All Posts


Pâfekuto Burû (1997) (Perfect Blue)
Satoshi Kon
Japanese

 
Perfect BlueSatoshi Kon’s remarkable debut feature Perfect Blue (1997) begins with an action scene from a television episode of Power Rangers, revealed only shortly later to be a live performance by the actors in a public auditorium. As the resoundingly unsuccessful show winds down, we hear some young audience members sourly point out that it was nothing like the television version. This idea of the virtual, the illusionary coming across as more real than the real drives the central conflict of Perfect Blue, in which an erstwhile pop idol, Mima, finds herself becoming the prisoner of her own fabricated personality. A good ten years ahead of its time, Satoshi Kon’s film frighteningly presages the progressive virtualization and publicization of our personalities. Mima loses out to one of her fans who does a better job of impersonating her than herself and develops a persona for Mima that’s truer than reality. Perfect Blue doesn’t merely subordinate reality to illusion and personality to identity, but thoroughly undermines the possibility of constructing such dichotomies, as reality and illusion bleed so thoroughly into each other that it is not just impossible, but also immaterial that they be separated. Even with its deceptively assuring closure, a la Shutter Island (2010), the film pulls the rug of reality from under our feet and leaves us hanging like Scottie Ferguson. Very much like Mima, the audience struggles with the instability of the movie’s construction and attempts (perhaps in vain) to hold on to a solid ground from which to view things, to secure its own sanity. Directed with an extremist’s taste for visceral shock and a modernist’s eye for reflective surfaces, Perfect Blue challenges the psychological seriousness of many similar live-action features, while benefiting from its choice of the medium.

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

Woman Of the Dunes

The Man In White Suit

[On Alexander Mackendrick’s The Man in the White Suit (1951), for The Mubi Notebook]

Bara No Sôretsu (1968) (Funeral Parade Of Roses)
Toshio Matsumoto
Japanese

 

Funeral Parade of RosesToshio Matsumoto’s flamboyant, shape shifting, subversive Funeral Parade of Roses (1969) is perhaps the ideal poster boy for what is known as the Japanese New Wave. If this loosely defined group associated with the cinema of filmmakers such as Nagisa Oshima and Shohei Imamura attacked the traditional notion of “the Japanese Identity”, exposing the blind spots in its attempts at constructing a seamless racial, political and cultural identity for the nation and upsetting any stable ground hitherto held on to, Matsumoto’s film questions the idea of identity itself. Centering on a group of transvestites working at a bar in Tokyo’s Shinjuku District, Funeral Parade of Roses is a potpourri of fictional passages, interviews and found footage that weaves together various modes of representation/exposition and simulates the theme of amorphousness of identity that is at the heart of the film. This idea of identity-as-performance is set in motion by a tape recording that plays throughout the film and talks about humans wearing multiple masks one over the other and is fortified by the film’s perpetual self-reflexivity, which keeps revealing whatever we witness as staged. This reflexivity also keeps the film from being exploitative towards its transvestite subjects, who are instead made active participants in the creative process. Matsumoto does nothing that could undermine the dignity of his actor-characters and portrays them in all their richness: jealous, scheming, funny, carefree, tormented, self-deprecating and proud. (Not that the film takes all the right steps – it still seems to buy into the troubled childhood cliché)  Full of baffling shifts in tone, attitude, pace and narrative modes, Funeral Parade of Roses is the kind of film Almodóvar would really dig: perverse, intense, loving and dead serious.

Kôshikei (1968) (Death By Hanging)
Nagisa Oshima
Japanese

 

Death By HangingTroublemaker extraordinaire Nagisa Oshima’s Death by Hanging (1968) is a tar-black comedy in the vein of Dr. Strangelove (1964), straddling the polar realms of docu-drama and over-the-top absurdity, and begins with a documentary passage that tells us that about a recent survey which reveals that most Japanese are against the abolition of death penalty. Following this statistic, we are shown the process of execution of a prisoner step-by-step, with voiceover commentary that befits one of those state-sponsored awareness raisers, before being abruptly thrust into a world of Kafkaesque fiction. Authorities overlooking the execution discover that the hanged prisoner R (Do-yun Yu) is not dead yet and has lost his memory. Not having encountered this situation before, they scramble for law books and scriptures, before deciding that they would have to rekindle R’s memory and make him aware of his guilt so that he can be hanged again. What ensues is, as it were, a theatre of the absurd, with officials role-playing, reconstructing in great detail R’s past – right from his possibly troubled childhood – based on popular knowledge, their biases, neuroses and fantasies. “The Law is always prepared to lend you a spare brain in order to condemn you without remorse”, wrote Barthes. In Oshima’s film we witness that tendency in all its viciousness, as the officers channel their repressed racism and sexual frustration onto the ethnic outsider R, who becomes a Christ-like figure bearing the consequences of the prejudices of a whole nation. Oshima is unabashedly agenda-driven and uses a host of devices, that no doubt recall Godard, that distances the audience – who are explicitly implicated and grilled – from the central drama. With a moralist’s anger and a filmmaker’s flamboyance, he creates a cold, caustic work that presents a ruthless Japan that haunts its youth with the ghosts of an imperial, feudal, terrorizing past.

Tôkyô Orimpikku (1965) (Tokyo Olympiad)
Kon Ichikawa
Japanese

 

Tokyo OlympiadCommissioned by Japan’s national Olympic committee during the Summer Olympics of 1964, Tokyo Olympiad (1965) is a study in forms. Covering the event end-to-end – from the opening to the closing ceremony – Kon Ichikawa’s film is preoccupied with the filmic form as an end in itself, indifferent to if not independent of its ostensible subject. This stance is highly befitting of the project as well, for what are the Olympic Games if not the pure form of war, emptied of all its teleology and historico-political foundation? Each of the sport is filmed, edited and scored with a different style and rhythm, as though trying to develop an impressionistic portrait of the game. Ichikawa is excited by movement and by speed, by an athletic manoeuvre and by a show of sheer force, by the elegance of a gymnastic move and the animality of a shot put throw. His fascination is not with the perfection and beauty of the human body, as it might have been to Leni Riefenstahl, but with the grace of its movement and with the skill it’s capable of. Even when he is fixated on an isolated body part, as is the case with the oscillating derriere of an athlete in a walking event, the interest is less in the anatomical details than with the form of its motion through space and time. Ichikawa, as it were, is proposing why “Citius, Altius, Fortius” could well apply to the medium he is working with too. He also takes the spirit of the Olympics from the outside to the inside, from the frenzy of a mass sport to the simmering moods of an individual. He mystifies by distance, by covering the athletes from a distance and with a brooding voiceover which makes them come across like Zen monks (a stratagem that Chris Marker would employ in his film on Kurosawa). He captures their little quirks, their absurd superstitions and their emotional fragility in vivid detail which acts as the perfect foil to the extreme physicality of the rest of the film.

Kon Ichikawa’s An Actor’s Revenge (1963) displays a love-hate relationship – a morbid fascination, why not – with the widescreen. Ichikawa seems to be engaged in a wresting match with the widescreen as the ludicrous plot of the film plods on without shame or scruple. The film opens with an expansive shot of an artificial landscape which is revealed to be a stage after the camera pulls out, as though acknowledging its miscalculation that the 2.35:1 ratio will be wide enough to contain the stage. Of course, the stage we see is too big to be contained by anything, leave alone a letterboxed perspective, because, in An Actor’s Revenge, the world itself is an extension of theatre, where roles have to be played, spaces have to be negotiated and a narrative has to be taken to a tragic yet gratifying closure. Ichikawa points not only at this theatricality of the film’s world with double framing and bracketed compositions – a bizarre ploy that nearly makes it seem like a film shot in Academy Ratio is playing within the Scope film we are watching – but also to the inability to take the play of life to a conclusion, to get off the stage, by consistently revealing its unsurpassable edge, wherein a part of the screen just becomes an inaccessible, immobile wasteland. What is startling about An Actor’s Revenge is that, unlike most widescreen pictures, it does not adopt a single, streamlined aesthetic strategy towards the format. Ichikawa and regular DOP Setsuo Kobayashi tussle with the ratio here, being at times charitable towards it, at times critical and, at times, plain indifferent. At times Ichikawa makes judicious use of the screen space, providing a lot of visual data to process, and at times he just disregards this abundance of space, to the point of blacking it out as if trying to get rid of it. During one moment he is in awe of its generosity and during the other he is mocking its inadequacy. As he indulges himself with the dramatic quality of strong horizontals and verticals, he ends up emulating a lot of aspect ratios, wider and smaller. Sometimes he is excited by the visceral effect of a diagonal across an elongated rectangle, sometimes by the pensiveness of a slanted construction in deep space. Sometimes, he is simply being eccentric.

Widescreen as a stage, Wide screen as a storage space, Widescreen as a notice board, Widescreen as an annexe, Widescreen as a scroll, Widescreen as a ruler, Widescreen as a Swiss army knife, Widescreen as insufficient, Widescreen as excess, Widescreen as useless.

An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge
An Actor's Revenge

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Kuroneko

Podzemlje (1995) (Underground)
Emir Kusturica
Serbian/German/French/English/Russian

 

UndergroundEmir Kusturica’s Underground (1995) has been torn apart in certain sections as pro-Milosevic propaganda that brushes aside Serbia’s atrocities in the Balkan Wars. I think that’s not only being too harsh on a relatively benign satire but also that it ascribes way too much intention and focus to a film that’s riddled with ideological inconsistencies, like most films. True that it presents Yugoslavia under Tito as a Platonic cave whose residents mistake the shadows on the wall – sometimes literally, as when the inmates of an underground cell watch faked footage from WW2, which they think is still on – for truth and who are kept united under a phantom enemy while being blind to internal fault lines. But construing Kusturica’s generally sentimental lament about the breakup of a nation as brothers start killing brothers and friends turn on each other as a case for Serbia comes across as a pre-determined approach to the film which writes down the answers before the questions. What’s most inviting about Underground is how it keeps poking at the nexus between politics and cinema. Marko (Miki Manojlović), whose rise to power mirrors Tito’s, appears to us like a filmmaker figure, directing his historical actors in an underground set illuminated by high-key lighting and marked by a bizarre communal mise en scène. (And what of Tito himself, who could be the seen as the helmer of a chaotic crew made to act out a Communist metanarrative?) The deep hierarchy of performances that pervades the film aptly throws light on the loss of “reality” and the alienation from history that seems to have characterized Yugoslavia’s tumultuous half-century since the end of the Second World War.


[Excerpts from Paul Virilio's War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception (1984/89)]

From the original watch-tower through the anchored balloon to the reconnaissance aircraft and remote sensing satellites, one and the same function has been indefinitely repeated, the eye’s function being the function of a weapon.

The industrial production of repeating guns and automatic weapons was thus followed by the innovation of repeating images.

 

A war of pictures and sounds is replacing the war of objects (projectiles and missiles)

War can never break free from the magical spectacle because its very purpose is to produce that spectacle: to fell the enemy is not so much to capture as to ‘captivate’ him, to instill the fear of death before he actually dies.

Apocalypse Now

…the history of battle is primarily the history of radically changing fields of perception.

“I still remember the effect I produced I produced on a small group of Galla tribesman massed around a man in black clothes,” reported Mussolini’s son during the Abyssinian war of 1935-36. “I dropped an aerial torpedo right in the centre, and the group opened up just like a flowering rose.”

Dr. Strangelove

Rudolph Arnheim once remarked that, after 1914, many film-actors became props and the props took the leading role. Similarly, women became the objective tragedy in the wars from which they were excluded.

The star system and the sex symbol were the result of that unforeseen perceptual logistics which developed intensively in every field during the First World War.

Drums Along The Mohawk

World War One was the reason for Hollywood”.

Cinemas, too, were training camps which bonded people together in the face of death agony, teaching them to fear the death of what they did not know – or rather, as Hitchcock put it, of what did not exist.

Dr. Strangelove

…the Allies’ victory in the Second World War was at least partly due to their grasp of the real nature of Nazi Lebenstaum, and to their decision to attach the core of Hitler’s power by undermining his charismatic infallibility. They did this by making themselves the leading innovators of film technology.

Eyesight and direct vision have gradually given way to optical or opto-electronic processes, to the most sophisticated forms of ‘telescopic sight’.

Only serial photography was capable of changing troop positions or the impact of long range artillery, and hence the capacity of new weapons for serial destruction.

Dr. Strangelove

As Andre Malraux wrote: “Caesar could have conversed with Napoleon, but Napoleon has nothing to say to President Johnson

Positional warfare, then, had had its day. The extreme mobility of mechanized armies impaired a new temporal unity that only cinema could apprehend.

Napoleon

Just as weapons and armour developed in unison throughout history, so invisibility and visibility now began to evolve together, eventually producing invisible weapons that make things visible.

The projectile’s image and the image’s projectile form a single composite. In its tasks of detection  and acquisition, pursuit and destruction, the projectile is an image of ‘signature’ on a screen, and the television picture is an ultrasonic projectile propagated at the speed of light.

Dr. Strangelove

Next Page »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 76 other followers