Hey folks... Harry here with still more from Harold Hellman... Including.... SVANKMAJER'S NEW FILM!!!!!! Dude... anytime Svankmajer makes a movie it is a must see at the level of must see that David Cronenberg is a must see.... Weird freaking coolness expounds.... Read on... Seattle International Film Festival... dissected by... Harold...
Harold Hellman from Movie Geek Central
(Moviegeek.homestead.com). We're coming into the
final stretch now...
DAY EIGHTEEN: Monday, June 11
INNOCENCE -- Australia, 2000, written and directed by
Paul Cox.
I liked this movie a lot, but I would have liked it a lot more without the incessant crackling from the woman behind me who brought the Doritos bag.
"Innocence" is a quiet, subdued love story about a man and a woman who had a passionate affair in their youth and then discover, upon meeting each other again after fifty years apart, that their feelings for each other are still as strong as ever. There are complications, of course; Andreus is a widower, but Claire still has a husband, John, in a forty-four year marriage that's as boring as it is stable. John is hurt by Claire's actions, of course, but the film takes pains to show that his reaction is not unreasonable. Similarly, Claire has a very strong justification for what she's doing as well. Andreus is perhaps the least developed of the three, which is odd considering he's the one who gets the plot moving with his pursuit of Claire, but it's only by comparison to the depth of the other two characters.
There are no villains or heroes, and (until the rather pat ending) no artificially imposed plot twists, just sensitive, feeling people in a complicated situation, working things out as best they can. The beauty of the film is its simplicity, and the exquisite restraint with which it depicts the romance awakening in its elderly couple. The characters' age and experience also allows writer/director Paul Cox to bring up and address several Big Questions, not the least of which is an evaluation of how love changes over the years, but it's done in such a simple, unadorned fashion that you feel the answers are of prime importance to the characters, instead of being forced on the story by the filmmaker.
There really isn't a lot to say about the movie. The
performances are masterfully understated, the
characters are clearly drawn, and the story is clean
and unembellished. (At least, until the unexpected
climax, which is the first time it feels like Cox is
consciously Making A Point.) The gentle calmness of
the film is also quite refreshing, and draws you into
the world of characters whose day-to-day time is their
own but whose life time is drawing to a close. (It's
this quiet tone that was so badly disrupted by the
idiot with the foil sack.) "Innocence" is peaceful,
human, and very moving, and is among the best love
stories I've ever seen.
VIRGIN STRIPPED BARE BY HER BACHELORS -- South Korea,
2000, written and directed by Hong Sangsoo.
If you're like me, you're wondering about what the title of this movie has to do with its content. It's a reference to a rather famously enigmatic artwork by Marcel Duchamp (the movie replaces "Bride" with "Virgin" in the title), a structuralist assemblage of wire, glass, photography, and other elements. And even more oddly, the Korean title, "Oh! Soo-jung," clearly doesn't translate to this.
Now, after seeing the movie, I can say that the title has everything and nothing to do with the movie. The title sounds trashy and exploitative, but the movie is dry, slow, and careful. The Duchamp piece is abstract and nonliteral, but the movie is firmly rooted in the minutiae of human behavior. But at the same time, it's an explicit description of what happens in the plot. It's a strange contradiction, which, as it turns out, is fitting for the film.
The movie itself is about a budding relationship. Independent movie director Kwon, who's kind of a putz, introduces his wealthy friend Young-soo to Soo-jung, an attractive young woman working for him as a writer on a film project. For a while, Kwon's feelings for Soo-jung are unclear; it's possible he's interested in her, but they don't actually seem to be together. When Kwon leaves them alone, Young-soo flirts clumsily with her, and the movie is basically about them coming together, moving apart, coming closer together, and so on.
At times, the film reminded me strongly of early Jarmusch, in particular "Stranger than Paradise," with its static camera, long silences, wintry setting, and starkly black-and-white photography. For some people, the Jarmusch film is a masterpiece of minimalism, of behavior and observation; for others it's unrelenting tedium. A similar divide will likely result among viewers of "Virgin Stripped Bare."
There's another aspect to this film, though, that sets it apart from Jarmusch. At about the one-hour mark, the movie rewinds to the beginning, replaying the courtship. Some scenes are added, some are skipped, and many are repeated, but different than the first time. Sometimes the changes are minor; in one scene, for example, a fork is knocked off a table, while in the repeat it's a spoon. At other times, the changes are more significant, as in the scene where Soo-jung happens across Young-soo's gloves on a park bench.
At first, we think this is a basic differing-perspectives thing, like in "Rashomon," or, more accurately, that Kevin Bacon misfire "He Said, She Said." But what's going on in "Virgin Stripped Bare" is far more subtle, peculiar, and puzzling. Early in the film, for example, Young-soo gets Soo-jung alone in an alley and kisses her rather aggressively for several seconds before she's able to push him away. On the repeat, though, it's Kwok who takes Soo-jung down the alley. This raises the question: If this is a he-saw, she-saw thing, then whose perspective is which? The second one has to be Soo-jung's, because Young-soo wasn't even there, but then either Young-soo has a memory of something he didn't do (and remembers himself as a jerk), or Soo-jung somehow puts the wrong person there in her memory.
With examples like this, the notion of a simple his-and-hers interpretation goes right out the window, and we're required to pay even closer attention in order to figure out exactly what the movie's doing. This is a very demanding film in that respect; with the protracted silences and static camera, we have to stare at the screen, watching carefully for clues, even though nothing much is happening. We also have to piece together the meaning of the chapter numbers between the two runs of the story (yes, the film is divided into numbered sections), not to mention the intertitles (the first part of the movie is called "Perhaps an Accident," while the repeat is called "Perhaps an Intention").
Obviously, a lot of people will find this frustrating,
and will check out of the movie entirely long before
the halfway mark. (The woman in front of me went to
sleep.) Film-school types, though, and those who
appreciate the Jarmusch movie and those like it, will
absolutely eat this up.
HEDWIG AND THE ANGRY INCH -- USA, 2001, written and
directed by John Cameron Mitchell, songs by Stephen
Trask.
Believe the hype. "Hedwig" rocks.
Based on a successful stage production, "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" tells the story of an East German cross-dresser who comes to America and almost by accident winds up pursuing a career as a glam rock-and-roll artist. It's a full-on musical, of course, with songs that range from soft and sweet to loud and fast, a la David Bowie from his "Suffragette City" days. John Cameron Mitchell writes and directs, adapting the play he created with songwriter Stephen Trask. The easy comparison is to "Rocky Horror," and while they both have elements of campy silliness, there's a big difference: "Rocky Horror" is fun because it's amateurish and dumb, while "Hedwig" is fun because it's razor-sharp and incredibly blazingly smart.
What's more, "Hedwig" benefits from a stunningly kickass lead performance by Mitchell himself. Tim Curry is great in "Rocky Horror," but he's basically a ringmaster for the film's goofy antics, and he really isn't playing an especially deep character. Hedwig, by contrast, is without question the heroine of her story, and Mitchell is absolutely uninhibited and fearless in the role. There are moments of real pain, real heartbreaking tragedy, and they make the jaw-droppingly hilarious comedy work that much better.
And that's not all: The songs are fantastic. "The Origin of Love" has a very strange subject, but it's treated with such gravity and emotion that the result is hauntingly beautiful. "Angry Inch," which explains the movie's title, blisters right off the screen ("My sex-change operation was botched / My guardian angel fell asleep on the watch / Now all I got is a Barbie Doll crotch / I got an angry inch"). And when in the middle of the movie we got a sing-along moment, with a tiny platinum wig bouncing across onscreen lyrics, the whole audience happily joined in: "I put on some makeup, and turn up the tape-deck..." These songs come flying out of the speakers and stick right to the back of your skull, and you'll be humming them for days.
But wait! There's more! The show's stagebound origins are not at all visible in the film; Mitchell uses animation, split-screen, complicated tracking shots, and all sorts of other techniques to free the story from its theatrical roots. Okay, sure, when you go back and summarize the plot, there isn't much there (the first half of the movie is basically a flashback), and the ultimate resolution of Hedwig's rivalry with Tommy Gnosis, a huge rock star who stole Hedwig's songs, is a little abrupt. It doesn't matter, though, because while you're watching the movie, it's almost literally a live electrical wire of pure, unadulterated brilliance.
Michael Medved and the Twerp Brigade will hate the movie, of course, because of its religious irreverence and unabashed pansexuality. To me, though, that's a major plus; anything that gets Medved's panties in a bunch has to have something going for it. "Hedwig" surpasses even that standard: I laughed myself crazy, I knew I wanted the soundtrack before the movie was half over, and I even got choked up at one point -- not because the story was sad, but because I knew I was in the presence of greatness.
I can't really oversell the movie, because regardless
of what your expectations might be, you'll forget
about them and get swept away within minutes. "Hedwig
and the Angry Inch" is absolutely, utterly
astonishing.
DAY NINETEEN: Tuesday, June 12
THE ROAD HOME -- China, 2000, written by Bao Shi,
directed by Zhang Yimou.
"The Road Home" marks something of a departure for director Zhang Yimou. Instead of the socioeconomic backdrop of, say, "Shanghai Triad," or the melancholy critique of bureaucracy in "The Story of Qiu Ju," "The Road Home" is a film of almost pure beauty and joy. It's sweet, simple, and uplifting, and only the most hard-hearted misanthrope will be unmoved.
The first few minutes of the film show Yusheng, a city dweller, visiting his home village, helping his elderly mother with funeral arrangements for his father. Shot in black and white, these scenes are bleak, cold, and unforgiving; Yusheng's mother, Zhao Di, wants a traditional ceremony, and nobody's sure the time or money is available. From this sad beginning, we move into a flashback, and see how Di, as a young woman, came to marry Changyu. The contrast with the drab opening is incredible; the small village, in early summer, is lush, green, and inviting. And after their romance is complete, we move back to the present for the resolution of the funeral.
The pleasure of "The Road Home" is its joyful vision of a deep, pure love. Changyu is a teacher assigned to the village by the city's authorities, and Di becomes infatuated with him almost immediately. Since we know from the beginning that they'll end up together, there's no real suspense as to the final outcome, but Di doesn't know this, and the lengths to which she's willing to go to prove herself to Changyu are quite moving indeed. Rising star Zhang Ziyi plays Di during this sequence, and the camera absolutely loves her, whether she's looking down at Changyu's school, yearning for him to join her at the well, or greeting him with a luminous smile when he comes for dinner.
Their flirtation proceeds almost wordlessly. We luxuriate in the warm colors of the cinematography, watching as Di waits daily alongside a path to catch Changyu's eye, or seeing her brisk stride turn into a cute duckwalk when she's unable to contain her happiness. Nothing really unpleasant ever happens; one of the biggest crises of the romance occurs when Di loses a gift from Changyu, and breaks a treasured bowl. This is quite simply a film of romantic exhilaration, and it sweeps us along with it effortlessly. Even when we return to the dreary present, the tender heart of the lifelong romance continues beating through the story, warming us despite the wind and snow.
"The Road Home" is, at its core, a simple and
sensitive expression of the beauty and generosity of
the human spirit at its best. It may not be a
rivetingly suspenseful drama, but as a sweepingly
romantic evocation of purest love, it's a welcome
antidote to the unrelenting cynicism of our modern
world.
LITTLE OTIK -- Czech Republic, 2000, written and
directed by Jan Svankmajer.
Jan Svankmajer's latest exercise in Freudian fantasy is a morbidly funny little fairy tale about a childless couple's first foray into parenthood. "Little Otik" will delight Svankmajer's fans, and as it's more linear and less aggressively weird than some of his other recent work, it may win him a few new converts as well.
We first meet Karel at a fertility clinic, where his wife Bozena is undergoing tests. She emerges weeping, indicating failure, and they head back to their apartment. Needing a retreat from the pressures of the city, and the depression of being unable to have a baby (everywhere they look, everybody seems to have an infant), they get a small cottage in the country. One day, while doing some landscaping, Karel cuts down a tree and digs up its roots. Sitting there, staring at the muddy tangle, he gets a twisted idea. Apparently as a joke, he carves the mass of roots into the shape of a baby, and presents it to his wife. To his shock, she seems to snap, and treats the object as a real baby, washing it, changing its diapers, and so on. This is strange, of course, but eventually things get much, much stranger.
Even so, "Little Otik" has a far more prosaic tone than most of Svankmajer's previous films, making it prime territory for his injections of surrealism. The apartment building has a variety of neighbors; across the hall is a roughneck man, his vaguely clueless wife, and their young, precocious daughter, while on an upper floor is a decrepit dirty old man who lusts after the little girl. There's also a middle-aged woman who tends her cabbage garden in the back, among others. We get to see mail deliveries, Karel's job, and other day-to-day details presented simply and realistically, instead of being skewed into fantasy.
This makes the surreal touches all the more bizarre. This is true surrealism, by the way, not garden-variety absurdism where it's just weird for the sake of being weird. Events proceed based on a kind of dream logic, bubbling up out of the subconscious, rooted in secret neuroses and hidden desires. For example, while Karel is waiting at the fertility clinic, he stares out the window, down to the street below, and watches as a vendor dips squirming babies out of a vat of water with a fishnet, wraps them in newspaper like cuts of meat, and hands them to his satisfied customers. And when the wooden doll suddenly starts showing signs of life, Karel is horrified, but Bozena refuses to see anything but their first baby, however monstrous it might be (the first clue? it eats the cat).
As with Svankmajer's previous work, there's definitely an interest in tactile sensation, in terms of conveying more than how things look but also how they feel to the touch: we get closeups of glisteningly wet food, or of Bozena rubbing her nose on the doll's hard wood, and so on. Svankmajer also displays a strong sense of humor, as when the dirty old man creeps lecherously up on the girl, or with Bozena's nutty idea for faking a pregnancy; this is a much funnier movie than we're used to seeing from Svankmajer. And as usual, he injects his trademark stop-action animation (supervised by Bedrich Glaser), primarily for the wooden baby but also, notably, for a marvelous woodcut-styled retelling of the classic Czech folktale that inspired the film. Fans, take note: there's a lot less animation than in other Svankmajer films; there's more of an emphasis on the human actors here. But when it's used, the animation is very creepy and very effective.
I need to point out that the story is a little repetitive, and probably didn't need to be seven minutes over two hours. Bozena's maternal obsessions are mirrored by those of the neighbor girl, and their behavior starts to merge with and duplicate one another to some degree. And in some ways, the story is almost too prosaic at times, such as when the police get involved to investigate a series of increasingly mysterious disappearances. These elements seem fairly routine, distracting us from the much more interesting dreamlike parable at the heart of the story. As a result, the movie drags a bit at the ninety-minute mark, as we're waiting for new ideas instead of repeated explorations of previous ones, but the climax comes back around and ends the film on a high note.
"Little Otik" is funny, strange, and disturbing all at
the same time. It's got a lot of interesting
psychological ideas, but it comes at them obliquely,
leaving odd echoes and eddies in your mind that
persist despite your difficulty in pinning them down
intellectually. It's occasionally very weird, in that
Svankmajer way, but it's still very accessible for
non-devotees (unlike, say, the dialogue-free
"Conspirators of Pleasure"). I wouldn't say it's his
best film, but it's very good nonetheless.
THE WEIGHT OF WATER -- USA, 2000, written by Alice
Arlen & Christopher Kyle from Anita Shreve's novel,
directed by Kathryn Bigelow.
It's curious that the most interesting quality of "The Weight of Water," the thing that sets it apart from most movies of its genre, is also, unfortunately, the key to understanding why it doesn't really work.
The story's background is a real-life murder mystery from 1873. On a small island off the New England coast, three Norwegian women were left alone one night by their husbands and acquaintances; the next morning, two of them were dead, and the lone survivor accused a German immigrant who had worked with them of the crime. He was found guilty and hanged, but doubts have persisted regarding what really happened. Anita Shreve fictionalized this incident in a much-admired 1996 novel, and it's this novel that gives the film its title and structure.
Photographer Jean (Catherine McCormack) is assigned to do a photoessay on the crime, and brings along her husband Thomas (Sean Penn), a well-known poet. Also accompanying them are Rich (Josh Lucas), Thomas's rakish brother, and his latest girlfriend Adaline (Elizabeth Hurley). As Jean researches the incident, the film intercuts her story with flashbacks to the earlier period. We meet Maren (Sarah Polley), who will eventually survive the crime, and her husband John (Ulrich Thomsen), and we see their harsh, barren life on their windswept island.
The stories are developed side by side, showing Jean's distance from Thomas, and his oblivious receptiveness to Adaline's aggressive flirting. (Hurley spends a lot of the first half of the movie in various stages of undress.) As Jean becomes increasingly jealous of Adaline, Maren similarly grows envious of Anethe (Rita Kvist), wife to her brother (Anders Berthelsen), of whom she is very fond. Eventually, the parallel agonies grow until they can no longer be contained, and the climax explodes with twin tragedies.
This could have worked really well. It's been a while since we've had a smart, subtle mystery, one with psychological depth and a literary approach to the story. Shreve's novel is, as I understand it, all about thematic comparisons between emotionally analogous storylines; by drawing links between superficially dissimilar characters and situations, it seeks the deeper truths in all of us. The screenplay for the film version is nicely literate, maintaining the parallel-story approach and throwing in quotes from Dylan Thomas, among others. Compared to the low-IQ dreck usually turned out by Hollywood, it's nice to see such an ambitious, adult-oriented drama being attempted.
Unfortunately, intentions don't equal success. There's so much going on in "The Weight of Water," so many threads to keep track of, that there's never really time to explore any of them in depth. As a result, we feel like we're skimming across the surface of a much deeper story, hitting highlights before rushing on to the next point. Because the parallel themes aren't fully developed, our interest falls back to the easy question of the mystery behind the 1873 story, and we grow impatient with the relationship drama of the present day. That's too bad, because Penn, McCormack, and Hurley have rarely been better; their quiet, thoughtful performances seem wasted.
The 1873 storyline is more involving, and also boasts some very good performances. Chief among them is Sarah Polley, who is maturing into one of the most reliably interesting performers of her generation. Sadly, though, because our attention is so clearly focused on the whodunit instead of the emotional resonances between the present and past stories, we figure out the big revelation fairly early on. So what we end up with, unfortunately, is a movie in which the modern story doesn't work because the past story is more interesting, a past story in which the solution to the mystery is obvious, and a package that tries valiantly to tie the two together but doesn't quite manage it.
Director Kathryn Bigelow is to be commended for taking on such an elaborate, bold, and mature film. She gets excellent performances from her cast, and her photographic sense -- framing, lighting, movement -- is as solid as ever. Unfortunately, the material is, I think, just too ambitious. It apparently works well in Shreve's novel (I haven't read it), and watching the movie I also got the sense it would work well as a gothic bodice-ripper, with its grand themes of jealousy and fate and its overall feeling of tragic destiny. The movie version, regrettably, achieves neither deep psychology nor howling melodrama, and as a result is, in a word, inert.
DAY TWENTY: Wednesday, June 13
BETTER THAN SEX -- Australia, 2000, written and
directed by Jonathan Teplitzky.
The premise of "Better Than Sex" couldn't be simpler. Josh (David Wenham) meets Cynthia, or "Cin" (Susie Porter), at a party. They click; she takes him back to her place for a one-night stand. Both are clear, this is a no-strings-attached fling, since in three days he's going back to his London home. The next day, after a night (and morning) of great sex, he begins to gather his things and leave. They continue enjoying each other, though, and he stays. Neither wants a relationship, but they really like each other, and the one-night stand turns into two nights, and then three.
Jonathan Teplitzky has made a film that touches on many of the major and minor issues that come between men and women. Most of these are familiar -- men not talking about their feelings, women wanting the toilet seat put down, the pros and cons of spitting vs swallowing after fellatio, and so on -- but for the most part they're handled with wit and freshness. Sometimes we get the feeling we've seen these conversations before (a noteworthy example being the obligatory "how many sexual partners have you had?" scene), and sometimes Teplitzky falls back on cinematic cliches (e.g., a long montage where Josh sorts out his feelings by walking around town while a sentimental pop song plays on the soundtrack).
But, generally, the film manages to play around in very familiar territory without seeming totally derivative. One subtle accomplishment is the way Teplitzky keeps us from getting bored with the setting, which for ninety percent of the movie is Cin's apartment. He carefully varies angles, lighting, and so on, exploring the space, preventing us from going crazy with the limited geography. He also scores points with his casting: Wenham and Porter are both very good, relaxed and open. They're attractive, but not in that plastic movie-star way; they're attractive the way real people are attractive. (Porter, for example, is absolutely covered in freckles.) They're also very engaged with each other, with good chemistry, and are very comfortable despite the extremely sexual storyline; there's none of that weird actress-holding-up-a-sheet modesty in this movie.
As another means of getting us out of the apartment, Teplitzky uses a direct-address documentary device to have Josh and Cin discuss their feelings, plus occasional cutaways to their friends commenting on the action or the various issues raised. Sometimes this is funny, as when Cin's girlfriends all immediately call one another, each making the next one promise not to "blab." Sometimes it's old hat, as in the women's descriptions of their own behavior during orgasm. In addition, in the apartment, Teplitzky uses voice-over to listen in on the characters' thoughts, which, again, is usually funny and interesting, and occasionally not. Some elements are obviously symbolic directorial impositions, and are a little distracting, such as the wedding dress Cin is making for a friend. The strangest device is a cab driver who functions as sort of an omniscient Cupid; it's a weird magic-realist touch, somewhat out of place, that nonetheless earns a few perplexed laughs.
"Better Than Sex" is hardly original, but it's warm and funny enough that it doesn't really matter. It's sweet, romantic, sometimes imitative but sometimes hilarious, and very, very sexy. If you've ever been part of the modern dating scene, and if you have an open mind about easy sexuality, you'll find a lot to like in this movie. BANGKOK DANGEROUS -- Thailand, 2000, written and directed by Oxide Pang & Danny Pang.
I saw the new Hollywood action flick "Swordfish" shortly before "Bangkok Dangerous," and once again an adventurous Asian movie leaves its slavishly formulaic American counterpart in the dust.
The first shot of "Bangkok Dangerous" is from an overhead security camera in a bathroom. On the far wall, a man stands at the urinals. Another man comes in, looks around, checks the stalls, and then runs up behind the first man and shoots him several times before fleeing. In black-and-white closeup, we see the spreading blood, very dark against the bathroom tile, moving slowly along the floor. Then the opening music starts, intense and driving, and orange-red credits flow across the stream of blood.
It's a very stylish image, attention-grabbing and bordering on perverse beauty, and sets the tone for what follows. The protagonist, Kong, is a professional hitman who also happens to be deaf. From a brutally abusive childhood (shown briefly in flashback), he grows up into an nearly hollow adult; he seems genial and friendly, but in reality he's almost a blank slate. While mopping floors at a shooting range, he met Jo and his girlfriend Aom, and based on his talent with a handgun -- because he's deaf, he doesn't flinch at the shot -- Jo brought him on to help with his assasinations. Now, with Jo injured and nearing the end, Kong is approaching a final crisis of conscience and self-confidence.
The story is a fascinating mix of action boilerplate (the obligatory montage wherein Jo teaches Kong his skills) and unusual departure (Kong's unlikely romance with drugstore clerk Fon). The soundtrack is densely layered, with percussion-heavy rave music and various impressionistic effects. There's just the right touch of humor, such as a brief scene with Fon's senile grandmother. The action is incredibly well-staged, particularly a scene in which Kong surprises and kills a half-dozen cardplayers. The leadup is a montage of bits and pieces of the slaughter, and then we suddenly cut to the aftermath. The deconstruction thereby brilliantly shows us the details of what happened, while also indicating its astonishing speed.
This is not a movie for the faint of heart. The violence is shocking, and the blood flows freely; there's a bit with a machete that drew gasps and murmurs from the audience. Also, be forewarned, there's a very brutal rape in the middle of the film, perpetrated by a nasty villain. This is, after all, a crime thriller, and Kong is an assassin, and the movie doesn't shy away from the world or the effects of Kong's choice of vocation. Interestingly, though, his violence isn't totally glorified; the whole climax of the film hinges on his sudden recognition of his questionable morality.
"Bangkok Dangerous" is a headlong rush of sensory overload, guns and neon and sweat and codes of honor. It's paced very well, its thunderous action leavened with moments of quiet introspection. It should be said that some sequences move so blisteringly fast that it's hard work following exactly what's going on, but I'd rather be two steps behind a movie, running to keep up, than three steps ahead of it. "Bangkok Dangerous" isn't an important, meaningful film, but it is adrenaline-packed entertainment, and that's all it needs to be.
Hellman Out
