Directed by: JOHN WOO
1989, TSPDT Rank #635
The Hong Kong action films of John Woo are in a category of their own, featuring a heady blend of gratuitous gunplay, operatic drama, and screwball comedy which is unparalleled in the action genre. I'm not generally a big fan of action films, but Woo's are unique and audacious enough to keep me interested most of the time - although this preference still tends to get in the way of my enjoyment somewhat. Regardless, The Killer is one of the most renowned of Woo's films, and it shows his style in what is possibly its most distilled state. All of the aforementioned elements of Woo's formula are present in full force throughout this story of a world-weary assassin (played by the ever-present Chow Yun-Fat) and his attempts to go straight, while helping a beautiful singer, whose eyes he accidentally injured during a nightclub shootout, regain her eyesight in the process. Of course, the plot gets much more complicated from there, as Chow is targeted by both the triads he works for and the Hong Kong police after deciding to perform one last hit. Platonic bonds and codes of honor between men are always important themes for Woo, and they are particularly emphasized here - as Chow forms strong bonds with members of both enemy groups over the course of the film. As usual in Woo's films, the philosophical ramifications of these bonds and the symbolism which backs them up (represented, in this case, by a church filled with countless candles and huge statues of the Virgin Mary) are just as important as the gunfights. However, the plot is still propelled primarily by its high-voltage action scenes - with gunfire dialogue for punctuation and equally extravagant doses of masculine melodrama to lend meaning to the action. Woo's filmmaking craft and skill in staging action scenes is impeccable, and his influences on action films from all over the world can be seen throughout this film, as well as his other early works (Hard Boiled is particularly recommended, if you like what you see here).
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
Friday, December 30, 2016
#587: Chungking Express
Directed by: WONG KAR-WAI
1994, TSPDT Rank #192
At long last, I have received my introduction to the work of Wong Kar-Wai with Chungking Express, his breakthrough film. Originally distributed in the U.S. by Quentin Tarantino's Rolling Thunder Pictures (a 1990s subsidiary of Miramax), it's quite a bit different than most of the films Quentin Tarantino has chosen to promote over the years. However, it is akin to Tarantino's Pulp Fiction (released the same year) in its brazen originality and playful approach to its material. Its two parallel stories are essentially about being alone in the crowd of a big city - a sentiment which is barely concealed behind a thin veneer of mock seriousness, dizzying camera movements, and blinding neon lights. The two lead characters are both young, perpetually heartbroken male cops, although they are rarely seen fighting crime or doing police work. Their main preoccupation seems to be wandering around the city, going about their daily routines in a daze, and daydreaming about their respective lost loves, while their potential new love interests are caught up in surprising dramas of which their male counterparts remain completely oblivious. Wong's portrayal of modern isolation and longing for connection is both stylish and disorienting - a sort of hyperreality which constantly turns the viewer's perception upside-down and inside-out. The closest American equivalent to Wong's work here is not Quentin Tarantino, but Charlie Kaufman - although even Kaufman has never been able to achieve the uniquely light touch that Wong achieved with this film, while still sustaining an idiosyncratic and existential mood at the same time.
1994, TSPDT Rank #192
At long last, I have received my introduction to the work of Wong Kar-Wai with Chungking Express, his breakthrough film. Originally distributed in the U.S. by Quentin Tarantino's Rolling Thunder Pictures (a 1990s subsidiary of Miramax), it's quite a bit different than most of the films Quentin Tarantino has chosen to promote over the years. However, it is akin to Tarantino's Pulp Fiction (released the same year) in its brazen originality and playful approach to its material. Its two parallel stories are essentially about being alone in the crowd of a big city - a sentiment which is barely concealed behind a thin veneer of mock seriousness, dizzying camera movements, and blinding neon lights. The two lead characters are both young, perpetually heartbroken male cops, although they are rarely seen fighting crime or doing police work. Their main preoccupation seems to be wandering around the city, going about their daily routines in a daze, and daydreaming about their respective lost loves, while their potential new love interests are caught up in surprising dramas of which their male counterparts remain completely oblivious. Wong's portrayal of modern isolation and longing for connection is both stylish and disorienting - a sort of hyperreality which constantly turns the viewer's perception upside-down and inside-out. The closest American equivalent to Wong's work here is not Quentin Tarantino, but Charlie Kaufman - although even Kaufman has never been able to achieve the uniquely light touch that Wong achieved with this film, while still sustaining an idiosyncratic and existential mood at the same time.
Monday, October 31, 2016
#586: Possession
Directed by: ANDRZEJ ZULAWSKI
1981, TSPDT Rank #659
I've watched this film twice now. The first time I was mostly disgusted and annoyed with it (even as a long-time horror fan); partially because of the sick and twisted psycho-sexual gore on display throughout, but possibly even more so because of the almost unbearably aggressive histrionics displayed by its two principles (Isabelle Adjani and Sam Neill). However, on my second viewing I went into it with a much less passive mindset, fully prepared to meet its delirious insanity head-on. And I have to say, it's quite something. You're unlikely to find anything else quite like it (which probably explains why its passionate followers are so faithful to its cause), and the performances given by Adjani and Neill are nothing short of awe-inspiring once you tap into their uniquely primal wavelength.
David Cronenberg's early films are probably the film's closest relatives (see Shivers and The Brood), but Andrzej Zulawski takes Cronenberg's detached Canadian body horror and endows it with a manic boost of frenzied emotional horror never seen in Cronenberg's work. The oft-cited hypothesis that sex and horror are inherently related is Zulawski's guiding principle here, and the net result is nothing if not convincing - at least until the inexplicable ending sequence. At this point, Zulawski flies head-first in a paranoid no-man's land which even the film's most devoted fans seem to be at a complete loss to explain. Nevertheless, while it is hardly coherent on the surface, the ending somehow comes off as a thoroughly haunting and unnerving nightmare - the perfect conclusion to the events which preceded it, despite its essentially illogical nature. It could also just be that the film drags you along into its own sea of madness, breaking down your defenses until the insane seems to make some sort of sublime sense. Whatever the case may be, Possession is quite possibly the ultimate dividing line between casual horror fans and those who are more seriously entrenched in the muck and mire of humanity's deepest fears.
1981, TSPDT Rank #659
I've watched this film twice now. The first time I was mostly disgusted and annoyed with it (even as a long-time horror fan); partially because of the sick and twisted psycho-sexual gore on display throughout, but possibly even more so because of the almost unbearably aggressive histrionics displayed by its two principles (Isabelle Adjani and Sam Neill). However, on my second viewing I went into it with a much less passive mindset, fully prepared to meet its delirious insanity head-on. And I have to say, it's quite something. You're unlikely to find anything else quite like it (which probably explains why its passionate followers are so faithful to its cause), and the performances given by Adjani and Neill are nothing short of awe-inspiring once you tap into their uniquely primal wavelength.
David Cronenberg's early films are probably the film's closest relatives (see Shivers and The Brood), but Andrzej Zulawski takes Cronenberg's detached Canadian body horror and endows it with a manic boost of frenzied emotional horror never seen in Cronenberg's work. The oft-cited hypothesis that sex and horror are inherently related is Zulawski's guiding principle here, and the net result is nothing if not convincing - at least until the inexplicable ending sequence. At this point, Zulawski flies head-first in a paranoid no-man's land which even the film's most devoted fans seem to be at a complete loss to explain. Nevertheless, while it is hardly coherent on the surface, the ending somehow comes off as a thoroughly haunting and unnerving nightmare - the perfect conclusion to the events which preceded it, despite its essentially illogical nature. It could also just be that the film drags you along into its own sea of madness, breaking down your defenses until the insane seems to make some sort of sublime sense. Whatever the case may be, Possession is quite possibly the ultimate dividing line between casual horror fans and those who are more seriously entrenched in the muck and mire of humanity's deepest fears.
#585: Kwaidan
Directed by: MASAKI KOBAYASHI
1964, TSPDT Rank #898
For those who are familiar with Kobayashi's uncompromising and socially-conscious psychological dramas (The Human Condition, Harakiri), Kwaidan will probably come as a shock - even if you're somewhat prepared for it, as I was. Knowing that it was actually the follow-up to Harakiri makes it seem all the more out of left field, as this sweeping and richly colorful adaptation of four supernatural folk tales could not be more removed visually from the stark black-and-white agony portrayed in Harakiri. However, the first of the four tales presented in Kwaidan finds us in similar territory in terms of plot, as Kobayashi once again highlights the harsh realities experienced by many unemployed samurai during the peaceful reign of the Tokugawa shogunate, which gave them an exalted position in their social hierarchy but had little use for them otherwise. Still, even in this first tale, historical and social commentary quickly give way to a palpable supernatural undercurrent unlike anything previously seen from Kobayashi.
The second tale is perhaps the best of the four, featuring otherworldly set design work and a story which is firmly rooted in the tantalizing and inexplicable mysteries of the spirit world. The next two tales - one almost half the film's total length and the other barely twenty minutes - each have their moments, but ultimately throw the film off balance. As with many portmanteau/anthology films, the lack of a unifying thread to connect the individual parts leaves the viewer with a collection of cobbled-together impressions, rather than one distinct, cumulative experience. So while I enjoyed each part of the film to some degree (some more than others), the strangely unformed nature of the film detracted somewhat from the experience as a whole. Having seen his mammoth ten-hour trilogy The Human Condition, I know that Kobayashi was capable tying many narrative threads together to form a satisfying whole, but Kwaidan feels strangely unfinished in comparison. However, it's possible that the film might be better approached as a collection of short films - as each is unique and has something to offer, both aesthetically as well as supernaturally. It may also be that the film was intended to express the loose ends and uncertainties present in encounters between the living and the dead in its form as well as its content. In any case, there is still a lot to appreciate here, even if the film's uneven nature ultimately makes it feel like less than the sum of its parts.
1964, TSPDT Rank #898
For those who are familiar with Kobayashi's uncompromising and socially-conscious psychological dramas (The Human Condition, Harakiri), Kwaidan will probably come as a shock - even if you're somewhat prepared for it, as I was. Knowing that it was actually the follow-up to Harakiri makes it seem all the more out of left field, as this sweeping and richly colorful adaptation of four supernatural folk tales could not be more removed visually from the stark black-and-white agony portrayed in Harakiri. However, the first of the four tales presented in Kwaidan finds us in similar territory in terms of plot, as Kobayashi once again highlights the harsh realities experienced by many unemployed samurai during the peaceful reign of the Tokugawa shogunate, which gave them an exalted position in their social hierarchy but had little use for them otherwise. Still, even in this first tale, historical and social commentary quickly give way to a palpable supernatural undercurrent unlike anything previously seen from Kobayashi.
The second tale is perhaps the best of the four, featuring otherworldly set design work and a story which is firmly rooted in the tantalizing and inexplicable mysteries of the spirit world. The next two tales - one almost half the film's total length and the other barely twenty minutes - each have their moments, but ultimately throw the film off balance. As with many portmanteau/anthology films, the lack of a unifying thread to connect the individual parts leaves the viewer with a collection of cobbled-together impressions, rather than one distinct, cumulative experience. So while I enjoyed each part of the film to some degree (some more than others), the strangely unformed nature of the film detracted somewhat from the experience as a whole. Having seen his mammoth ten-hour trilogy The Human Condition, I know that Kobayashi was capable tying many narrative threads together to form a satisfying whole, but Kwaidan feels strangely unfinished in comparison. However, it's possible that the film might be better approached as a collection of short films - as each is unique and has something to offer, both aesthetically as well as supernaturally. It may also be that the film was intended to express the loose ends and uncertainties present in encounters between the living and the dead in its form as well as its content. In any case, there is still a lot to appreciate here, even if the film's uneven nature ultimately makes it feel like less than the sum of its parts.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
#584: 1900
Directed by: BERNARDO BERTOLUCCI
1976, TSPDT Rank #320
With the release of Last Tango in Paris in 1972, Bernardo Bertolucci had become an infamous international sensation. However, 1900 has much more in common with Bertolucci's 1970 film The Conformist. It starts where that film left off - with the end of World War II and the liberation of Italy from Mussolini's fascist regime in 1945. Also, like The Conformist, 1900 deals with Italy's dark history of fascism and its roots; but instead of exploring this history through a pared-down, psychological character study, as he does in The Conformist, here Bertolucci explores it in the form of a grandiose, archetypal epic. Over the course of the film (which runs over five hours), Bertolucci expresses this history as a battle between the opposing forces of fascism and society - with the oppressive and complex relationship between wealthy landowners and the peasants who worked their land shown as the essential root of the conflict. Although it starts off with a brief introductory sequence set in 1945, the majority of the film plays out in flashback - beginning in 1901, as two children are born on an Italian estate on the same day. One is a fatherless peasant child, while the other is the grandson of the estate's owner. The two children grow up together, but end up on opposite sides as Italy descends into fascism, with more than a hint of Cain and Abel incorporated into the narrative as their lives progress. With such a broad, archetypal focus, the film has a tendency to be morally simplistic and heavy-handed, but Bertolucci uses these qualities to give the film an added level of power - with the qualities of good and evil amplified to dizzying extremes, and the story's potential for nostalgia fully utilized to express the range of emotions which accompany the passage of time. Bertolucci pulled out all the stops with this film - earning the accusations of self-indulgence which have been leveled at him in some respects (particularly in regards to the ridiculous final section), but pulling off something of a flawed masterpiece in the process. For all its flaws, the film is frequently engrossing and unexpectedly powerful, with the sublime cinematography from Vittorio Storaro helping to pull the viewer in as the film unfolds, while amplifying the intensity and potency of the film's moral extremes. Some may not have the patience for Bertolucci's overly grandiose statements, but for those who can overlook the flaws, there is a work of great beauty and audacity waiting to be found underneath them.
1976, TSPDT Rank #320
With the release of Last Tango in Paris in 1972, Bernardo Bertolucci had become an infamous international sensation. However, 1900 has much more in common with Bertolucci's 1970 film The Conformist. It starts where that film left off - with the end of World War II and the liberation of Italy from Mussolini's fascist regime in 1945. Also, like The Conformist, 1900 deals with Italy's dark history of fascism and its roots; but instead of exploring this history through a pared-down, psychological character study, as he does in The Conformist, here Bertolucci explores it in the form of a grandiose, archetypal epic. Over the course of the film (which runs over five hours), Bertolucci expresses this history as a battle between the opposing forces of fascism and society - with the oppressive and complex relationship between wealthy landowners and the peasants who worked their land shown as the essential root of the conflict. Although it starts off with a brief introductory sequence set in 1945, the majority of the film plays out in flashback - beginning in 1901, as two children are born on an Italian estate on the same day. One is a fatherless peasant child, while the other is the grandson of the estate's owner. The two children grow up together, but end up on opposite sides as Italy descends into fascism, with more than a hint of Cain and Abel incorporated into the narrative as their lives progress. With such a broad, archetypal focus, the film has a tendency to be morally simplistic and heavy-handed, but Bertolucci uses these qualities to give the film an added level of power - with the qualities of good and evil amplified to dizzying extremes, and the story's potential for nostalgia fully utilized to express the range of emotions which accompany the passage of time. Bertolucci pulled out all the stops with this film - earning the accusations of self-indulgence which have been leveled at him in some respects (particularly in regards to the ridiculous final section), but pulling off something of a flawed masterpiece in the process. For all its flaws, the film is frequently engrossing and unexpectedly powerful, with the sublime cinematography from Vittorio Storaro helping to pull the viewer in as the film unfolds, while amplifying the intensity and potency of the film's moral extremes. Some may not have the patience for Bertolucci's overly grandiose statements, but for those who can overlook the flaws, there is a work of great beauty and audacity waiting to be found underneath them.
Friday, September 30, 2016
#583: Secrets & Lies
Directed by: MIKE LEIGH
1996, TSPDT Rank #679
Secrets & Lies was my introduction to the work of Mike Leigh, and it is a film of immense emotional intensity - in which the small, unspoken pains and uncertainties of each of its characters come together to form a powerful, focused emotional whole. This is a film about insular struggles and deceptions within a British family, and it is largely carried by its excellent ensemble cast - with each actor lending a deep sense of detail and feeling to their respective characters, so that each characters' emotions reverberate into the other characters' scenes and lend meaning to all of the other actors' performances. This kind of cooperative acting goes a long way in making the characters believable as family members - a difficult feat which can be easily taken for granted, especially if it is done well. Leigh's deliberate directing style perfectly complements the actors' performances, and unflinchingly leads the viewer through the film's many uncomfortable, and sometimes painful, moments - with a visual style in which characters are often situated either at an intimate, conversational angle with the viewer or side by side with each other, so that the viewer can see both characters' reactions in real time. The inevitable racial undertones (a black woman discovers that her birth mother is white) are ever-present throughout the film, but they usually remain in the background, with the exception of one key scene. Otherwise, the focus remains on how the family members relate to each other, as family. Most importantly, Leigh manages to put every member of the family on equal footing with one another, and this, along with the deeply felt nature of the film, is what ultimately makes the film worthwhile viewing.
1996, TSPDT Rank #679
Secrets & Lies was my introduction to the work of Mike Leigh, and it is a film of immense emotional intensity - in which the small, unspoken pains and uncertainties of each of its characters come together to form a powerful, focused emotional whole. This is a film about insular struggles and deceptions within a British family, and it is largely carried by its excellent ensemble cast - with each actor lending a deep sense of detail and feeling to their respective characters, so that each characters' emotions reverberate into the other characters' scenes and lend meaning to all of the other actors' performances. This kind of cooperative acting goes a long way in making the characters believable as family members - a difficult feat which can be easily taken for granted, especially if it is done well. Leigh's deliberate directing style perfectly complements the actors' performances, and unflinchingly leads the viewer through the film's many uncomfortable, and sometimes painful, moments - with a visual style in which characters are often situated either at an intimate, conversational angle with the viewer or side by side with each other, so that the viewer can see both characters' reactions in real time. The inevitable racial undertones (a black woman discovers that her birth mother is white) are ever-present throughout the film, but they usually remain in the background, with the exception of one key scene. Otherwise, the focus remains on how the family members relate to each other, as family. Most importantly, Leigh manages to put every member of the family on equal footing with one another, and this, along with the deeply felt nature of the film, is what ultimately makes the film worthwhile viewing.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
#582: Diary of a Country Priest
Directed by: ROBERT BRESSON
1951, TSPDT Rank #195
According to the description of the film which accompanies the Criterion release (now unfortunately out-of-print), Diary of a Country Priest was the film in which Robert Bresson's distinctive "stylistic philosophy" first came into view. I can't testify to this, since before seeing this film, the only other Bresson films that I had seen were Pickpocket and A Man Escaped (both made later in the 1950s). However, I can say that this is a film of rare beauty - harsh and uncompromising in its approach, but often approaching the sublime in its deceptively simple portrayal of a young Catholic priest's spiritual and physical dilemmas over the course of his assignment to a parish in an unwelcoming country village. And although there are no light or carefree moments to be found within this solemn two-hour film, I do not agree with its categorization as "boring" or "depressing". Bresson's precise and methodical hand constantly propels the film forward, allowing the viewer to empathize with the ailing priest's anguish through the use of frequent narration from the priest's diary, while creating the feeling that not a moment has been wasted. Visually, the film is thoroughly cinematic - featuring a consistently striking palette of sharp black-and-whites which complement Bresson's strong, angular compositions and stark rural settings. The film continues to gain momentum throughout, as the viewer gradually becomes closer to the priest, steadily building to a subdued yet haunting climax in which contact with a higher power can be clearly sensed. As Bresson enthusiasts often point out, the religious potential of the cinematic medium has rarely been pursued by filmmakers, and its presence in Diary of a Country Priest makes for a uniquely affecting and profound viewing experience. Bresson has been on my short list of directors to explore more thoroughly for quite some time now, but having seen this film, I definitely intend to see more of his work in the near future.
1951, TSPDT Rank #195
According to the description of the film which accompanies the Criterion release (now unfortunately out-of-print), Diary of a Country Priest was the film in which Robert Bresson's distinctive "stylistic philosophy" first came into view. I can't testify to this, since before seeing this film, the only other Bresson films that I had seen were Pickpocket and A Man Escaped (both made later in the 1950s). However, I can say that this is a film of rare beauty - harsh and uncompromising in its approach, but often approaching the sublime in its deceptively simple portrayal of a young Catholic priest's spiritual and physical dilemmas over the course of his assignment to a parish in an unwelcoming country village. And although there are no light or carefree moments to be found within this solemn two-hour film, I do not agree with its categorization as "boring" or "depressing". Bresson's precise and methodical hand constantly propels the film forward, allowing the viewer to empathize with the ailing priest's anguish through the use of frequent narration from the priest's diary, while creating the feeling that not a moment has been wasted. Visually, the film is thoroughly cinematic - featuring a consistently striking palette of sharp black-and-whites which complement Bresson's strong, angular compositions and stark rural settings. The film continues to gain momentum throughout, as the viewer gradually becomes closer to the priest, steadily building to a subdued yet haunting climax in which contact with a higher power can be clearly sensed. As Bresson enthusiasts often point out, the religious potential of the cinematic medium has rarely been pursued by filmmakers, and its presence in Diary of a Country Priest makes for a uniquely affecting and profound viewing experience. Bresson has been on my short list of directors to explore more thoroughly for quite some time now, but having seen this film, I definitely intend to see more of his work in the near future.
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