates a suspense driven narrative of ten to fifteen minutes that had me more than leaning out of my seat.  I was taking notes on the film for this post but completely forgot about it within moments, the work was far to intriguing and certainly to scary to become distracted by what would invariably be half-assed comments on the social nature of the film.  If anything we as a film viewing community, particularly those favoring horror films, should be praising the efforts of such a film, regardless of what you may think of their execution.  The directors Adam Wingard, David Bruckern, Ti West, Glenn McQuaid, Joe Swanberg and the group Radio Silence deserve acknowledgement if only for trying to breath some fresh life into a flailing genre.  V/H/S purely on a experimental level is something to be enjoyed with great pleasure and a certain level of psychological discomfort and remember this film has been said to induce vomiting and black-outs, even if it is purely because of the rattling camera work and onslaught of color bars and film tricks.

As noted the film is series of "found footage" pieces, all centered within one story titled Tape 51, in which a group of found footage enthusiasts are hired to retrieve an unexplained tape from a house.  Upon arrival to this house they find a man dead on a chair and a handful of televisions displaying either blue screens or electrical snow.  Perusing the house one of the members decides to pop in one of the tapes into his camera thus beginning the series of the films.  The first work Amateur Night follows a group of college males, one equipped with a glasses cam as they attempt to pick up women in a night club only to return home to video tape the entire conquest.  One of the women they meet named Lily (Hannah Fierman) is particularly attached to a member of the group starring blankly at him wile uttering the phrase "I Like You"  over and over again.  A bit paranoid the group agrees to take her and a few other women back to their hotel, only to discover that Lily is not exactly a woman and a creature far more disturbing an event that proves cataclysmic to the whole group.  The second tape title Second Honeymoon follows a guy named Sam (Joe Swanberg) and his wife Stephanie (Sophia Takal) as they travel through Arizona on a trip to celebrate their marriage, all seems uneventful until a young woman awkwardly asks them for a ride one night, only to break into their hotel later in the night and steal their money, an act that is caught on tape by the girl as she films it with their camera.  The next day leads to an awkward moment between Sam and Stephanie as they argue about money, an issue that becomes all the more intriguing when the young woman returns with a vengeance later that night.  The third story titled Tuesday the 17th follows a group of young people as they travel to the woods for a vacation, only to become the prey of some sort of spectral maddened assassin, however, what one would assume to be a group of unsuspecting youth is turned on its head when one girl admits that she has experienced this all before.  The next, and perhaps my favorite has the lengthy title of The Sick Thing That Happened To Emily When She Was Younger is a webcam based video in which Emily (Helen Rogers) confesses to her doctor boyfriend about having an insatiable desire to itch a bump on her arm, something he promises to look at upon return from school.  Later that night Emily explains that she has been seeing ghosts and is able to catch one of them, a small child, on camera, leading her boyfriend to agree to help with her confrontation with the ghost.  This confrontation is far more than Emily bargains for and we come to realize that her relationship with her boyfriend is also not quite what we expected.  Finally, a tape called 10/31/98 focuses on a group of young men, one dressed as a nanny cam, providing for the found footage video, as they travel to a Halloween party.  This party upon arrival appears to be empty and the group discovers what they assume to be an intricately designed haunted house, yet when they get to the attic of the house and attempt to join in what they think to be a fake occult ceremony the falseness of the entire experience is undermined and the group undertakes an attempted rescuing of one of the houses victims.  These films compose the main narrative of the film, yet it should be no surprise that the video about finding this video also has its own twists of horror as well, something that I dare not ruin because it is yet another moment of brilliant metacinema scares.

A lot of the complaints directed at this film are about its lack of scary qualities, as they relate to its unexplained narrative and little to no back story.  I would argue that it is precisely this lack of logical connection that makes this work indeed unsettling.  Imagine if you will that you were to randomly buy a set of unmarked VHS tapes from a local thrift store as a means to do some found footage experimental work, say like the folks over at Everything Is Terrible.  Most of the stuff would probably be dubbed television shows or awkward home videos, but what if you were to find something like a group of kids being murdered in the wood.  The context would not be explained and under no circumstances would you find this not scary.  Conceptually I think this is what V/H/S was aiming for, an attempt at creating something that would genuinely reflect a piece of "found footage" of the paranormal degree.  While I am certainly a huge fan of the Paranormal Activity franchise it does bother me at times that the narratives spend so much time explaining a back story and having character be a bit to keen on occult and supernatural occurrences.  Sure the film has a slew of social criticisms, whether it be the condemnation of male sexual dominance, something that often leads to date rape or group sexual abuse and another film makes a blatant commentary on the effects financial strains can have on the unity of a marriage.  Hell one of the works could even be seen as making an backhanded commentary on women's reproductive rights, but they all exist primarily as horror works.  To me it is very much like The Shining, in that so much of the horror is such because it has not logical explanation for occurring and this is definitely what makes V/ H/S so intense.

Key Scene:  There is a moment during Amateur Night in which the camera pans across the bar and catches Lily starring into the camera, it is really really creepy and more than sets up the intensity that will consume the remainder of the film.

Buy this movie.  Buy your friend this movie.  Buy anybody you love this movie...although it may cause them to question why you love them.

Thanks For The Effort: Ju-on (2002)

In my quest to watch a whole mess of Korean films, I got sidetracked visiting a Japanese horror film.  Of course, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that in my eyes, because I thoroughly enjoy Japanese cinema, and next to Korea, they have been producing some of the best scary movies of the past decade.  Excluding the madness that is Audition, Ju-on is perhaps the most well known film to emerge from Japan's rise in horror popularity, mostly due to its being remade into the American film The Grudge, but also, because of its excellent composition, slow burning suspense and socially aware narrative.  It is perhaps so popular, because it is not necessarily a horror film, as much as a narrative of societal distancing and the general dissonance of Japanese culture as it moved into the 21st century.  Ju-on is incredibly scathing, but a cinematic spectacle that invites reference to all the great Japanese directs, including Kurosawa, Ozu and Suzuki.  However, Takashi Shimuzu's film is its own work that invites a variety of different film criticisms and praises and as noted earlier helped to affect a revolution in horror filmmaking not only in Japan, but on a global scale as well.  While not as universally known as Halloween or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre it, undoubtedly, has the same, if not greater, cultural presence.

Ju-on, as the title suggests, is a film about grudges, particularly those held by a vengeful ghosts.  These ghosts, as the opening sequence of the film implies is that of a young child and his mother, who died at the hands of an abusive and drunk patriarchal figure.  The result is that any person who comes in contact with the house containing the ghosts eventually dies at the hands of either one or both of these spectral beings.  In some cases, the ghost manifests itself as a pale version of the mother and son, other times as a black cat, and in the most disturbing instances as a large smokey projection that only reflects a human in the vaguest of senses.  The people who encounter the grudge ghost often have their own series of problems prior to engaging with the presence of the house.  In once case it is a group of high school girls who dispense their time drinking and slacking off as opposed to pursing academics, another is a security guard who is flippant and unreceptive to the requests of others to investigate issues in a building.  In other cases, the people who encounter the ghost often suffer from their own past failures, as is the case with a cop who was unable to save his family from an attack and thus harbors guilt over the situation.  Ultimately, it suggests that the individuals who encounter Ju-on are to some degree receptive to the ghosts, because of some act or failure to act in their lives up to the point in the film.  In fact, the only person who appears to be unaffected by the actions of the ghosts is a lone social worker Rika Nishina (Megumi Okina) who realizes the tragedy of the two ghosts deaths and makes an effort to console them, with a considerable amount of success.  However, as is the case with most horror films Ju-on ends with an implication that the curse will continue and subsequent sequels have assured this fact.

As I mentioned in the introduction, Ju-on is certainly concerned with issues of societal disconnect within Japan.  Despite the film depicting clear connections between each of the narratives shown, it is clear that their personal experiences are distanced.  The characters who engage with one another are either unreceptive to the individuals around them or completely unaware of their interactions.  This holds true for the young high school girls who are so preoccupied with their own popularity that they care little for the despair, and deepening madness, of their friend or their ultimate demise at the hands of the ghost.  Even the detectives assigned to the case fail to be aware of the overarching issues of the case, and disregard any possibilities of supernatural interference, despite warnings from many individuals within the film.  It is not until they encounter the ghost in person that they realize its validity, tragically, at this point neither are capable of escaping because they are frozen in disbelief and shock.  Rika is the only one who manages to move through this world, but as noted, she was also the single person to notice a picture that implied murder that resulted in suffering souls.  This all comes together as an astute social critique of peoples failures to notice a dissolving social unity in modern Japan.  While it is not particularly easy to pinpoint a result to this decay it is clear that technology and lack of questioning the patriarchy play some role in this problem as both are continually commented on within the film.  If this is indeed the case, it makes Rika's power as a heroine all the more pertinent.

Ju-on is a great movie and incredibly well composed.  If you find yourself with some extra finances snag the DVD, you will not be disappointed. 

You Have An Obligation To Your Own Sanity: The Hours (2002)

When you have a cast that includes Nicole Kidman, Ed Harris, Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, John C. Reilly and Jeff Daniels it is almost assured that the film will be great for acting along.  When you add Stephen Daldry to the mix as the director, it is promised that the films composition will also be something extraordinary.  Combine this together and you have a perfect film that will, undoubtedly, leave you an emotional wreck by its end.  This is clearly the case with the 2002 film The Hours, which received unprecedented praise and hype, and deservedly so, because it is cinematic magic in its most realized form.  I may come to realize this as my favorite film of 2002 and one of my favorites of the past decade, although I would have to further examine my choices at a later date.  It is an incredibly movie film that reminds viewers of the beauty and fragility of love, as well as the innate insanity of human desires.  Furthermore, the addition of a Phillip Glass soundtrack only makes what should seem melodramatic incessantly emotive and provocative.  Psychologically speaking, The Hours will grip viewers in incredibly visceral ways, despite it being a decidedly understated film.  I would group this work along the lines of something like A Single Man or some of the more vivacious episodes of Mad Men.  The Hours is a film one needs to view, if only for its delicate use of literary material, but most certainly for its transcendent answer to monotonous Hollywood filmmaking.

The Hours follows three narratives, centering on the build up to the suicide of Virginia Woolf (Nicole Kidman).  The Woolf portion focuses on her relationship to her husband Leonard (Stephen Dillane), one that is tense at best.  Despite his best efforts to keep Virginia at bay, considering her increasing sickness, the ailing writer desires to be freed to write her work Mrs. Dalloway.  At the same time, Virginia anticipates the arrival of her sister and her children, only to scare them away considering her preoccupation with death.  Ultimately, the burden off it all proves to great for Virginia, and as history has told us, she loads her coat with rocks and walks to the center of a river to drown.  The second narrative focuses on a fifties housewife named Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) who is clearly disillusioned with her life and finds her self relating far to closely to the suicidal character in Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway.  Despite having a loving husband, played on point by John C. Reilly, and the clear adoration of her son, Laura desires to escape her life because it only provides her a façade of happiness.  She plans to kill herself, like the protagonist in the novel, but decides that running away will prove more fruitful.  The third narrative ties the previous two together, focusing on the life of a openly gay New York writer named Clarissa Vaughan (Meryl Streep) who clings to her fragile relationship with her ailing poet friend Richard (Ed Harris) whose recent diagnosis with AIDS leads him to be bitter and distancing.  His attitude is only worsened by the fact that he is the son of Laura Brown from the previous narrative, causing him to suffer from serious abandonment issues.  Richard, keen to Clarissa’s suffering, nicknames her Mrs. Dallowy, a name that Clarissa carries with an unusual amount of pride.  Ultimately, Richard kills himself and Clarissa is left to clean up the pieces, most notably encountering a now aged Laura who states her reasons for abandoning her family, claiming that she does not feel guilty about her decision, because it was either that or to die.  Clarissa in a rather round-about way forgives Laura and the two’s narratives thus end, the film then cuts back to Virginia reading the final excerpts of her suicide letter, reminding her husband Leonard, that despite her imminent death that they will always have “the hours” they spent together. 

The Hours, as should be expected given its close ties to Virgina Woolf, is ultimately concerned with discussing issues of women’s lack of voice.  Woolf, clearly suffers the worst case of this throughout the film considering the era in which she lived.  Despite her clear genius as a writer and ability to be self-sufficient she is ultimately at the whim of her husband and the other males in her world, that deem her state of existence unsuitable for the public eye, thus forcing her to exist entirely in the private sphere.  After a failed attempt to escape such a life, Virginia kills herself to escape the despair of such a life, it is likely that if Leonard and other had allowed her access to the public world such actions would never have occurred.  Similarly, Laura suffers from such burdens.  The Laura narrative is indicative of the Betty Friedan notion of “the problem with no name.”  It is clear that Laura despises her lifestyle, yet given the conservative nature of the fifties and the patriarchal dominance that existed, Laura could not challenge any of these problems.  Even considering the clearly open nature of her husband, her option to rebel was not there, because to oppose the system then was simply not an option.  Even Clarissa, who represents the most advanced of women in the narrative, suffers from her own issues of silencing.  She is an openly gay woman with access to considerable wealth and education, yet it appears as though she still lacks a voice in some sense.  Perhaps it is her inability to win a prize or her continued desire to please the males in her world, but she suffers from a disillusion even greater than that of Laura.  In fact, it is not until Laura confronts her about her own problems in a past era, that Clarissa is able to take solace in her own state of power and freedom.  Ultimately, a film like The Hours shows an evolution of women’s oppression from the completely disenfranchised to the relatively free, yet is careful to note the continue need for forward momentum, while also acknowledging the advancement from the past.  Like the title suggests, reminds women that they should move away from oppression, as it is the only way to enjoy the hours of their lives.

The Hours was robbed of a Best Picture Oscar from Chicago, a film that I have not seen, but I, nonetheless, doubt is better than it.  Owning a copy is not essential, but it is well worth grabbing if you like any of the factors of filmmaking noted in the opening paragraph.