I'm Michio Hiyazaki, Too: Doppelgänger (2003)

When Christopher Nolan released the audacious and interwoven narrative that was Memento he created a piece of cinema that not only demanded a full viewing by those engaging with the work, but required it in order to truly understand the complexities of what he was trying to do in regards to the frame of storytelling, as well as in consideration of the frames of cinematic space.  When people went nuts about his more recent Inception, I kowtowed to it being cinematically sound but also silently remembered that his earlier work was far more engaging, entertaining and deconstructive in regards to what the traditional film could do despite having a relatively minuscule budget.  I say all this because it is a rare feat for film to be so different and demand that those watching it give it their full attention, but more so to be rewarding as a result.  In most cases, such as something like 13 Tzameti, the film will take an idea and flounder it in its own sense of pretension and self-aggrandizing glory failing to see the message beneath its push for grittiness and non-narrative constructs.  Doppelgänger, hereafter Doppelganger for the various search engines, is from director Kiyoshi Kurosawa and in its quest for an understanding of how one categorizes the self in relation to a larger social other, he manages to push not only to the level of the puzzling Memento but well beyond its limitations, breaking down even more cinematic conventions in the process, even if doing so required the simplest of camera tricks and editing techniques, and while the currently available transfer of the film is far from stellar, it is better than not having this work readily available to American audiences and the particular sects of fan boys that see Inception or anything Nolan puts out as the pinnacle of cinematic achievement, in which case most items are far from reaching (Inception is quite good I am willing to accept its having merit).  I included Doppelganger in the month of horror movies, partially because it is wildly revisionist, but too because it demands viewers to reconsider what is truly scary in life, positing that an encounter with one's self in all its impossibility would prove far more challenging to the self than any degree of horrendous other, because it breaks down the very dichotomy in the process.  This has the same chilling effect as it does in Primer, but here with even more of a confrontational intensity.

Doppelganger focuses on the work of Michio Hiyazaki (Koji Yakusho) an engineer who is working on a machine for disabled persons that is both incredibly mobile, while also possessing the finesse to properly crack an egg into a bowl, a task that is considerably difficult given the still clunky movements of even his high end robot prototype.  Caving under the stress related to such a project, doubled with a deadline, Michio's day is made all the worse when he discovers that a duplicate version of himself has begun occupying all the same places he does, specifically a coffee shop, but eventually meeting him in his own house.  Knowing of the ancient folklore that one who sees their doppelgänger is assuredly moments away from their death Michio begins to panic even more, actually ignoring his work in the process, even when it prove successful at an expo of the product.  Frustrated, Michio begins to mount all his efforts into confronting the doppelgänger  who while similar in looks is the complete opposite of the repressed and reluctant Michio, using all of his will and power to exert himself in the world in a wily and destructive way, going about killing individuals and sleeping with women, much to the demise of Michio who fears that they will mistake the engagements as actions undertaken by himself, leading Michio on a frivolous quest to prove the difference between himself and his identical doppelgänger  only able to convince a few that he is actually a twin brother, thus explaining his questionable actions and problematic ways.  Yet, when Michio comes to discover that the doppelgängers destructive attitudes are actually helping to relieve stress from his life, he begins to embrace its presence, allowing his particularly rampant and carefree attitude to wash over his previously troubled body, playing into blind ignorance in favor of allowing himself a continually stress free state of existence.  Yet even in these moments of joy, the actions of the doppelgänger prove to get a bit too out of hand and Michio must step in and correct the actions of his other self, one that ends in even more violent results than before, but not prior to an absurd set of events that take place in an abandoned building, one of which includes a giant disco ball careening out of control.

The self and the other prove to be the great divide in terms of privilege and oppression in pretty much any system of hierarchies in the world.  Doppelganer, absolutely destroys any possibilities of quantifying these two opposing forces, instead; suggesting that the self/other divide is entirely an internal construct created by one to define and set up an existential understanding of how one should engage with the world.  Now this becomes tricky when the self must create a tangible other in the real world, whether it be through creating a sense of higher moral standing based on religious/philosophical ideals, or in an oppressive sense through suggestions of inferiority that are always ungrounded and often predicated upon some seemingly miniscule genetic difference.  Again, Doppelganger manages to tackle both of these as constructs by showing that when extended to consider an identical body this becomes impossible to assert, let alone conceive, affirmed by Kusosawa's splitting of the screen into multiple spaces to consider how and why a person would demand a separation from one's self, here in a very literal sense.  What makes Michio's doppelgänger distinct is its seeming lack for moral conviction or sense of restraint, giving it a very id-like quality that he initially attempts to suppress, however, when it becomes evident that these actions speak to his internal frustrations Michio is willing to overlook such problems in favor of his (the self's) higher advancement.  Indeed, by throwing the genetic variations out the window, it also causes Michio to consider his own points of power and lack, drawing upon his own failures by having to face himself in a mirror of sorts, one that constantly haunts his every move.  By seeing his own loneliness on display through an other version that seeks harmony, Michio begins to fall apart at the seams, but this is not before the other, or perhaps the self, takes it upon itself to engage in a destructive path, one that is never truly reprimanded, for Michio has managed to exist space as both the self and the other, throwing any sense of authority or hierarchical structure out the window.  Kurosawa breaks the conventions of cinema in order to show that rules and guidelines are foolish when the very signifier that have caused them power are duplicated, subverted and invariably undermined.  This is a bold and forward thinking piece of cinema that demands to be viewed fully and critically.

Key Scene:  The first of the filmic space fracturings is so pleasantly unexpected as to set the pace for the remainder of the film as it grows exponentially more bizarre.

The transfer of this film currently available is a bit underwhelming, as such a rental will make due until a bluray is made available.

Your Silver Bullets Crying: Pistol Opera (2001)

There are a set of films that are so enigmatic that they almost defy analysis or explanation.  In this grouping are Ingmar Bergman’s Persona and David Lynch’s Lost Highway, as well as a more recent Japanese film called Pistol Opera which was directed by the perplexing studio outsider Seijun Suzuki.  Well into his seventies by the time he directed this film, Suzuki’s work is something to be witnessed.  A narrative exists within an incredibly complex experimental film that is something between absurist nihilism and magical realism.  A clear influence on Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, Pistol Opera is clearly a response to America’s beloved director and to be honest I found his work to be far more rewarding than almost any of Tarantino’s work.  Pistol Opera has a large cast of characters that are all seemingly interconnected, yet uniquely their own characters.  Each moment of the film serves as its own segment, all of which seem to work as a series of experimental shorts were it not for the tying together of the protagonist to each scene.  An incredibly cinematic film, laden with every possible editing method, Pistol Opera is quotable memorable and a down right fun viewing experience, even if you are not quite sure what the film is ultimately about.

Pistol Opera, is to some extent a sequel to Suzuki’s 1967 film Branded To Kill, in that it focuses on the advancement of a assassin from the rank of No. 3 to No. 1, however, the character in this film is not the male of the original, but instead a woman named Miyuki Minazuki (Makiko Esumi) who goes by the code name Stray Cat.  Throughout the film she is attempting to overtake the highest ranking assassin who goes by the name of Hundred Eyes given his various spies throughout the city, many of which are other spies.  While Stray Cat wanders the city looking for Hundred Eyes she is forced into bouts with other assassins, including some rather hilarious encounters, most notably the wheelchair bound Champ (Mikijiro Hira), who has been given an honorary ranking of No. 0, despite believing that he is still an expert assassin.  Similarly, Stray Cat must fight an assassin who goes by the name of Painless Surgeon (Jan Woudstra), a white man donning a trench coat who seems immune to being in physical pain.  While engaging in these various bouts, Stray Cat must also deal with her own personal issues, which include an unusual relationship with what appears to be an estranged daughter, as well as a rather intensely sexual relationship with her female manager.  Ultimately, Stray Cat encounters Hundred Eyes in a climactic and psychedelic bout, one that Stray Cat eventually wins placing her in the place of No. 1 assassin, but as the film makes terribly clear her status in such a position can disappear at the briefest of moments.

Pistol Opera is open for a variety of interpretations, whether they be theoretical or formalist in their approach it is incredibly difficult to single out a right answer to what the film is about.  While this is not necessarily a problem as mystery is one of the greatest parts of cinema, I would be remised not to attempt to tackle at least one of the clear themes within the film.  To me Pistol Opera is very much a film about feminist advancement in a Japan that is continually evolving away from a world of tradition and conservative Western influence.  Stray Cat is a stoic and independent woman who could very well be engaged in a lesbian relationship.  If a viewer reads this as such, she is clearly promoting women’s empowerment in the greatest way possible, one that completely separates men from the equation.  Similarly, she helps a young girl in her attempts to become an assassin, a clear continuation of keeping women involved in a profession that the film, and the broader scope of assassin cinema history, suggests to be male dominated.  Furthermore, when considering the assassins that Stray Cat meets throughout the film it is clear that they are to be mocked and ridiculed as helpless and weak.  The Champ is likely a representation of an archaic tradition of male dominance in Japan that has now lost its grounding, literally depicted in the film with the placement of a wheelchair.  Similarly, Painless Surgeon, played by what we can assume to be a Western-born actor, could imply that Japan has finally overcome the oppressive forces of the post-WW2 oppression of The United States.  Suzuki who has always been one for the off-handed social critique, blows the top off with Pistol Opera and completely deconstructs notions of power in contemporary Japan and in doing so makes a completely bizarre, yet absolutely watchable film.

Pistol Opera is an experiential film and while I intend to obtain my own copy in the future, you can easily rent this film for a much more reasonable price than trying to purchase a copy.  However, if you really love Japanese films this is certainly worth buying.

The Hardest Commandment Is To Love Your Enemy: Secret Sunshine (2007)

I understand that claiming something to be the greatest film performance I have ever seen is a heavy statement.  However, at this point in my film viewing life I think I have found such a skillfully acted performance deserved of this claim.  Much to my surprise, this discovery did not come from a Oscar winning performance nor did it come from some brilliant performance from a Classic Hollywood film.  Instead, it came from a Korean film made only five years ago, and one produced independently nonetheless.  Chang-dong Lee's Secret Sunshine contains a performance so ranged and realized that I sincerely found myself thinking I was watching a documentary and not a piece of narrative filmmaking.  Delivered by Do-yeon Jeon, the film is something so unbelievably visceral and honest that the single performance consumes the entire film without thinking twice.  Fortunately for viewers, Lee plays into this consumption and centers his film around Jeon's craft, allowing his other actors to simply exist behind her and only interjecting moments of cinematic provocation as subtle reminders that Jeon's character, despite her magnitude, only reflects a very tiny portion of a larger world.

Secret Sunshine centers on one Shin-ae (Do-yeon Jeon) a thirty something woman who has decided to relocate herself and her son from the bustling city of Seoul, to the small province of Miryang, after the untimely death of her husband.  There she intends to open a piano school, to pursue her dreams of playing piano, which we are led to believe were cut short after the birth of her son.  Shin-ae is clearly at a loss for trying to place herself within this suspicious city and seems to only find assistance from a single auto-repairman named Jong-chan (Song Kang-ho), who clearly has desires to be with Shin-ae.  Although things are by no means perfect within the small town, Shin-ae manages to find comfort for her and her son, despite being proselytized at and condemned for her citified ways.  It is not until her son suddenly goes missing that her world turns upside down, she spirals into a depression, which is only exacerbated by the discovery of his dead body floating in a nearby river.  What makes matters worse is that the killer was the child's own teacher, an unassuming man who Shin-ae had shared drinks with only days before the boy's disappearance.  Shin-ae seems destined to exist in a dark state of anger, until she decides on a whim to enter a church prayer service.  Here she finds a sort of cathartic salvation and turns into a loyal Christian.  The whole time Jong-chan follows Shin-ae with the hopes of winning her over, even playing along with her newly found religious devotion.  Shin-ae quickly climbs the ranks of the church and is seen as one of its brightest members, particularly at the point when she agrees to visit her son's killer and forgive him for his actions.  Upon reaching the prison and meeting with the man, she is bewildered to discover that he too has found the salvation of the lord and has already received his forgiveness.  Enraged and disillusioned Shin-ae separates herself from the church and falls even deeper into depression, eventually attempting suicide.  At this point, the film returns Shin-ae to Miryang after a stint in a psychiatric ward and after a run-in with the killer's daughter, Shin-ae decides to return home and cut her hair.  In a poetically symbolic moment, her hair falls to the ground and lands in a puddle to the side of her chair, the screen fading to black reminding viewers of the temporal and fleeting nature of human existence, no matter how enthralling it may seem.

Do-yeon Jeon's performance in this film is one for the ages.  As an actress, she is asked to move between not only various emotions, but various philosophical states of mind as well.  From a stoic single mom with hard-lined atheist views to a lost motherless child with blind faith, Jeon plays each part seamlessly and with such precision that it is damn near impossible not to become lost in her character alone and overlook the rest of the film entirely.  Despite this, Chang-dong Lee does manage to captivate viewers with the remainder of the narrative as well, always placing other characters directly behind Jeon to allow for their reactions to pass through in a spectral like manner, almost suggesting how those viewing the film should react to each of Jeon's subtle acting shifts.  Furthermore, the director cleverly relies on the diagetic world around him to play up on the reality that is her performance, in days of old (or the trailer for this film) a heavily emotive soundtrack and jump cuts would have been used to express Shin-ae's deteriorating mental state in a melodramatic fashion.  Lee avoids such methods and simply allows the camera to capture Jeon's performance in its slow, yet burning pace.  At times, Lee does nothing more than cut the camera to a scene of the small province or to a shot of clouds floating in the daytime sky as a means of pondering for the viewer, but also as a reminder that like the world, a characters existence within a film is only one aspect of a much larger picture.  As such, Jeon's performance as glorious as it may be fits beautifully into a expertly crafted film and as such allows it to organically grow as one of the best performances I have ever seen, which also happens to exist within an excellent film, something that is usually not the case.

Own Secret Sunshine, Do It!

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. 

Man Is Born Crying. When He Has Cried Enough, He Dies: Ran (1985)

To steal a phrase from the popular Lord of The Rings meme, "One does not simply adapt Shakespeare."  I mean this will all seriousness; because it is hard encapsulate the deep-seeded ideologies, multiple narratives, and poetic grandeur of the world's most well known bard.  When it fails, it seems like a skeleton of a narrative that offers little more to the viewers than a overdone storyline that anybody could have offered.  However, when one does adaptations of Shakespeare correctly the result is epic filmmaking that captures the human condition on film and inevitably rips violently at the heart strings of its viewers.  Akira Kurosawa's Ran, an adaptation of Shakespeare's King Lear is one such example.  In the matter of two and a half hours, Kurosawa manages to make the screen explode with the ebb and flow of human suffering from the eyes of Eastern ideology.  The actors deliver their various performances with such conviction and subtly that it gives the best of Shakespearean troupes a run for their money.   The excellent narrative is only helped by Kurosawa's unflinching cinematic grandeur, which continually encompasses both the large ideas of the world and the tiniest of moments in a being's existence.  I often have a battle in my mind between Ozu and Kurosawa for best Japanese director, but it is films like this one that remind me that the late director of Seven Samurai may just edge out his fellow countryman. 

As an adaptation of King Lear, one can imagine the levels of deceit and familial disappointment that exist within Ran and Kurosawa certainly shows these notions.  The film focuses on the stepping down from power of a once great ruler named Hidetora Ichimonji (Tatsuya Nakadi) who realizes that his time in charge is over.  As such, he places power in the hands of his eldest son Taro (Akira Terao) who accepts his responsibility with nervous gratitude.  His younger sons react in opposing manners; Jiro (Jinpachi Nezu) gladly follows the orders of his father as middle keeper of the lineage, while the youngest son Saburo (Daisuke Ryo) mocks the decision and steps away from his ties to the family altogether.  Befuddled, Hidetora attempts to continue on his way without his youngest son.  Foolishly, Hidetora assumes that his transfer of power will still allow him all the rights of ruler without the responsibilities.  However, Taro's wife Kaede (Mieko Harada) pushes her husband to demand his place a ruler, ultimately, causing Taro to confront his father in a rather violent manner.  What results are various levels of deceit amongst the family, the employees of the clan and the villagers surrounding the castle.  In violent, yet poetic, fashion the rest of the film builds up to a war between the brothers all awaiting the return of their father who goes blind and crazy, as a result of his decision.  Ironically, although very Shakespearean, the only voice of reason throughout the film appears to be the fool Kyoami (Pita) who through song and rhymes explains the problems of human existence.  Ultimately, all the characters die either through violent ends or heartbreak, but viewers should not be surprised, because after all King Lear is a tragedy.  There is certainly more to the plot I just explained, but to go into any greater detail would be to ruin its watchability, it is far more experiential than a simple paragraph could ever hope to show.

The important question to ask when discussing Ran is how precisely is it an acceptable adaptation of a Shakespeare play.  The first element that makes the film a great adaptation is its loyalty to the original text.  While the names of the characters and their exact words have changed from the original source material, they, nonetheless, reflect King Lear rather clearly and it does not take a Shakespeare scholar to realize this.  Secondly, performance is key to making Shakespeare adaptations acceptable.  Without a deep understanding of the words and ideas being expounded the film will fall flat, however, as I noted earlier, Ran is full of brilliant performances and even knowing that I do not understand a bit of Japanese, I still managed to gather the deep moving nature of each word spoken by the characters in the film, not once was a line delivered dully.  The final factor, and perhaps most difficult to manage is to ensure that any adaptation of a Shakespeare work be unique and fresh.  Ran does this, perhaps more successfully than any other filmic adaptation I have seen to date, including Kurosawa's own adaptation of The Bad Sleep Well, although from a formalist standpoint it is a far superior film.  Perhaps Ran is so unique given that it is Japanese, yet Kurosawa's use of The Buddha, samurai code and the world of feudal Japan to rethink a story of familial deceit seem so original that I kept having to remind myself that he was borrowing heavily from Shakespeare.  With that being said, I guess what ultimately makes a Shakespeare adaptation work is the ability of a director to blatantly steal the bard's work, yet, doing such a good job of thievery that it seems like their own.  While imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, at times it can match, or, dare I say, outdo the original.

Some time ago, Criterion possessed the rights to Ran, but given their recently ended relationship with Studio Canal it appears as though it will never come back.  However, if you find yourself with the finances, picking up a copy of the out of print DVD will certainly prove rewarding.

Everyone Has To Share The Blade's Cuts To Survive: Wild Card (2003)

In my continued self-study of new Korean cinema, I found myself constantly venturing into films that had already gained a global following, whether for their cult status or arthouse appeal.  I had yet to find a bad experience, as a result, and was growing concerned that such outcomes were due solely to my purposeful ignorance to other Korean film options.  As such, I decided to pop a film called Wild Card into my computer knowing only that it was a Korean film and that I had a lot of trouble finding more than passing synopses of it online.  I assumed the film would be enjoyable at best and would finally prove to be a Korean film that was middle of the road and lacking in any cinematic merit.  However, much to my surprise, Wild Card was its own piece of brilliance that delivers a cop drama so astute and well-envisioned that it easily gives any buddy cop film made in the past decade a run for its money.  Perhaps it is the sincerity about which Yu-jin Kim approaches the subject matter, or the stellar acting of the entire cast, but the movie, despite being action heavy and extremely traditional in narrative quality, is excellent.  I was fortunate to find it lying amongst a handful of other imported dvd's at a local thrift store and more fortunate that it played on my computer with little trouble to region variations.  Wild Card is a rare glimpse into the average film delivery in South Korea, yet, to my eyes, it is something far greater than average.

Wild Card as a cop film focuses on the experiences of two cops as they attempt to bring down a murder who is roaming the urban jungle of Seoul.  The film focuses on two cops, first, the aging Oh Yeong-dal (Jin-yeong Jeong) who is reeling from a controversial misfiring while on duty and approaches his job as a detective rather cautiously.  Second, is Bang Je-su (Dong-kun Yang) who is a stickler for following the manual, yet manages to be an abrasive and sporadic detective who takes pride in his physical prowess and desires to promote himself in the ranks of the force quickly.  Furthermore, Je-su finds himself attempting to win over the heart of another member of the force, a gorgeous woman named Kang Na-Na (Chae-young Han) who is a member of the forensics department.  In typical CSI fashion, the two detectives appear to always be one step behind the killer who is both ruthless and incredibly aware of his surrounding, given that he always cleans up his mess and only uses a small metal ball and chain as a weapon.  Yeong and Je-su are also blocked by the bureaucracy of the police force, which does not allow them to simply burn and destroy all criminals in their path, nor are they allowed to excessively use force as a means to gain information.  Despite this, both the detectives, along with the help of Kang and the remainder of the force manage to find loopholes and back alley tricks that allow them to get close to the killer, eventually catching him slipping and thanks to the sacrifice of another member of the force they finally capture the killer, locking him in jail to await the his trial.  Both Yeong and Je-su grow from the experience and realize that their methods may not have been the best of approaches; however, they also know that their partnership is one of a kind and that together they will effectively protect the streets of Korea from any and all trouble.

Wild Card, as noted earlier, is a rather conservative narrative that does little in the way of new social commentary.  However, what is noticeable is the clear influence American cinema has offered to Korea.  Wild Card essentially plays out like a hybrid buddy cop movie and crime scene investigation television show.  The film has a relatable and diverse cast of characters that come from various social settings and social ideologies.  It also has a killer who is always ahead of the game and seemingly perfect at everything he does, a highly unlikely scenario, but one that helps to affect change amongst the characters in the film, which is inherently necessary in any film involving heroes.  To call the film entirely American though, would be unfair and ill-informed.  Wild Card clearly has a wide array of uniquely American qualities about it.  The relationship between Yeong and Je-su is only one example of this, in an American buddy cop film the duo would have consisted of a young and rebellious cop who is at first disrespectful to his elder and ultimately comes to learn his maturity is necessary.  From the onset, Je-su recognizes Yeong as his elder and though he does disagree with him throughout the film, it is never in a manner that would flat out disregard his superiority by age alone.  This seems to be an element unique to the Korean stylings of the film.  Similarly, and something that has been discussed within my previous writings on Korean films, violence is depicted in an unusual way within Korean works, and even though Wild Card is a mainstream Korean film, it certainly relishes in excesses of violence.  I have not quite come to an understanding about the nature of such violence, but it is clearly an element in most Korean films of this nature and Wild Card shares in the bloody opera.  Ultimately, Wild Card is something of hybrid film between East and West and is all the more brilliant for its combination.

I would say go out and buy a copy of Wild Card, but they simply are not easily accessible.  If you really need a copy now though, it appears as though a few are popping up on Ebay.

Be Glad We Even Came This Far: The Isle (2000)

My continued romp with Korean cinema has produce a rewarding set of films the continually challenge my expectations of narrative and cinematic composition.  The Isle, despite its gritty low-fidelity nature somehow manages to be incredibly poetic and despairingly profound.  It is independent foreign cinema realized to its fullest, and despite its clearly Korean nature manages to be universal in its appeal.  As I continue through more of the Korean films mentioned in the books I am reading, it is becoming apparent that they share many similarities to American cinema, however, when it comes to their studies of individual's psychological nature Korean films seem to excel in a way far more dark than any other country in the world.  The Isle is absolutely a film concerned with the inner desires and nightmares of people, and how such manifestations inevitably affect the world around them, sometimes in a very physical manner.  Like my previous review of Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, The Isle finds itself tied to notions of revenge in a way that seems inherently entrenched within all Korean films, respective of a unique culture that finds an uncomfortable relationship with their past that proves a cause for chaotic rebellion that is viscerally depicted in their films.

The Isle focuses on a set of floating houses at some unnamed river in Korea that is run by a mute prostitute named Hee-jin (Seo Jung).  She seems content to drift from house to house, providing foods, and services, to the residents, until she is provoked by one customers degrading behavior.  In retaliation she kills the man while he is relieving himself and finds little qualm in doing so.  Things change though with the emergence of a new resident, one Hyun-shik (Kim Yu-seok), a criminal evading the law after what viewers assume is a murder in a jealous rage.  While Hee-jin seems disinterested in Hyun-sik at first, his clearly disturbed past becomes a point of interest and Hee-jin begins to long for him, becoming jealous of his relations with the other prostitutes that frequent the house.  This jealousy is exacerbated by Hee-jin becoming close with Hyun-shik as she finds herself saving him from multiple suicide attempts, one particularly gruesome one involving fish hooks.  Disinterested in Hee-jin, Hyun-shik attempts to escape the resort only to be denied by Hee-jin, who possesses the only boat that can leave the isle.  Yet again, fishhooks serve as a means to try and escape from the area, this time in a much more gruesome manner, however, after a spat, Hyun-shik finds himself saving Hee-jin.  The two continue their troubled relationship, and when divers come to rescue a lost rolex they discover the dead bodies of a prostitute and her pimp, which leads the couple to escape from the area, by attaching to the motor of the boat to Hyun-shik's floating house.  The two are now living together in their house, as they float into uncertainty on a river to nowhere.

The Isle, similar to the Japanese experimental film The Woman in the Dunes, has a purgatorial nature about it, particularly given the dreary and lonely nature of the film.  The characters, despite their interactions, seem to just drift throughout the film uncertain about their future or what direction to engage.  They are stuck between something great and something awful and it is never certain what place they will ultimately reside.  The characters, as evident of ones stuck in purgatory, boarder between the definitions of good and evil, and it is ultimately their choices at the isle that decide their fate.  Hyun-shik, is guilty of murder, however, it is made clear that his actions were at the very least not evil as he was doing so in a fit of jealous rage.  He must reside in the purgatory of the isle until he acts in the name of good, which occurs when he saves the live of Hee-jin.  Similarly, Hee-jin is engaged in a questionable position ethically as she is a prostitute and uses her body in a clearly degrading manner, furthermore, she is guilty of murder, yet the people she has killed are certainly bad and in need of punishment.  Again, like Hyun-shik, it is not until she acts in a morally positive manner that she is allowed to escape her situation and give up the job as the ferry person of the purgatorial isle.  At this point, the couple leave the isle and head into nothingness, but we as viewers can only hope that it is into a heavenly place.

The Isle is a hidden gem of Korean cinema, a lesser known marvel amidst a rather stellar decade of films.  Thankfully, it is available streaming on Netflix and well worth watching.

I Don't Remember The Past: Tell Me Something (1999)

Korean cinema has been coming into it's own in the past decade or so and is evidenced most clearly by their horror films.  This came to me as I am currently halfway through an excellent book on New Korean Cinema and will certainly review it upon completion, but in the meantime, I will discuss the handful of films I view as mentioned in the book.  The first of these films is the excellent crime thriller/ psychological horror excursion titled Tell Me Something, which does not have the reputation of the works of Joon-Ho Bong or Chan-wook Park, yet still manages to be something remarkable.  Tell Me Something, directed by Yoon-hyung Chang is a visceral study of deceit, revenge and degradation unlike anything before, combining a grating soundtrack, meta-cinematic dread and meticulous acting to provide a thrill ride that clearly borrows from predecessors like Basic Instinct while managing to be completely fresh in its vision.  In a historic sense, Tell Me Something is one of the harbingers of what would become a globally recognized nation of cinema.  Sure, it is not the best film to come out of Korea by any means, but is a fine piece of cinema that is masterful in its existence alone.

Tell Me Something, is a convoluted and multifaceted crime film of grand proportions.  The film follows one Detective Oh (Suk-kyu Han) who is returning to work after the recent death of his mother.  His return is shadowed by the fact that he borrowed money from a notorious gang leader to assure a surgery for his now deceased mother.  It is only moments into his new return that he is assigned to a case involving a serial killer.  As with most serial killers, his subject has their own modus operandi, which consists of killing respectable mails and severing their body parts, often leaving one part attached to another dead body, however, in each instance at least one body part is left missing.  Befuddled but determined to regain the respect of his colleagues Oh sets out to find the killer.  His search leads him very quickly to one Chae (Eun-ha Shim) who is the daughter of a famous Korean painter.  As the film's pace picks up it becomes clear that Chae is a very troubled individual between her past sexual abuses on the part of her father and her trouble relationships with past guys, who incidentally end up being the victims in the still unknown serial killers crimes.  Despite her obvious problems, Oh grows fond of Chae and pursues her while continually defending her place in the crimes.  As he remains oblivious to her actions, other lovers from Chae's past become victims and in no time Oh's colleagues begin to die.  In one final confrontation, which pits Oh blaming the murders on a jealous female friend of Chae, he denounces Chae's guilt and is almost killed by the psychotic friend.  After the dust clears, Oh and Chae share a discussion in which he turns down her invitations to live with him in Paris.  In the closing scenes, Chae is shown boarding a plane, while Oh enters her apartment one last time.  He turns on the light to reveal one her art projects, a morbid hodgepodge of the body parts remaining from the killers victims.  It becomes clear that she was the murderer the entire time, yet frozen in fear Oh is unable to stop her from leaving on the plane.  The film then closes with Chae talking to another man on the flight, suggesting that her killing is far from completion.

As noted earlier, I am currently reading a fascinating book on New Korean Cinema that discusses this film briefly while defending that the horror genre can serve as social critique.  Ignoring the debate surrounding horror as critique (although I am in favor of it's possibility) I instead what to elaborate on another point made about the film.  In the piece, the author, Kyu-hyun Kim, discusses the foolish claims that the film just furthers notions of women as hysterical and that their otherness and subsequent violent behavior adhere to conservative fears.  Instead, Kim suggests that the film promotes the problems of patriarchy and that rebellion is necessary in dismantling such occurrences.  While the film certainly counters male power in a violent manner, it does raise very serious questions concerning sexual abuse, the voice of women in Korea and the problem of male desires and their interference in the world of criminal justice.  Chae is certainly a mentally unstable character in need of help, yet it is also apparent that most of her problems stem from her father's sexual abuse and violent degradation.  She is at many points paralleled to Ophelia of Shakespeare's Hamlet, who has grown to become one of the most problematic women in the history of the written word, save for the Virgin Mary.  Chae throughout the film continues in her violent ways, but with the exception of the few cops trying to do their jobs, her violent acts are reactionary to previous injustices enacted by men, whether it is her father's violence or one of her lovers who engaged in scopophilic voyeurism with Chae while dating.  It is no coincidence then that Oh, the only one to claim her innocence, is spared her violent wrath.  Not only does he not act violently towards her, when he does discover that she is indeed guilty he does nothing to punish her for her actions.  While part of this failure to report her comes from paralysis, it is always possible that he realizes that at a very basic level her revenge was more than justified.

If you fancy yourself at all concerned with the current world of Asian cinema, Tell Me Something is a must see.  If you like crime thrillers Tell Me Something is a must see.  Hell, if you even remotely enjoy movies Tell Me Something is a must see.  Go get a copy. You will not be disappointed.

Good Or Bad, It's All Playacting: Raise The Red Lantern (1991)

Stark is the best single word to describe Yimou Zhang’s 1991 masterpiece Raise The Red Lantern, which is a standalone work that channels the emotions and fall of a lone character so expertly that it manages to make a perfect, yet poetically heartwrenching film.  Raise The Red Lantern is art house world cinema at its highest form and helped to launch the onslaught of Chinese foreign films to the United States, which snagged not only Academy Awards, but the fascination of countless moviegoers as well.  Furthermore, Raise The Red Lantern does what few films did in 1991, it focuses solely on the experience of a female character and shies away from sugar coating the absolutely abysmal existence one Chinese woman faced in 1920.  From the color palate to the sparse dialogue this is a visionary work that stands on the shoulders of its predecessors in Asian cinema as well as a film that irreversibly changed dramatic filmmaking on a global scale.  A film like Raise The Red Lantern is precisely what one would use to argue for the artistic value of cinema.

As noted, the film focues on a female characters experiences in 1920’s China.  In the opening shot we are introduced to Songlian (Li Gong) as she is being told by her stepmother off-screen that she must find a husband.  In disdain she agrees to become a concubine for the wealthy unnamed Master (Jingwu Ma).  This follows with the film being set up into chapters based on each of the seasons of the year.  In the opening chapter Summer, Songlian realizes that she is to be the fourth mistress to the Master.  The First Mistress Yuru (Shuyuan Jin), whose old age has made her undesirable to the Master, thus leading to her sequestering her time on arbitrary activities away from the other wives.  The Second Mistress Zhuoyan (Cuifen Cao) provides the appearances of a caring and loving sister to Songlian, although as the film progresses we come to realize that she is perhaps the most spiteful of all the wives living in the palace.  Finally, there is the Third Mistress Meishan (Saifei He) a former opera singer who sees her time as The Master’s favorite wife as fleeting and spends an early portion of the film antagonizing Songlian.  However, as the film progresses it is made apparent that Meishan is simply disillusioned with her life in the palace and only acts out to assure her safety in the future.  Songlian is assisted by the rebellious and spiteful servant Ya’ner (Lin Kong), who due to her own relations with The Master treats Songlian with very little respect.  This stacked jealousy and layered deceit leads to a film about betrayal, self-protection and multiple narratives that are all consuming and narrated to perfection.  To elaborate more on the filmic story would be to cloud its viewability.  The film evolves from being a distanced and stark film to something very intimate as the guise of tradition falls apart.  It is about as experiential as a narrative film can get, and no amount of elaboration on the plot can do the film justice.

The masterful nature of the film is only second to the fact that it is a film about a woman’s experience in early 20^th century China.  Films like these are few and far between so when they are made it is worth noting.  Unfortunately, many of the films focusing on women as main characters can fall flat and are frankly unwatchable, so when I come across a film like Raise The Red Lantern I am instantly elated.  The biggest factor about this film is that it passes the Bechdel Test.  In order to pass this test, a film has to do the following: It must have a least two women in it, these women must talk to each other, and their conversation must not be about a man.  While a large amount of the women’s conversations to revolve around their Master, many conversations do occur about other topics.  These topics include Songlian’s time at university, Meishan’s music and the general state of affairs in the palace, which they all agree are rather abysmal.  While this little test seems rather arbitrary and easy to pass, it is quite surprising how few films pass this test even in contemporary filmmaking.  For example, the multiple part, world-renowned sci-fi series Star Wars fails these parameters.  Therefore, when I say that it is a big deal that the film passes this test, I mean it, because it rarely happens.  So besides being an absolutely mesmerizing film it is also on the side of feminist discourse in its portrayals of the illogical structures of patriarchal traditions, as well as in its production which allows women actors and their characters a chance in the spotlight.  This importance of the women in the film is only greatened by the fact that The Master is rarely shown, and when he is shown it is never a full image of his face.

Raise The Red Lantern is a must watch film, and well worth the praises it has garnered over the years.  I think bluray is understood when it comes to obtaining a copy of this film, but at the moment no such option exists, which means a DVD will have to suffice.

Nuns, Thorns, and Desire: The School of The Holy Beast (1974)

WARNING: This review contains graphic imagery and descriptions.


I often get on a soapbox about the American influences apparent in Japanese film, particularly as it relates to action, romance and indie films.  However, I have come to a very distinct realization following my recent viewing of The School of the Holy Beast, and that is that nothing is comparable to Japanese cult films.  They exist in their own world void of influence and logical imagery.  This is one of the most bizarre Japanese works I have scene, alongside Hausu and Jigoku.  The film is saturated with repressed homosexuality, sadomasochism and nudity...it is more reminiscent of a underground pornography than artistic filmmaking.  Despite this statement, it is a sound film that manages to take itself seriously at all the right moments and lay on the cheese at others.  It is a signifier of seventies filmmaking that is as iconic as it is abrasive. A gem of gore cinema that happens to deliver a rather large-scale critique of patriarchal opression in the most unconventional terms.

The film, in a rather nonchalant manner, follows Maya (Yumi Takagawa) a rebellious young woman who has taken it upon herself to seek reform at a local abbey.  From the onset, the abbey appears to be rather blasé, adhering to the regular practices of cleaning, cooking and singing as one would expect.  However, as Maya realizes during a night of restlessness, this particular abbey is preoccupied with punishment on a personal and abbey-wide scale.  As she watches a fellow nun flagellate herself to avoid sin Maya takes it upon herself to become a spy of sorts for the head nuns catching the other nuns in acts of theft, homosexuality and lesser "vices."  The punishments for actions include violent whippings and, as Maya discovers after her own immoral act, binding with rose branches.  These acts are done in the nude while the head nuns look on longingly.  This entire cycle of punishment is arced by Maya's fascination with the appointed abbey priest who appears to have sexual interest in many of the nuns, particularly Maya.  After a plot to exploit the higher nuns' indiscretions, Maya comes to realize the local priest is actually her father resulting in issues of incest and profanity, which is exemplified by a scene of Maya succumbing to pissing on a cross.  Surprisingly this dually degrading and gorgeously stunning film simply ends with Maya away from the abbey.  It is a nunsploitation film by definition and is loyal to the genre by showing only the images associated.


The film is obsessed with clearly demarcating all problems associated with patriarchy as it relates to religion, in this particular case Catholicism.  In fact, it is this critique that helps this film avoid being overtly degrading to women.  With the Laura Mulvey put aside, it promotes a rather freeing notion of femininity.  Each act of aggression, degradation and profanity is blatantly and inextricably tied to patriarchy.  The acts of punishment are done in the name of God and Christ, both obviously associated with maleness in the film.  Many of the nuns deaths are a result of phallic objects, the most obvious being one nun's death by falling on a priests staff.  Furthermore, the jealously and subsequent vengeance that exists in the abbey is almost wholly fueled by the lecherous priest who is involved with many of the nun's including both Maya and her mother.  It is a literal depiction of patriarchy screwing generations of women, a rather brilliant moment in a graphically driven film.  The film's characters even chastise acts of homosexuality for no apparent reason, yet refrain from noting the problems of incest and force intercourse with multiple problems, all with the intent to show a connection between the churches illogical views of unquestioned male superiority as it relates to patriarchal roots.  It is a film that uses exploitation as a guise, yet incorporates feminist critique between the lines.  It is brilliant but takes a close eye to catch.

The School of the Holy Beast is a graphic film and not meant for everybody, but for those who enjoy cult cinema, particularly from Asia, I would suggest getting a hard to find copy.

Crickets, Drums, and Frantic Relationships: Sex Machine (2005)

Independent Asian romance films often dance a very fine line between soft-core porn and run of the mill romantic comedies.  Yuji Tajiri's Japanese film  The Strange Saga of Hiroshi the Freeloading Sex Machine, or simply Sex Machine exists in this divide.  At an hour long, a third of which involves drawn out acts of sexual intercourse, the film is undeniably pornographic.  While it is by no means In the Realm of the Senses or even Nine Songs it does unabashedly display full frontal female nudity and images of male ejaculation.  However, as any legitimate film does, it takes time to clearly differentiate the portrayals of sexuality from the narrative of relationship evolution, thus separating it from the lower form of art that is pornography.  Sex Machine is a story first and a depiction of the intimacies second, not the other way around.

The film opens with a young Hiroshi (Mutsuo Yoshioka) gazing upon his girlfriend Haruka (Rinako Hirasawa) as they head to live together in suburban Japan.  This is almost immediately followed by their sexual relationship, one that is so intense that it causes a minor earthquake in the surrounding neighborhood.  Hiroshi can find little wrong with his situation and seems quite content...that is until Haruka's former lovers and her son's father appear.  Each demands her back, her former Anzai (Kazuhiro Sano) going so far as to force himself upon Haruka who eventually submits to his demands.  Hiroshi even proves unfaithful and cheats on Haruka with her son playing in the background.  The two have a falling out which is only solved with a series of cricket fights, underwater tunnels and lesbian contact between Haruka and Hiroshi's recent affair.  Ultimately, the two realize their relationship is strong only through a moment of loss.  It ends with Haruka playing the drums of monotony and safety, which while uninteresting prove far less stressful than the wilds of their previous activities, sex included.

Despite involving a rather large amount of sex scenes, the film is extremely cinematic, incorporating the obvious influences of Ozu, particularly his comedic work Good Morning.  Many of the scenes, both sexual and nonsexual, are filmed in a first person style, implying a sense of voyeurism to the entire scene.  Viewers are drawn in not only by the insane sexual acts, but by the tension of couples's relationship as well and the handheld camera and close-ups only serves as a point of fixation.  Furthermore, the film raises questions of whether or not differences exist between humans and insects, particularly in the power dynamic of males and females.  It is apparent that the only weakness to male crickets is a female cricket in heat.  Similarly, Haruka's own sexual promescuity proves problematic to many men within the film who either see her as an object to conquer or to gaze at for sexual gratification.  In fact, the only man oblivious to the sexuality of Haruka is her own son.  Arguably, it is only through genderless interactions that harmony may exist, a rather bold statement for a film that focuses so heavily on the role that intercourse plays in a heterosexual relationship.  The film is by no means void of problematic images, but its philosophical leanings lead me to believe that it might just transcend notions of male dominance as a positive thing.  One can only hope that the drum heard at the films end is not a call for that tradition as well.

I would recommend this movie in a heartbeat, but with that being said I should not that it does have imagery that some may find offensive.  While I am quite liberal in my notion of cinema, I know some may not enjoy it, but for those who do care to see it either view it on Netflix or get the DVD.

This Place is Meant for the Younger Generation: Tokyo Story (1953)

Yasujiro Ozu is a master of cinema.  Late Spring is one of the most mesmerizing films I have seen to date, and should not have been surprised to watch his film Tokyo Story surpass it.  He is perhaps the only director who can take the most tragic and heart wrenching parts of modernity and show it so poetically.  Furthermore, Ozu calls upon his ethereal muse Setsuko Hara to deliver a brilliantly acted performance.  It is a Japanese epic that rivals Kurosawa head-on.

The film follows an aging couple as they visit their children and their widowed daughter-in-law in hopes of reconnecting with them after years of geographic separation.  What unfolds is a reflection of the divisions between a traditional Japan and the new modern, capitalist world of Japan following World War II.  The children see their parents as a burden passing them off between each other in hopes that they can continue prospering economically.  The grandchildren are so indifferent to tradition that they flat out ignore their grandparents running out of the room at the earliest convenience.  Tragically, it is only their daughter-in-law Norkio (Setsuko Hara) who helps the elderly couple because she proves to be not only faithful to her deceased husband, but to tradition as well.  Even in the face of their mothers death the children avoid staying to console their father, and instead concern themselves with accruing the belongings of their now gone mother.  In the end the film leaves the viewers to accept the tragedies of modern Japan and in a spout of nihilism posits that the elderly of Japan will die lonely and ignored by progressive technologies.

The key to Ozu's beauty is his composition.  Ozu, along with cinematographer Yuhara Atsuta, create a world of symmetry and voyeurism.  Each shot is carefully composed to be long, often showing the intimate workings of daily Japanese life.  At times the film feels more like a theater piece than cinema, given that each shot is clearly staged and actors often deliver their lines directly into the camera.  Despite the very controlled filming style, the film's beauty is inescapable.  Shadows often appear in moments of sadness, and when the scene involving the grandmother confiding in her grandson about her own despair is shot in a soft-focus that adds to is already wrenching feel.  It is a story about breaking stalwart traditions with modern technology and Ozu carefully films in a way to remind viewers that the two worlds can theoretically exist, it just involves many more Noriko's to prove successful.

I should note that this is my first of what I hope to be many Criterion reviews.  I suggest checking this film out along with many of Ozu's other films in the collection.  Here is a direct link for Tokyo Story, which is also available to watch instantly on Netflix.