The simplistic title of this film refers to one of the choices given to the Chilean public during the monumental national plebiscite in 1988. The issue at hand was the continuation of General Augusto Pinochet’s military dictator regime. NO meant down with Pinochet; YES meant stay the course. Pablo Larrain’s new feature tells the story of this contentious period leading up to the vote from the point of view of the dueling advertising agencies charged with convincing the public to vote YES or NO.
No (2012) dir. Pablo Larrain
Starring: Gael Garcia Bernal
By Alan Bacchus
Of course, Larrain centres on the NO side, specifically Gael Garcia Bernal’s character, Rene Saavedra, a hot-shot ad man who treats the political issue like selling soda pop. Prompted by international pressure, rules were set to ensure a fair campaign. Each side was allowed 15 minutes of airtime in each of the 27 days leading up to the election to convey information, state their case and convince the public.
Obstacles facing Rene include the angry liberal left, which wanted to vilify Pinochet as a violent tyrant who imprisoned thousands of innocent citizens during his reign; the apprehensive public, who feared even going to the polls; and the conniving opposition headed by Rene’s old boss, Lucho Guzman, an equal match to Rene’s commercial savvy.
Larrain throws us into the war room of activity as ideas get bounced around, and he's sure to highlight the absurd and uproarious comical options discussed. He consistently oscillates between the socio-political gravitas of the stakes and a strong farcical tone. Bernal's goofy visage makes him the ideal hero in the endeavour. Of course, he's rugged and handsome as a leading man, but also his youth and small physical stature reminds us of the David vs. Goliath challenge in which he finds himself.
No won the a special Art Cinema Prize at the Director’s Fortnight Program at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, due in part to Larrain’s bold stylistic choice to shoot on ordinary, old-school video and with a decidedly undramatic 4:3 full frame. It’s an inspired choice. The ugly graininess of video image immediately puts us in the time and place of the era and it integrates invisibly into the cleverly edited stock footage of the period. The result is an immersive political statement and the ideal artifact of this momentous period in Latin American politics.
The Legend of Drunken Master aka Drunken Master 2 (2000) dir. Chia-Liang Liu Starring: Jackie Chan, Anita Mui, Long Ti, Andy Lau
***1/2
by Alan Bacchus
Even before the American release of this film, HK action buffs already knew it as Drunken Master 2, a legendary film certainly in my household for its astonishing fight sequences featuring Jackie Chan at his most lethal, most athletic, toughest and funniest. Remember, these were the days before the internet, and thus accessibility to foreign films not released stateside was limited. But for me access to Drunken Master 2 came from my membership at my local strip mall LaserDisc-renting Chinese videostore in Mississauga.
After the release of Rumble in the Bronx in North America in 1995, Jackie Chan finally had success overseas 15 years after he made his American debut in the early '80s. Other than the retched Rush Hour movies, Chan’s subsequent releases were older HK films re-dubbed and sometimes re-edited for North America. 1992’s Police Story 3 became Supercop in 1996, Police Story 4 became First Strike, and it was the same with Operation Condor, Twin Dragons and Mr. Nice Guy, each with decreasing box office returns and general public hype.
And so in 2000 when The Legend of Drunken Master was released, it was just another Jackie Chan movie to most people. But to the LaserDisc-watching freaks like me it was something special. However, what a shame that a meager $11 million box office take meant that arguably the film with the greatest ever hand-to-hand fight sequences was only glanced over.
What are the best kung-fu movies ever made? Maybe those Jet Li/Tsui Hark Once Upon a Time in China flicks? Or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? Or the Yhang Zimou mystical epics? Enter the Dragon? The old school Five Deadly Venoms? Drunken Master 2 is a marvel because its kung fu is boiled down to hand-to-hand combat, achieving a fresh 'purity' in action largely unaided by elaborate weaponry, pyrotechnics, highflying wire techniques and, most definitely, computer graphics - just the beautiful and astonishing choreography of hands and feet flying.
It’s the turn of the century in China. Jackie Chan and his family have just bought a rare and potent root of ginseng from a neighbouring province and are crossing the border to get back home. Chan, aged 40 at the time, plays the ‘teenaged’ Fei-hung and son to his disapproving father, Kei-ying (Long Ti), who runs a martial arts school and garden/nursery. Fei-hung the troublemaker decides to hide the ginseng in a fellow passenger’s suitcase to avoid the customs charges. Of course, there’s a mix-up and Fei-hung winds up with some other kind of valuable artifact coveted by a nefarious group of imperialist thieves.
When the baddies come looking for the artifact, Fei-hung is forced to defend himself, protect his mother, get back his ginseng and do it all without pissing off his father. Fei-hung’s technique is ‘drunken boxing’ – his own personal style which mimics the wobbling and swaying of a drunken person, thus putting his opponent off guard. But when he actually gets drunk, like Popeye, Fei-hung gets stronger, quicker and more badass.
As usual, it’s disposable plotting for Jackie Chan, but the old world China setting is made more bearable than say the 'New York' locale of Rumble in the Bronx or the international espionage of First Strike. Again, Chan’s vaudevillian/silent cinema comic timing is ramped up, creating a fast-paced, zany comedy or errors. The family core of Fei-hung, his father and his step-mother forms a fun three-way comic dynamic. Anita Mui is the stand-out as the stepmother (actually 9 years Chan’s junior!). She appears to be acting in a film all her own, as her heightened and exaggerated mannerisms go beyond even Chan’s tone of silent-era influenced anachronism.
But it’s the awe-inspiring fight sequences that made Drunken Master 2 the best kept secret among us suburban LaserDisc genre-junkies. If not the greatest fight sequence ever put to film, then at least my personal favourite is the incredible tea-house scene in the middle of the picture. Fei-hung and his buddy sit down on the upper floor of a tea house for a peaceful drink when out of nowhere a hundred axe-wielding thugs storm the building and attack them. The duo proceed to beat down these badasses and tear apart the entire building with bamboo poles and brute strength. It’s over-the-top and implausible, 2 vs. 100, but the choreography is so precise we actually believe two people could do such damage and fend off a hundred guys. The Wachowski Bros. would later film their own version in Matrix Reloaded with their Neo vs. 100 Smiths fight but with the aid of mondo computer effects.
This is just one of a half-dozen equally inspired and monumentally artistic and brutal hand-to-hand fight sequences and the reason my LaserDisc player in the 1990s got a good workout replaying it over and over again.
The Legend of Drunken Master is available on Blu-ray from Miramax/Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, in addition to three other martial arts classics – Hero, Iron Monkey and Zatoichi: The Blind Swordsman.
The Moment of Truth (1965) dir. Francesco Rosi
Starring: Miguel Mateo 'Miguelín', Linda Christian, Pedro Basauri
***½
By Greg Klymkiw
It's probably a "cultural thang", but I just don't get bullfighting. It's a vicious, cruel and morally reprehensible "sport" (if you can even call it that) that involves teasing, torturing, then murdering a bull for the enjoyment of blood-lusting plebes (I include the "elite" here too) in mostly Spanish-speaking countries. Actually, I'll go further - call it ethnocentric or even racist if you will (and I will care less) - but anyone who would engage actively or enjoy watching this odious "art" (if you can even call it that) has got to have something seriously wrong with them. Yes, I'm aware of bullfighting's historical "importance" to Spanish "culture" (if you can even call it that), but why and how this crime against animals can continue in this day and age is beyond me.
And yes, I consider the teasing, torturing and wanton slaughter of animals a crime. Just because it's "cultural" doesn't mean reasonable, thinking people must accept its existence.
There is a long tradition of bullfighting movies; the most well-known being the various versions of Blood and Sand (most notably the silent 1922 Rudolf Valentino version and Rouben Mamoulian's 1941 effort for Fox) and Budd Boetticher's studio butchered and recently restored The Bullfighter and the Lady. The above films are not without merit as films, but none of them can hold a candle to Francesco Rosi's The Moment of Truth.
I hate this movie, BUT The Moment of Truth is important on three fronts. First of all, it's dazzling filmmaking. Secondly, it reflects the society and politics of Spain in the 1960s in ways that also shed light on the macho-blood-lust culture that would so proudly continue to extol the virtues of this heinous activity. Finally, it is an exquisite addition to the canon of the brilliant Italian director Francesco Rosi (Salvatore Giuliano, Hands Over the City, The Mattei Affair, Lucky Luciano) and, in fact, is a perfect melding of his Neo-realist and operatic tendencies (and influences).
The movie does not glorify bullfighting, but rather, it takes a no-holds-barred look at the entire world of the "sport/art" - behind the scenes and in the public spotlight. Rosi's film charts the rise of bullfighter Miguel Mateo 'Miguelín', an aimless young man who desperately seeks a better life and painstakingly learns the bullfighting ropes and rises to the top of the game. In spite of his stardom, he's still a simple country boy at heart and his handlers push him to ever-dangerous heights - exploiting him with absolutely no regard for his well-being. Miguel kills the bulls, but the men of influence kill his spirit and, in so doing, further feed the the centuries-old blood-lust of the "people".
Rosi's mise-en-scène is phenomenal. Attacking the tale with a mixture of classical, yet baroque shots reminiscent of his mentor Luchino Visconti, yet training his eye on the proceedings as a neo-realist storyteller and documentarian, this is a film that clearly springs from the loins of a born filmmaker. Sequences involving the running of bulls through the streets as their hides are pierced with ribbon-adorned harpoons, the dank basement of the bullring where Migeulin is trained by retired bullfighter Pedrucho (Pedro Basauri), the dusty rings themselves - surrounded by hordes of slavering, blood-crazed fans - these images are clearly unforgettable and, most importantly, are the real thing.
When we see fear in Migeulin's eyes as he faces an angry, snorting bull, this is not acting - it's the real thing. No rear-screen projection or opticals a la Blood and Sand are used here. It's real bullfighters, real swords, real gorings and real bulls.
While it is clear that Rosi's intent is to expose the macho myths of this world, I still find it sickening to watch. Even though it's SUPPOSED to be sickening, having to watch it is not unlike what it must be for non-pedophiles to watch real kiddie porn. Filmmakers who must take horrendous things to extremes in order to expose truth (like Kubrick, Pasolini, Scorsese, Friedkin etc.) do so within the realm of recreating violence. In The Moment of Truth, violence, pain and suffering happen for real and Rosi captures it on film with all the power and panache one would expect from a great filmmaker.
For Rosi to tell this story and explore the theme of the violent exploitation of man and beast - for him to break-down the perverse sense of masculinity that infuses the lives of those on both sides of the bullfighting world - he must, like all great artists avoid any sense of morality that will interfere with the horrors he seeks to display.
I understand this, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
The most upsetting thing is seeing animals being teased painfully with the harpoons and to witness these beasts actually being stuck with swords, to watch - mouth agape - as real blood gushes out of these poor animals and worst of all, to bear witness to these animals having their spinal columns crushed with the cold steel of the torero's sword (and see even more blood gushing out of thee animals) is, frankly, more sickening than watching the re-created scourging and crucifixion of Our Lord in Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ.
In spite of my revulsion, I cannot deny that Rosi is at the top of his game here. This is brave and brilliant filmmaking. However, in order to expose exploitation, Rosi must also exploit his human and animal subjects. It's even more detestable that he focuses his camera so astoundingly and unflinchingly upon the balletic grace with which the bullfighters taunt their quarry and then kill it.
There's no two ways about it.
I admire this film and I respect it.
I also hate it and wish it had never been made.
"The Moment of Truth" is available on an exquisitely mastered Bluray on the Criterion Collection - a widescreen Technicolor print that's a perfect example of a terrible beauty. The release includes a new English subtitle translation, a handsome booklet and an interview with Rosi himself.
Barking Dogs Never Bite (2000) dir. Bong Joon-Ho Starring: Sung-jae Lee, Doona Bae
***1/2
By Alan Bacchus
There's an old adage in Hollywood: "never kill the dog." Do whatever you can to any of the heroes ― splatter their brains over the wall, rip out teeth, arms, fingers ― but never, ever kill the dog in a movie. Writer/director Joon-Ho not only kills dogs, he strangles them, tosses them off roofs, skewers them like pigs on a spigot and carves them up to be boiled like stew. In Barking Dogs Never Bite, this conceptually unfriendly idea makes for a jet-black comedy of the peculiar Korean variety. And now that Bong Joon-Ho (Memories of Murder, The Host, Mother) has become a celebrated, Cannes-worthy auteur, his first feature finally sees the light of day in North America on DVD.
Yun-ju (Lee Sung-jae) is an unemployed, frustrated college instructor. He lives in a drab high-rise complex with his overbearing girlfriend. When a yapping dog annoys him past the breaking point, he relieves his stress by stealing it, with the intention of killing it. His conscience won't allow that, but before he can rescue the doggy, a sadistic janitor has already skinned and boiled it for stew. Meanwhile, Hyeon-nam (Doona Bae), a government worker in the area who dreams of becoming a YouTube celebrity, witnesses one of Yun-ju's acts of cruelty and endeavours to be become the local hero she's always dreamt of and take down the mysterious dog kidnapper.
There's no doubt there's an iconoclastic director behind the camera. The audacious subject matter begs critics and audiences not to notice the picture, either to revile it or go along with the subversive ride. On a technical level, Jong-Ho's direction is pitch perfect steady cam work that roams the high-rise building with ease, slo-motion photography that highlights key comic beats in the action and dramatic camera angles that capture the sanitized uniformity and engulfing feeling of condo-living.
Beneath the surface, Joon-ho creates warm, genuine characters who we desperately want to succeed. Even Yun-ju, despite throwing dogs off the roof to relieve his angst, never comes off as cruel, but full of misplaced anger against a corrupt society that has wronged him. And cute heroine Hyeon-nam and her overweight convenience store clerk BFF are wonderfully drawn underachievers looking for a way to break out of their shamed existences.
It's important to note that these heinous acts of animal cruelty are never shown on screen and there's even a clear disclaimer at the beginning telling us no animals were harmed during the making of the picture. So, for those who can at least stomach the notion of killing dogs for comedy, Joon-ho fans will certainly take delight in his delicious screen debut.
Tokyo Sonata (2009) dir. Kiyoshi Kurosawa Starring: Teruyuki Kagawa, Kyôko Koizumi, Yû Koyanagi, Inowaki Kai, Haruka Igawa
***1/2
By Alan Bacchus
Kiyoshi Kurosawa (Cure, Pulse) smartly leaves the languishing J-Horror genre behind him and branches out creatively with this acclaimed and award-winning art-house, humanist drama. With its absurd, but staid, tone, Tokyo Sonata succeeds in enlightening us, with that familiar Asian peculiarity, to the effects of the global financial crisis from the point of view of a middle class Japanese family.
When Ryuhei (a husband and father of two boys) loses his job, he finds himself helpless, like a turtle on his back, unable to comprehend such upheaval. Embarrassed and hurt, he keeps this a secret from his wife Megumi and continues his daily routine of leaving home in the morning and returning before dinner. His days though are spent walking long soup kitchen lines with other fellow corporate castaways and job-hunting at various temp agencies. Ryuhei's frustrations extend to his domestic life when his inability to control the actions of his two boys sends him over the edge. His elder child decides to enter the military so he can fight for the U.S. Army in Iraq and his young son develops an interest in music, an endeavour of which he stubbornly and vehemently disapproves.
Though I've never been to Japan, my impression of its working culture is that it's an unforgiving powder keg of stress. So, for Kurosawa, Ryuhei's breakdown and inability to ask for help sharply mirror his society's over-protectiveness of its pride and fallibility in the context of their country's financial crisis.
Kurosawa's observational photography looks fantastic, bringing to mind the satirical work of Roy Andersson (Songs from the Second Floor, You, the Living). Tokyo Sonata moves at a very slow pace and might test the patience of those not inclined to relax or sit still, but as it moves towards its third act, Kurosawa brings his characters to the edge, engineering a powerfully emotional climax and an optimistic glimmer of hope at the very end. Thank god for that.
Last Tango in Paris (1973) dir. Bernardo Bertolucci Starring: Marlon Brando, Maria Schneider, Jean-Pierre Léaud, Massimo Girotti
****
By Alan Bacchus
Anyone familiar with ‘Last Tango in Paris’ can’t really say or hear ‘pass the butter’ without a least a slight pause, double-take, or smirk of recognition to the now infamous line of dialogue uttered by Marlon Brando near the midpoint of this film. Of course, it refers to the use of that smooth, spreadable substance used by Brando’s character to lubricate a certain orifice on the body of the character of Jeanne, as played by Maria Schneider. After the butter is passed the scene then plays out with Brando’s character climbing on top of Jeanne and performing an act sodomy which would inexorably split these two voracious lovers.
Could you imagine Brad Pitt or Tom Hanks or Leonardo DiCaprio or Matt Damon playing this scene and the effect on their image? Marlon Brando, on the other hand, had disdain for image, his role in pop culture and most of all of his celebrity endeavours. Marlon Brando, as soon as he came to Hollywood, achieved an instant fame, virtually unrivalled in the history of cinema – a persona shaped as much by his phenomenal acting talent as his rebelliousness. And so his role as Paul, the grieving widower who strikes up a torrid affair with said young Parisian girl, Jeanne, he’s shattering his image and daring his audience to hate him.
The character of Paul is one of the most self-destructive characters in cinema history. Like Nicolas Cage’s drunken death wish character in ‘Leaving Las Vegas’, without saying those exact words, is on a collision course with death. In the magnificent opening shot we see Bertolucci’s camera push in on Paul screaming in pain. We’ll eventually come to learn that his wife had recently and inexplicably committed suicide. As he wanders aimlessly through the fabulous Parisian portico a spry young girl (Maria Schneider) skips on by. He’s instantly attracted to her carefree innocence, and so when they meet coincidentally in an empty rental apartment the thick sexual energy hanging in the air cause them to break out into spontaneous fornication.
As directed by Bertolucci, the sex is rough, dirty, sloppy, Paul barely even taking his clothes off, feebly fumbling to ‘stick it in her’, and then falling helplessly on the ground after climaxing. Never had we seen sex on screen like that – so unromantic, so primal.
This is the energy which moves the film forward. With very little traditional plot, Bertolucci achieves a heightened state of emotional transcendence, a flow of feelings and gestures fuelled by the energy of the two characters as well as the energy of the city of Paris. Much of the dialogue between Brando and Schneider is improvised, and arguably, not even improvised very well. We can see Brando even struggling to find words to express his character’s feelings. Paul’s admonition to Jeanne against using names with each other for instance, is an awkward scene, but with a rawness that captivates as much as it confounds.
Outside the apartment, movement is important. We rarely see Paul and Jeanne together, but when Jeanne plays around with her filmmaker boyfriend (Jean-Pierre Leaud) or when Paul performs the tasks of closing off her wife's estate, the characters seem to be in perpetual motion. And in time with Bertolucci’s expressive camera, stylistically the film flows like a couple of dancers moving in perfect synchronicity.
In 1973 we find Bernardo Bertolucci and cinematographer Vittorio Storaro working together at the height of the creativity. Perhaps less so with Storaro whose career flourished into the 1990’s but for Bertolucci, who can argue against his command of the camera in both ‘The Conformist’ (1971) and ‘Last Tango in Paris’ as nothing short of perfection? Bertolucci elegantly moves his camera to enhance the emotions of the characters, which lives and breathes as much as his characters. His colour palette, aided by Storaro’s lighting and Philippe Turloe’s art direction, finds even more depth in the character’s lives. Take the costuming of Paul and Jeanne. In their first sexual encounter Paul is wearing a dark tan overcoat, which virtually blends into the colour scheme of the apartment while Jeanne’s white furry jacket in contrast stands out as a freshly bloomed flower in a world pain and suffering.
While ‘The Conformist’ was clearly a ‘director’s movie’, Bertolucci freely gives up “Last Tango in Paris” to Brando alone. As mentioned above, from the day Brando first set foot on either a theatrical stage or a studio stage he’s had an aura of innate talent for the art of performance. His talent is not som much in in characterization, or even emotion, but a screen magnetism which cannot be taught or bottled. Even in Brando’s worst movies – ie. virtually the entire decade of the 60’s was one bomb after bomb – he is captivating. In “Last Tango” he is at his most alluring. Bertolucci and his cinematographer maximize this star power for greatest effect. And so, even when Marlon Brando says ‘pass the butter’ then sodomizes Maria Schneider using we never hate him for it, but pity him and never cease to love him.
Loft (2009) dir. Erik Van Looy Starring: Koen De Bouw, Matthias Schoenaerts, Filip Peeters, Koen De Graeve, Veerle Baetens
***1/2
By Alan Bacchus
Loft arrives on DVD in Canada with little previous traction in North America. It received neither a theatrical release nor any major film festival screenings, and so it'll require some heavy lifting to get this into public consciousness. Well, let this be my small part.
This 2009 Belgian thriller unravels a very steamy potboiler about five buddies who co-own an ultra-cool loft specifically for the purpose of their extramarital trysts. When one day they walk in and find a nude dead girl on the bed suddenly they all suspect each other of murder. From this salacious set-up we're in the world of Joe Eszterhas, a trashy, '90s-era, pseudo-sexual throwback, or something in the genre of airport paperback writers like Dean Koontz. But after a first act hump we quickly find ourselves ensnared in a surprisingly well thought out and near-airtight, white-knuckle whodunit.
After the discovery, the men have to figure out A) what to do with the body and B) who could have perpetrated such a crime, and through flashbacks, we learn about the events that led up to this grisly murder. Each individual is drawn with simplistic characterizations, such as the coke-snorting playboy, the awkward nice guy and the manipulative, rich architect. But after the tedious exposition the film catches fire in the second act when writer Bart De Pauw starts to reveal each character's motivations and drops a good helping of red herrings involving the possible vengeance of their wives and the corporate intrigue of their business dealings.
Director Erik Van Looy embraces the steaminess of the genre and assumes his right to use all camera tricks and visual slickness to embellish the melodrama and produce a compelling genre thriller.
I'm also reminded of Guillaume Canet's 'Tell No One', a similar foreign language genre thriller that couldn't sustain its brilliant cinematic teasing in its third act. With this in mind, I was prepared for the film to fail at the end, and so as each loop hole got tied up, red herrings discarded and just the right number of subplots twisted, Loft actually worked all the up to the end. While Loft is no masterpiece, it's worthy of standing out in the mountain of other new releases on the shelf.
Welcome (2009) dir. Philippe Lioret Starring: Vincent Lindon, Firat Ayverdi, Derya Ayverdi, Audrey Dana
***
By Alan Bacchus
The ironically titled Welcome explores further the popular theme of the immigrant refugee experience in Western Europe from the point of view of an Iraqi refugee in the French port of Calais, a city rife with xenophobic, bigoted elitism. Fortunately, director Philippe Lioret's statement making doesn't overshadow the authentic and genuine characters inhabited by the film's two impressive lead actors. Though largely unknown on this side of the pond, Welcome makes for an unpretentious art house discovery.
Bilal is an Iraqi Kurd whom we meet after an arduous journey from Iraq to Calais. After 4,000 km, he's a mere 20 km away from his final destination ― England ― to be reunited with his girlfriend. But when his attempt to cross the channel hidden in a truck is stymied, Bilal finds himself stranded in purgatory without options.
Enter Simon, another lost soul: a white swim teacher who finds himself recently divorced from his wife and experiencing the same feeling of emptiness in transition as Bilal. Against his personal judgment and his latent bigoted perceptions, as well as the strict policy by the Calais government against sheltering illegal aliens, Simon takes in Bilal and trains him to swim the English Channel to be reunited with his forlorn lover.
Due to this real world implausibility, Welcome sits somewhere between social and magic realism. A feeling of Hollywood sentimentality permeates the sharply drawn, gritty urban aesthetic. The narrative subtly hits all the familiar structural beats, and even manages to find a satisfactory ending, which is both reverential to its characters and leaves us with a cloud of cynical melancholy.
Lioret is aided by a pristine, classically composed visual design complementing the distinct sense of loneliness and isolation. For Simon, it's his separation from his wife and for Bilal, it's the feeling of being an unwanted stranger in a strange land. The likelihood that Bilal would be able to survive the choppy waters of the English Channel never inhibits our ability to believe in the journey.
At its core, the immersive and convincing performances of Vincent Lindon and Firat Ayverdi as Simon and Bilal make the picture work, the magic of this humanist story coming from their characters' steadfast belief and determination to make the impossible happen.
Sins of my Father (2010) dir. Nicholas Entel Documentary
***
By Alan Bacchus
The highly literal title of the picture adequately tells the story of a son atoning for the sins of his father. In this case, the son is the child of notorious Columbian drug lord Pablo Escobar.
Having known little about Pablo Escobar’s story prior to the screening, the film works well as both a comprehensive history of the controversial and violent life of the cocaine king of the 80's and the effect of such a life on the children involved.
Pablo Escobar died in 1994, and to separate himself from his sordid legacy his son, Juan Pablo Escobar chose to change his name to Sebastian Marroquin, and live in exile in Argentina. In present day Argentinian director Entel follows Sebastien’s attempts to reconcile his father’s violent past and connect with the sons of the men Escobar killed during the violent political drug war.
Going back into television archives, still photos and home movies of Escobar himself, we learn of the rise of Escobar’s Medellin’s cartel into a billion dollar business. Early on Escobar’s contributions to the poor communities of Columbia, establishing infrastructure, relocating ghetto housing communities and building soccer fields for kids gave him the moniker of a Columbian Robin Hood. But when his attempts to get into legitimate politics are stymied by his own political colleagues the lustre of Escobar-the hero rubs off revealing him as a vengeful despotic madman.
Escobar famously ordered the assassination of two of Columbia’s most prominent politicians, Rodrigo Lara Bonilla and Luis Carlos Galan. These two events not only made Escobar an enemy of the Columbian people, but caused the sons of Galan and Bonilla to take up the torch of justice against Escobar’s stranglehold on the country.
And so the forgiveness of the sons of Galan and Bonilla becomes the symbol of catharsis for Sebastien.
Entel captures Sebastian’s journey to connect with his rivals, finding honest and genuine revelations of personal guilt and sorrow in a series of interviews at various stages in the journey. With competence he successfully interweaves the parallel stories of the Galan/Bonilla sons in the present revisiting their memories of their own father’s deaths and their own feelings of vengeance they once harboured. The men are sophisticated and self-aware and have clearly reconciled the events in the past a long time ago and so there‘s a distinct lack of suspense for this meeting. While their conversation is polite and congenial and accommodating, between the political lines, knowing the entrapment the drug trade has had on the nation for the past 30 years, the gravitas of the meeting for both them and their country is wholly palpable.
Salo: Or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975) dir. Pier Paolo Pasolini Starring:Paolo Bonacelli, Giorgio Cataldi, Umberto Paolo Quintavalle, Aldo Valletti
***1/2
It's been 34 years since 'Salo' and the notorious last film from Italy director Pier Paolo Pasolini is still the sickest, more gruesome and controversial film ever made. A tonally faithful adaptation of the Marquis de Sade’s torture novel written while in prison '120 Days of Sodom', set in Fascist Italy - The story of a small group of libertine Italy aristocrats who gather a kidnap of 18 young men and woman and subject them to 4 months of heinous sexual acts, torture, rape, and basically any kind of sexual defiance known to man.
However depraved, 'Salo' actually works as a jet black comedy. Admirable as a piece of bourgeois surrealism, mocking class systems and the rights of men over other men, in the tradition of Luis Buneul and Salvador Dali. Pasolini bravely doesn’t hold back showing us the most despicable acts of sex and violence, including bondage, forcing people to eat faeces, body mutilation and of course lots of sodomy, in order to a) exercise his own personal fetishes on screen and 2) to give another stab into the notion of right and title of the class system.
There's very little in the way of a through line, characters or even a narrative purpose. And perhaps the most disturbing aspect is that the torturers never get their comeuppance. So what’s the purpose of this all? Made in Pasolini’s elder age it serves as an artistic statement to test the boundaries of cinema and art. The final moments of torture before the boys and girls are executed are the most horrific displays of torture ever put to screen. Thus the film becomes a metaphor for the degradation of man and civilization told with terrifying audacity.
Taking away the raping and debaucherous acts, visually Pasolini's photographs nudes like artists have been doing for centuries - another contrast between sophistication and the sordid. His imagery is continually fascinating, the site of the naked men and women with leashes on crawling up the stairs is an indelible image. The formal compositions and classical Roman art direction match well together. Pasolini’s style even resembles Stanley Kubrick. His symmetrical compositions and use of the female nude body as background art decoration. The orgy rituals also is evident in 'Eyes Wide Shut'.
Salo isn’t a film to 'enjoy' per se, but to be shocked by. Pasolini doesn't 'enjoy' showing us these images. It's different than Lars Von Trier, who in his films seems to enjoy punishing his characters. Of course we don’t ever get to know any of the characters in Salo, they all seem to be props and furniture for the film more than emotional beings. Pasolini purposely doesn't have his characters react to any of the torture either, thus keeping a distance emotionality from the events like a clinical analyst.
Curiously, in a truly bizarre moment of life intimately art, Pasolini was murdered shortly before the picture was released. Apparently killed by a male prostitute who ran over Pasolini’s body numerous times near his home. The boy confessed, although later rescinded it claiming he covered up for a more nefarious group of anti-communists. Is this perhaps an act of Karma? Michelangelo Antonioni remarked Pasolini was a victim of his own characters. Regardless, 'Salo' continues to be a film which cinema just cannot ignore.
Il Divo (2009) dir. Paolo Sorrentino Starring: Toni Servillo, Anna Bonaiuto, Giulio Bosetti, Flavio Bucci, Carlo Buccirosso
**
By Alan Bacchus
The story of seven-time Italian prime minister Giulio Andreotti's controversial leadership in the latter stages of his 50-year service, which saw him accused and tried for having an alliance with the mafia, as well as being an accomplice to several murders of his key rivals, is an impressively stylized and cinematically-inspired take on what could have been familiar and morose subject matter.
Comparisons of director Paolo Sorrentino to Martin Scorsese were made after its Cannes premiere, and were not unfounded, as the film works best in its numerous, energetic, pop culture aware montage sequences. Scorsese's style never trumps his substance though, which can't be said about Il Divo, whose dense and near-incomprehensible narrative is neglected in favour of Sorrentino's cinema gymnastics.
If anything, the film comes off like the Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels of political films. Nicolas Winding Refn's Bronson also makes a good comparison. Like Refn's film, Il Divo works best as a subjective expression of a man, as opposed to a traditional narrative story. Unfortunately, Sorrentino wants to have his cake and eat it too. Even up until the last moments of the film we're still meeting new characters, so many that each person has to be introduced with a graphic describing his/her name, title and relation to Andreotti. Granted, the design and use of these graphics are incorporated with wicked hipness into the composition of the scene, but it's just too much information to keep track of.
Style aside, Il Divo suffers most from Sorrentino's direction of lead actor Toni Servillo; his performance, which has been lauded by other critics as an enigmatic, Yoda-like, zen master portrait of political savvy, comes off as un-expressive, robotic and dull as cardboard, under cover of a bad wig that wouldn't pass muster on a Saturday Night Live sketch.
To each his own, as the virtues and failings of this picture will likely divide audiences. It's a shame foreign releases like these don't get the Blu-Ray treatment because for a film that relies so heavily on its stunning visuals, the boring old standard definition DVD just doesn't cut it. The DVD contains just the movie with no special features.
White Material (2009) dir. Claire Denis Starring: Isabelle Huppert, Isaach De Bankole, Christopher Lambert
***
By Blair Stewart
A bitter, brittle remark on colonial Africa just before the whites all fled, Claire Denis revisits her childhood days in the great Continent. Isabelle Huppert is Maria, a prime mover, the workhorse behind a desperate coffee plantation on its last legs in a barely-democratic nation on its last legs.
As Maria busts ass to replace fleeing workers and plug holes before the harvest the radio crackles with death against the land's old masters there and abroad. Her motives to stay are perplexing with the anarchy her own family faces if caught between piecemeal child soldiers and the local militia. Initially Maria's son Manuel (Nicholas Duvachelle) chooses to fade away over burning out while her hustler ex (Christopher Lambert) cuts deals for a lifeboat out of the civil war. Emerging from the wild onto the family's coffee fields an enigmatic warrior (Isaach de Bankole) appears. We follow the eerie sight of the sharp, pale figure of Huppert as she crosses a landscape of sanguinary earth and lewd jungle overgrowth, her surroundings shouting blood against her European roots.
An accomplished follow-up to the highly praised "35 Shots of Rum","White Material" is mostly successful in part to the obvious casting of Huppert as a morally specious colonialist with her head just above water. She has a tense intelligence that makes it believable Maria could have long survived in the 3rd world.
As her partner Christopher Lambert returns from the dead in an excellent casting choice as he's always possessed the smile of a Master Bullshitter. Lamentably the charismatic Bankole from Jim Jarmusch's recent work is given scraps for his role while the metamorphosis that Duvachelle's character experiences becomes a stretch on credibility.
While the imagery Denis conceives is effective, and the collaboration with cinematographer Yves Cape bears fruit from a setting of ghostly rescue choppers and the dead below, to open the film with its climax is a regrettable one. What could be accomplished by revealing the fortunes of your players before they have a chance to engage the audience in their fate?
Regardless of the choice in prologue "White Material" is worth seeing for its unsettling 2nd act alone. A worthy addition to Old World griefs in the New World, but not a flawless one.
Thirst (2009) dir. by Park Chan-Wook Starring: Song Kang-Ho, Kim Ok-Bin
***
By Blair Stewart
A Korean vampire priest is tormented by Catholic Sin in his lust for sex and fine ropes of arterial spray in "Thirst", the latest from Chan Wook-Park of "Oldboy" fame. You already had me at 'Korean Vampire Priest', you sick puppy Chan-Wook!
Asian star Song Kang-Jo(the dopey hero in international smash creature-feature "The Host") is Father Sang-hyun, a missionary traveling into the plague-heart of Africa and falling afoul of tainted blood. Returning as the lone survivor of a virus to his old stomping grounds, Sang-hyun is hounded by his cult status amongst the Priesthood and a private Devil's hankering for the warm red stuff. Further complicating matters, the young man is reunited with childhood sweetheart Tae-Ju(Kim Ok-bin), and her unstable in-laws.
Tempering his blood dependence with after-hours samplings at the hospital, the newly resplendent Sang-hyun lets Tae-ju get between him and his vow of chastity, which then leads to a love quadrangle including his Holy Spirit and her simpleton husband. Based on what follows, this is a minor set-up. If you're already familiar with the work of the director, you'll know Chan-Wook's brand of melodramatic carnage awaits.
Under the cramped shadows of modern Korea Park and his regular cinematographer Jeong Jeong-hoon find as much space for inspired camera movement as Fassbinder did in the tidy living rooms of 70's Germany. Avoiding the sun, "Thirst" often has the quality of a macabre chamber drama before Sang-hyun goes out into the night to leap rooftops and avoid jugulars. There is a palatable chemistry between Song and Kim and as this is an adult vampire story their sex is hot enough the abstinent punks in "Twilight" should take notes for later.
As the fallen holy man Song Kang-Jo shares a quality with the likes of Tom Hanks, he's a leading man you empathise with regardless of terrible deeds. Playing Dracula's bride, Kim Ok-bin has a very bright future as an actress and a babe.
Despite the creativity of ideas pouring out of the story "Thirst" had me worn me down by the second hour as many of Park's films have done. While not as manipulative as "JLA" or graphically unpleasant as "Sympathy for Mr. Vengence", Park's latest jumps between so many moods that the end arrives like a marathon finish line. His filming style is world-class kinetic but I have yet to see Park do subtle. Despite his lack of restraint, Park is still one on par with Hollywood's best for sustained tension and exceptional set-pieces, although he hasn't surpassed the "Oldboy" hallway battle. Taking more chances than most horror films, "Thirst" is an admirable shot in the arm for the vampire genre.
"Thirst" is available on DVD in Canada from Alliance Films
Tulpan (2008) dir. Sergei Dvortsevoy Starring: epbergen Baisakalov, Ondas Besikbasov, Samal Esljamova, Askhat Kuchencherekov
***
By Alan Bacchus
We've never seen a landscape as dull as this make for such peculiar and inspired cinema. We're in the desert of Kazakhstan, which is even remoter and more alien than the Borat version, a land of flat, infinite horizons, perpetual gusting winds, camels, sheep, a hut or two and one motor vehicle. That's it. That's all we get visually from 'Tulpan', Sergei Dvortsevoy's feature debut that won the En Certain Regard Award at Cannes in 2008; it's a fresh, funny, emotionally resonant and wholly unique experience.
Asa is one of the stranger movie protagonists we've seen in a while: a Kazakh youth with a funny face, short hair parted in the middle, wingtip bangs and big Prince Charles ears. He's just returned from a tour with the Russian navy and he's introduced telling wild tales of far-off lands to his family members; it's revealed later that it's part of Asa's ritual courtship for the hand of a local gal Tulpan. Unfortunately, despite never meeting, Tulpan rejects him solely based on the size of his ears. It's earth shattering to Asa, whose only dream is to raise a family and a flock of sheep in his homeland. But without a wife this is impossible. Poor Asa, as Tulpan is the only single girl in the vicinity, and like his brother-in-law, Ondas, argues: "he's got two arms and two legs, what's not to like?"
Dvortsevoy isn't so much concerned with detailing a romance as showing us the strange lifestyle of accepted sparseness and solitude of the Kazakh people. The camera lingers on the wide expanses of the land and moves only when motivated by the people and animals that cross its path. Even when nothing is happening the sound of whistling winds and the grunting of camels and sheep are strangely fascinating. Much time is spent with the sheep ― an important aspect of the livelihood of the characters. There's a problem with the pregnant females giving birth to still babies and Asa and Ondas's investigation makes for an eye-opening lesson in sheep birthing and mouth-to-mouth lamb CPR.
There are no overt gags but these strange, otherworldly moments contrasted against the characters' awareness of the world and pop culture is deadpan hilarious. The use of Boney M's "River of Babylon" is a great ironic moment; Asa and his friend 'Boni' in the middle of the desert rocking out to the '70s German/West Indian disco-reggae band is a symbol of connectivity even in the remotest places on Earth.
Broken Embraces (2009) dir. Pedro Almodovar Starring: Penelope Cruz, Lluis Homar, Blanca Portillo and Jose Luis Gomez
**1/2
By Blair Stewart
After taking a drubbing at Cannes I expected Pedro Almodovar's latest to be a weak offering when in fact "Broken Embraces" only suffers in part from coming after the acclaimed "Volver".
Featuring many of his regular players and hang-ups with illness, filmmaking and carnal desires, Almodovar spins the yarn of Harry Caine/Mateo Blanco (Lluis Homar), a blind writer-director in exile. Having found out the wealthy industrialist Ernesto Martel (Jose Luis Gomez) has died, Harry/Mateo and his godson Diego untangle Harry's past in flashback involving the deceased millionaire, the millionaire's mistress Lena (Penelope Cruz) and their flameout movie project together.
The movie within the movie "Girls and Suitcases" is a fun throwback to Almodovar's "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown" past in the foreground while Harry/Mateo and Lena (who's been cast in the lead role with Ernesto footing the bill) go off-script in the background. Adding another layer, Ernesto dispatches his creepily fey son Ernesto Jr. to make a documentary of the filming while he keeps tabs on the affair. Although the star-crossed lovers can find a brief respite from the world its tough to outlast a powerful man ruling it. The results are pitched into Almodovar's melancholic wringer of bawdy laughs and tears, but the slack payoff isn't on par with the likes of "Talk to Her" or "Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!"
Penelope Cruz, as the star, is still very much Almodovar's ideal muse, he films her sexual vitality better than anyone else and she acquiesces in his fetishes for wigs and cinematic-mythology (Audrey Hepburn, Hitchcock's ice-queens, Almodovar's work). Lluis Homar as Harry/Mateo centres the film as it jumps between 1992 Madrid and 2008, and he has the right amount of dramatic weight to carry the plot while looking like an older Catalan matinee idol.
The film thankfully begins with an erotic seduction of a good Samaritan by Harry/Mateo, a Tarantino-like introduction with sex in place of violence. In supporting roles, Almodovar sometime-players Lola Duenas, Blanca Portillo and Angela Molina make good with the melodrama of the script. But because of the meandering it takes to reach its end even when the results are obvious "Broken Embraces" strikes me as minor Almodovar.
Regardless of the pace, minor Almodovar is still worth seeing if you're a fan.
O Horten (2008) dir. Bent Hamer Starring: Baard Owe, Espen Skjønberg, ta Nørby, Henny Moan, Bjørn Floberg
**
O Horten, a Norwegian art comedy, and frequent festival traveler which arrives on DVD from Sony Pictures Classics, plays like ‘About Schmidt’ by way of Roy Andersson – one of those entries in the self-conscious cinema of nothingness. But quirky wideangle imagery and occasional glimpses of surrealism aren’t enough to sustain 90mins of your time.
An odd looking and shy Odd Horten (appropriate first name) is a train engineer on his last day of work before retirement after 40 years of service. It’s the only thing in his life, and we suspect he won’t have much to live for without his beloved trains. On his last day, he misses his shift causing him to wander the streets of Oslo (?) for a couple days meeting other lost souls while contemplating his existence.
Attempts at deadpan humour come off as just plain dead. Director Bent Hamer visualizing the film with the wideangled eye of Roy Andersson (the Swedeish master surrealist and director of 'Songs from the Second Floor'), but without any of his scathing social commentary . But there’s so little of anything to grab onto other than the wide angle wide shots - and some of them look truly majestic. The situations Horten finds himself in wouldn’t be perceived as surreal if it were not for Hamer’s chosen camera angles.
So it seems false and contrived an effort to make someone else’s film. Its not as surreal as he thinks it is, not as profound as he wants, nor as funny and charming as Hamer’s incessesant tone implies. All style over substance in the worst sense.
If anything the only thing we to latch onto is Bard Owe’s thoroughly weathered unexpressive face. His hairstyle, moustache, nicely fitting, though old-fashioned suit and smoking pipe suggests a man stuck in the past, in a routine which is the sole purpose for his existence. And so his reflections upon his ski-jumper mother who broke with tradition and skied in a man's sports is not lost on us.
And so does a purpose to this banal exercise emerge at the end? Horton steals a pair of skis and attempts to ski jump in the middle of night. We don’t even know if he can ski. For all we know he jumped off, broke both legs and I guess its some attempt to connect with past, - he doesn't. But if he did it would have been the much needed jolt of real comedy this film badly needs. Narratively it exasperates the depressing melancholy of this whole affair.
"O Horten" is available on DVD from Sony Picture Classics Home Entertainment
Lorna’s Silence (2009) dir. Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne Starring: Arta Dobroshi, Jeremy Renier, Fabrizio Rongione, Alban Ukaj, Olivier Gourmet
**
It could be argued that it was Belgian sibling duo the Dardennes brothers that popularized this new prevailing trend towards social realism in international cinema. That is, socially conscious, character-based stories told with an attention to detail for the mundane movements of its characters.
Two Palme D'Ors later and the brothers are back in the realm of social realism with some minor tinkering to the formula, which, unfortunately, results in their least successful offering.
Admittedly I had to read the press release synopsis to clarify some plot points and help it make sense. Lorna (Arta Dobroshi) is an Albanian gal living in Belgium who seems to have been set up to live with Claudy (L'Enfant's Jeremie Renier), a junkie trying to go cold turkey from heroin addiction. Things are not what they seem though, as Lorna is actually married to Sokol, who still lives in Albania, but is waiting for Lorna to get her citizenship papers to bring him into the country. Underground schemer Fabio (Fabrizio Rongione) seems to be Lorna's agent, brokering this deal. When a Russian mobster comes into the picture looking to gain citizenship, Lorna is sold for cold hard cash to the Russian for marriage. Meanwhile, as Fabio is pulling Lorna's strings, she gradually develops a conscience and an awareness of the immorality of her actions and looks for a way out.
The Dardennes have trouble balancing a back-story, which requires more exposition than they've ever had to give, with the fact that exposition runs counter to their "in the moment" dogmatic style. The scale leans more towards confusion than genre integrity, as most of the above synopsis and explanations of who's who are left for us to deduce from the implied actions of the characters. We've never told who Lorna is or why she's with Claudy or why she's with a junkie or why she falls for him or why Fabio wants Lorna to marry the Russian. I wouldn't even have known Lorna was Albanian if not for the synopsis.
I'm sure these explanations are in the film somewhere, and maybe I'm the nave for missing them, but the plot feels like a crutch for the filmmakers, who really just want us to laser in on Ms. Dobroshi and Lorna, as they've done before with their other great performances. And indeed, Dobroshi has a wonderful face and nuanced mannerisms, which bring across the internal moral conflict she struggles with.
Sometimes we need more than a facial expression or a nuanced mannerism to keep us going; we desperately want to know what's in Lorna's head and even if we guess it, there's value in the spoken word. And somewhere an important message about the commoditization of Eastern European women and the depths to which many will sink to escape to a life they think they need to have is unfortunately lost.
After a number of these Dardenne street dramas expectations are high, either to better or equal the ones before it, or show us something we haven't seen. 'Lorna's Silence' accomplishes neither and is thus a disappointment.
The Class (2008) dir. Lauren Cantet Starring: François Bégaudeau, Nassim Amrabt, Carl Nanor, Franck Keita, Esméralda Ouertani
**1/2
Laurent Cantet’s “The Class”, based on actor/writer Francois Begaudeau’s experiences as a middle school teacher in urban Paris is so authentic to inner city classroom life it’s indistinguishable from a documentary. Many films try for the documentary look, feel and tone and not even the Dardennes come near Cantet’s invisible realistic drama. We appear to be watching a new form of cinema reality we’ve never seen before. I've seen the film twice, and while I gave the film the benefit of the doubt for it's narrative banality, I have to take a more cynical point of view the second time round.
Cantet opens with introductions of the teachers to each other. One of them is Francois who teaches French. Francois is never characterized as righteous; he’s flawed and as vulnerable as many of the students.
Over the course of the school year we watch how Francois’ teaching methods both inspire and come into conflict with the students. When he’s put into a difficult situation he always maintains his professionalism but Begaudeau’s fine performance reveals defenseless weaknesses that threaten his reputation and career.
In the first half Cantet is a fly-on-the-wall in the classroom as we watch the many lengthy discussions of subjective adjective and verb conjugation. The kids interact with Francois with the attention deficit disorder we’d expect from 13 years olds. Gradually interclassroom conflicts arise not related to schoolwork as a number of students standout from the bunch.
There's a conscious attempt not to become “Dead Poet’s Society”, “The Blackboard Jungle”, “Dangerous Minds” and “To Sir, With Love”. And thus, any temptation to manipulate reality for the sake of traditional cinematic plotting is avoided.
So as admirable as "The Class" is, maintaining the integrity of its characters at all times, the lack of any cinema conventions is also frustrating. It doesn't take more than 15mins to establish credibility with his world, at which point the film is ripe for a plot point. We never get it. The film finally becomes focused when the young and angry black male Souleymane challenges Francois’s off the cuff slur to one of his fellow students. Unfortunately it takes an hour and a half to get here.
And so what starts out as documentary observance finally develops into a sharp battle of wills and wits. The aloof giggling and gossiping schoolyard children become powerful enemies. It’s a worthy journey but one which require much much patience to get there. Enjoy.
La Haine (Hate) (1995) dir. Mathieu Kassovitz Starring: Vincent Cassel, Hubert Koundé, Saïd Taghmaoui
****
Although "La Haine" feels so thoroughly relevant and modern, the film is almost 15 years old, made at the time of “Boyz in the Hood” and “Menace II Society”. “La Haine” is less a time capsule of the era, like those urban American films, and more a grand artistic statement comparable to the early work of Martin Scorsese, Spike Lee and Vincent Gallo.
Kassovitz follows the day in the life of three low level street hoods, Vinz (Vincent Cassel), Hubert (Hubert Kounde), Said (Saïd Taghmaoui). It's just after a violent riot in Paris, which saw one of the leaders of their community beaten and in the hospital. Anger, fear and frustration fills the air, and the three boys are not sure how to channel their anger.
When hotheaded Vinz (think Johnny Boy from "Mean Streets") finds a missing policeman's gun on the ground it becomes a symbol for Vinz to exercise the power and force he's always wanted. For Hubert, he seeks an escape from the ghetto so he doesn't suffer the same fate as his imprisoned brother. And for Said, he's left in between the two divergent paths of Vinz and Hubert. We just spend one day with the guys as they cruise the streets of Paris rambunctiously disturbing the peace while contemplating their futures in the Paris ghetto.
I don’t know anything about urban Parisian life other than what I see in the movies and read on the news. Between now and then it would appear that little has changed for the underprivileged youth of Paris – a mixture of races who, through their urban poverty and racial discrimination, congregate together in gangs for strength. This is the story of any major ethnically diverse urban centre be it the streets of South Central LA or Toronto. But the trio in this film are not defined by race, Hubert is black, Vinz is Jewish-White and Said is Muslim, three lost souls who have little in common culturally other than their mutual poverty. It wasn’t the first and won’t be the last film on this subject but “La Haine” is one of the powerful and accessible of these urban stories.
Though this wasn’t Mathieu Kassovitz’s first film, it certainly was his coming out party. Shot in stark high contrast wide angle black & white, “La Haine” is a beautiful piece of celluloid. Black & white captures youth so eloquently and the deep focus look in this film reminds us of Francis Coppola’s “Rumble Fish”, or Peter Bogdanovich’s “The Last Picture Show”.
So far I’ve referenced five great filmmakers, so there’s a palpable acknowledgement of cinema in Kassovitz’s style. He’s supremely confident with his camera and the direction of his performances. Characters are framed carefully with attention-grabbing compositions – whether it’s the back of someone’s head, or a bold macro close-up Kassovitz finds clever ways to orchestrate the characters in the spaces - an expressionism borrowing heavily from Spike Lee and Martin Scorsese.
Despite the stylish visuals, Kassovitz's compensates with a natural freeform narrative which evolves without burdening us with traditional plot devices. Using the time of day as the only narrative reference point, Kassovitz makes every scene special. And when the final scene comes only then do we realize how well his characters have been drawn and made flesh. In the final moments Hubert, Vinz and Said are tested in a dramatic confrontation which leaves the audience gasping - and with a little bit of auteur ambiguity for good measure to let us all know it's a director's film. Enjoy.
JCVD (2008) dir. Mabrouk El Mechri Starring: Jean-Claude Van Damme, François Damiens, Zinedine Soualem, Karim Belkhadra
***
Good on Van Damme and good on Mabrouk El Mechri for humanizing and generating genuine sympathy for a laughable former action star. What makes Jean-Claude Van Damme worthy of cinematic exaltation? Why not Steven Seagal? Why not Dolph Lundgren? Even in roles like “Bloodsport” and “Sudden Death", in between his high kicks and splits, every once in a while there would be a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, a moment of truth and vulnerability behind those muscles from Brussels. Seagal never had it, Dolph never had it, not even Arnold. Chuck Norris had it, Charles Bronson had it, and so does Van Damme.
And so, what brilliant casting and screenwriting to produce an entire film devoted to deconstructing the celebrity of Van Damme, and saving him from the need to go on “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Outta Here”.
We’re in Brussels , Van Damme is broke and on the verge of losing a custody battle for his daughter who disowns him. All he needs is some money to pay his lawyer to get him back on the case. When he walks into a post office to withdraw some funds he finds it’s been taken over by a group of bank robbers. When they find out they have none other than Jean-Claude Van Damme as a hostage they convince the police that Van Damme is the perp as a rouse for their escape.
As the press gathers around the post office in a ‘Dog Day Afternoon’-like situation Van Damme is thrown back into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons. The event forces him to come to grips with the mistakes of his past and tests his ability to be a hero in real life.
JCVD succeeds solely because of Mr. Van Damme. He delivers an honest Mickey Rourke-like performance as a beaten down pathetic has-been with so much baggage behind him he just can’t escape from. Unfortunately director El Mechri doesn’t know how good a thing he has with his lead, as he continually imposes that Luc Besson-influenced French hyper styling.Van Damme is that good, and if told with a gentle and honest directorial hand, JCVD could have been as powerful as “The Wrestler.”
The cinematography is away overlit, highlights are blown way out of proportion, in what would be distracting even for a 5mins music video. So at 90mins, it had me shouting at the screen – “You dummy, turn the lights down!”
El Mechri is also unnecessarily clever with the narrative, establishing Van Damme as the perp, then doubling back on itself to reveal him as the victim. Unfortunately not enough comedy, or drama is revealed from this tactic and seems only to announce his presence as a director. This is no surprise though, it’s a first feature from the man, and it has the familiar markings of an immature rookie trying to make a name for himself. Even the showcase confession scene for Van Damme is dramatized with Spike Lee styling, as Van Damme breaks the fourth wall and begins talking directly to the audience while the camera and the man elevate into the air above the movie set lights. It’s a bold expression, which, I’d rather have seen told through regular dialogue, say, with his mother or ex-wife on the phone.
Unfortunately, despite the success of the film, I don’t see Van Damme returning to cinema in anything other than his usual brainless action vehicles. They may now get theatrical releases for a brief period of time, but we should consider “JCVD” as a one-off expression of himself as a legitimate actor. And that’s all we really need. Enjoy.
