Thirst; Vampyr

Hello all. With New Moon madness now upon us here in North America, I thought the best way to put an end to my recent hiatus would be a fresh attack against the Stephenie Meyer-penned, dreamy teen boyhunk vampires 'n' werewolves phenomenon, hitting it with a double-shot of alternatives for the jaded, sick and tired vampire fans of the world. Of course, avoiding vampires altogether is an effective option that many have probably taken at this point - and I don't blame you. But reconsider giving up the fanged figures completely if only to give these interesting works a chance. Without further ado...

Thirst (Park Chan-wook, 2009)


I'm a huge admirer of Park Chan-wook's work. He is one of those filmmakers who truly knows how to use and develop his own cinematic style, resulting in films that are visually splendid, thematically fascinating and quite often downright brilliant. Ever since Cut, his segment of the Asian horror omnibus film Three...Extremes which opens with a film crew shooting a vampire film, fans have been teased with hints and rumors of his full-length, fully-fledged horror film. Now we have Thirst, which just recently came out on DVD (in Region 1) and tells the tale of a priest (Park regular Song Kang-ho) who volunteers for a medical experiment and ends up receiving blood from a transfusion that turns him into a vampire. As he adapts to his new "condition," he meets the sexually provocative Tae-joo (Kim Ok-vin), with whom he forms a complex and dangerous relationship while grappling with feelings of guilt from the evil deeds he is driven to do.

I have yet to see Park's eccentric comedy I'm a Cyborg, But That's Okay, so this was essentially the first new film of his I was seeing since the excellent Lady Vengeance - and boy was it good to come back to his world. All of his recognizable visual trademarks are there - creative transitions and camerawork, vivid colors, beautifully grotesque displays of violence. However, the mood of the film was something that occasionally threw me. There are, of course, moments of real dramatic weight and horror, but every so often, Park takes a swerve into comedy, the most obvious (and disappointing) example being Tae-joo's husband who, after being drowned by the vampire-priest, haunts the couple by appearing on their bed, sopping wet, grinning a huge, dopey grin. It's hard to believe this is from the same Park who used another drowned ghost - that of a little girl - to such chilling effect in Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, a film so stark and hard-hitting that one wouldn't imagine there being any room for visiting spirits. Thirst also sports some of the dark, deadpan humor that Park used so well in certain moments of his Vengeance trilogy, but it ultimately lacks the driving focus that anchored his previous explorations of the dark side of the soul, instead going from intriguing to sexy to funny and back again.

While not one of Park's best, Thirst still has plenty to good stuff to sink your teeth into (pun not intended), including sumptuous visuals (the film is a blue- and white-hued wonderland), an excellent performance by Kim Ok-vin and a quite satisfying conclusion.

Vampyr (Carl Theodor Dreyer, 1932)


I'm now jumping from 2009 all the way back to the last days of silent cinema for one of the very first vampire films ever made - and still one of the finest. For what better filmmaker is there to combat the wave of inept filmmaking that the Twilight film series is producing so far (I'm hoping David Slade doesn't hit strike three with Eclipse, if only because I like Hard Candy so much) than Carl Theodor Dreyer, the Danish master who gave us The Passion of Joan of Arc? For Vampyr, he applied his unique style to the horror genre for the first time - are you detecting a pattern here? But unlike Chan-wook Park, Dreyer just about pulls it off flawlessly, producing a truly eerie atmosphere of misty fields, isolated houses and shifting shadows.

The narrative follows a young student of the occult named Allan Grey (Baron Nicolas de Gunzburg AKA Julian West, who also helped finance the film) who becomes enmeshed in sinister goings-on surrounding an old man and his two daughters Gisèle and Léone who are tormented by a vampire named Marguerite Chopin and her servant. Yet the plot is only secondary (and in fact leaves a number of things unexplained) compared to the mesmerizing realm into which Dreyer draws his audience. Just in the opening moments, with Grey's arrival at his strange inn and the sight of an old ferry rider carrying a scythe, the film begins casting a spell through its imagery alone. The cinematography by Rudolph Maté seems to carve the shapes and figures out of pure ebony, and Dreyer, with a barrage of wallpaper patterns, silhouettes that move on their own and painting-inspired compositions, fashions a purely Gothic visual scheme (helped along by Rena Mandel's black dress-clad, heavily eyeshadowed Gisèle). The film's events are brilliantly accentuated by Wolfgang Zeller's ominous score.

While containing certain elements that anyone familiar with vampire movies should recognize, Vampyr certainly belongs in a class of its own, not a film so much as a strange, surreal fever dream bound to linger in viewers' minds.

Autumn Sonata (Ingmar Bergman, 1978)

The other day, I finally got around to sitting down and revisiting Autumn Sonata. The film is one of Ingmar Bergman's later color triumphs, an elegant chamber drama clearly made by a mature artist. But there is another figure who attracts just as much of the audience's attention in front of the camera: acting legend Ingrid Bergman (no relation) in, unfortunately, her only collaboration with the great filmmaker. But perhaps the rarity of this collaboration makes it all the more special - or perhaps we should be thankful that it happened at all, as its result is truly something to be experienced.

Autumn Sonata mostly taking place over the course of one day and night in the home of Liv Ullmann's Eva and her husband Viktor (Halvar Björk). Eva's mother Charlotte (Bergman), a renowned pianist, comes to stay with them for a few days, her visit at first starting off with a friendly reception, but soon giving way to more painful confrontations. Among the sources of tension between mother and daughter is Helena (Lena Nyman), Eva's sister who is stricken with mental illness and whose presence makes Charlotte very uncomfortable, and buried feelings of resentment that stem from Eva's neglected childhood.

Autumn Sonata, as well known as it is for its two headliners, is remarkable for so much more than the meeting of the Bergmans, serving as a perfect convergence of several artistic forces. Liv Ullmann is at her typical best here, giving a both powerful and subtle performance that ranks among the most memorable of her many collaborations with Ingmar. In similar fashion, the great cinematographer Sven Nykvist produces absolutely gorgeous imagery, suitably making good use of autumnal colors all throughout the film. Especially worth noting are the beautiful stylized flashbacks theatrically portrayed with isolated shots that stand out as miniature masterpieces of lighting, set design and composition. Also, keep an eye open for Bergman regulars Erland Josephson and Gunnar Björnstrand in minor roles.

While Eva's husband and sister serve as interesting and important characters in the narrative, it'd be a joke to place any relationship in the film above that of the mother and daughter. The entire "sonata" of the film is built around their inevitable conflict, even when the two of them greet each other warmly enough when Charlotte first arrives at the remote house. A precursor for what is to come is presented in a scene in which Eva practices one of Chopin's preludes on the piano for her mother, after which Charlotte performs her own rendition of the piece. In a way, the scene is a variation of the double monologue scene in Persona, as the camera lingers on each woman's face as the other plays the Chopin piece, recording every subtle flicker of emotion as she regards her opposite in quiet contemplation. However, unlike the Persona scene, Bergman now no longer needs the device of direct repetition nor the aid of dialogue - wisely, he lets Chopin's music do all the talking (though before her turn to play, Charlotte does offer a rather brilliant analysis of the composer, his character and how it should be reflected in his music).

Then all of the elegant exposition soon gives way to the middle portion of the film, a veritable emotional tempest as the two women reveal their pain and anger towards one another. At first, one could call Ingrid's character a monster based on her authoritative, confrontational nature - one could easily draw that assumption from her decision to wear a flowing red dress so soon after her partner Leonardo's death, which she does mainly to thwart her daughter's expectations of her. However, the long nighttime dispute sequence and the way it shows both Eva's and Charlotte's perspectives towards one another simply makes it impossible to conduct so simple a reading. Each woman takes turns as both victim and antagonist, digging up bitter memories of sacrifices made and regrets long harbored.

While an often bleak affair, Autumn Sonata is also an irrefutably brilliant work of art, and upon this recent viewing, I'm fully prepared to list it among such other Bergman favorites of mine as Persona, Cries and Whispers and Fanny and Alexander.

Along with this review, I thought I'd include a topic- and season-appropriate treat: a gallery of photos I took of some of the wonderful autumnal sights around my home town of Oakville, Ontario that can be seen around this time of year. I hope you enjoy 'em.

Let The Right One In; Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance

Let the Right One In (Thomas Alfredson, 2008)


Better late to the party than never. Quite a few months ago, I read the novel upon which this film is based by John Ajvide Lindqvist, who served as the screenwriter in its adaptation to the screen. Simply, the book was great - a well-written, slow-burning, character-based horror novel worthy of comparison to Stephen King's excellent 'Salem's Lot. Of course, positive word-of-mouth aside, I should have known I was in for a treat - because a vampire story that gets its title from a Morrissey song ("Let the Right One Slip In") can't possibly be bad.

I was most pleased to discover that what people were saying about the film were also true, and that it is very much its own animal while remaining faithful to the book. The Swedish setting is shot as an otherworldly, desolate, nocturnal, snow-laden realm of darkness and isolated islands of light provided by streetlamps - the perfect atmosphere for a horror yarn. But while there is a fair share of grisly tension-filled scenes, the best part of the story remains the touching relationship that grows between the lonely boy Oskar and his new neighbor Eli, who, yes, turns out to be a vampire. Young actors Kåre Hedebrant and Lina Leandersson do a simply superb job of portraying the tentative, awkward steps towards mutual respect, understanding and love that their characters take while dealing with the complications and horrific truths of Eli's "condition." Their meetings at the snow-covered playground outside their apartment building, their mutual love of puzzles, their connection as fellow outsiders and kindred spirits - they all give the film a real emotional weight, elevating it above regular genre fare more concerned with creative kills and jump-in-your-seat shocks.

I'll shun the American remake, Let Me In, and continue to scoff at Stephenie Meyer and all things related to Twilight - well, except for the good songs I've been hearing from the bafflingly impressive New Moon soundtrack, including the stellar contributions by the Killers and Thom Yorke. But a shirtless Robert Pattinson, vampire Dakota Fanning and glittering skin? You can take 'em, Twi-hards - especially that last one, which seems dumber than ever when one thinks of the hospital bed scene in Let the Right One In. That's what's supposed to happen when sunlight hits the unholy flesh of a vampire. But I digress. No, instead I'll take the conflict between Oskar and his bullying tormentors, complex relationship between Eli and her "guardian" Håkan (simplified in the film - ah well; one can't have everything) and strange yet sweet bond that forms between the two young (or, in Eli's case, seemingly young) characters. It's all true: this one's a winner.

Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance (Park Chan-wook, 2002)


Now, in a perfect world, I'd be following up the above review with one for the great Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook's recent vampire film Thirst, which I shamefully missed seeing in theatres. But the Region 1 DVD for it won't be out until November 17th (which, thankfully, is still surprisingly soon). So, I instead decided to fish out from my collection Park's first film in his "revenge trilogy," Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance. Like a good bottle of wine, the film had aged incredibly well since I last saw it (which was some years ago), and it proved to be quite a rewarding watch. However, that doesn't mean it was an easy one - though excellent, this is one uncompromisingly cruel film, especially when considered next to its counterparts Oldboy and Lady Vengeance. Those films are also quite hard-going in their explorations of revenge and its damaging effects, but at least they offered some solace in their moments of stylistic flair and visual beauty (especially the baroque, decadent, operatic Lady Vengeance). Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance offers no such escape, telling the sad tale of Ryu (Shin Ha-kyun), a deaf factory worker desperately trying to find a new kidney for his dying sister, and Park (Song Kang-ho), the company president responsible for firing him whose daughter is kidnapped in a scheme to get money for the kidney transplant, in a cold, detatched manner that leaves no room whatsoever for romanticism. Park makes it very clear: revenge is a terrible, ugly business that only brings about similarly terrible, ugly results. In fact, so clear and effective is Park here that one almost wonders if he even should have bothered with two more films about revenge. All in all, Mr. Vengeance could be considered the true horror film being reviewed here, as its horrors stem not from ghosts or vampires, but from people caught in a destructive cycle of hatred and desperation. While hard to watch, every minute of it is brilliant.

Now that I've revisited Mr. Vengeance, I'll probably get around to reviewing the other two films in the revenge trilogy before too long - if anything, I just know Lady Vengeance will be a most welcome and fitting treat right around Christmas.

Heads Up for the Brazil Film Fest

Hello all. This is a heads-up for a pretty cool looking film festival that'll be hitting Toronto in the next few days: the Brazil Film Fest. Brazilian cinema is one of those areas that I could definitely learn more about, and an event like this is one effective way to do that. Starting on October 22nd, the Fest will be presenting a wide variety of films from Brazil. Among them is This is Pelé, a 1974 documentary on the world-famous soccer player; Madame Satã, a fictional portrait of the real-life, cross-dressing performer João Francisco dos Santos who strove to make it to the big time in the 1930s; The Mystery of Samba, which provides a close look at the people and culture of samba; and This Is It, about two young people talking over their relationship just as it is coming to an end.

The full schedule and list of films for the festival can be found here. It will be running from October 22nd to the 25th at the Royal Cinema at 608 College St. in Toronto, and will be featuring singer and songwriter Adriana Calcanhotto making her Canadian debut on the festival's closing night.

All in all, this looks like a great way to expand your view of Brazilian cinema beyond City of God. Details about the Brazil Film Fest can be found at its main website.

House; Dogville

Hello all. I'm reporting here on a couple of interesting films I've seen over the past few weeks. Without further ado:

House (Nobuhiko Obayashi, 1977)


Wow. I don't think words can do this thing of beauty justice, but dammit, I'm going to try anyways. I sat down to see House on October 3rd with the J-Film Pow-Wow crew. I set out to experience Nuit Blanche in Toronto that very same night, but nothing I saw throughout the city (which really wasn't all that impressive) could even begin to hold a candle to House, or as it's known in Japanese, Hausu. It's one of those films that at once makes you feel like you are on hallucinogenic drugs and believe that the filmmakers themselves were on them while they were making it. Using a formulaic plot involving seven generically-named girlfriends (e.g. the musician Melody, the tough chick Kung Fu, the constantly hungry Mac, as in sto-Mac-h) visiting one of their aunts and her big, spooky house, the film catapults itself into a surreal, hilarious and downright nutso ride of cinematic experimentation and absurdist comedy. It is something that might appear to be a trash genre flick on first sight, but there are too many wonderful and visually stunning things packed into it to call it anything other than brilliant. I don't want to give too much away, so I'll just leave you with this valuable advice: House will apparently be doing a theatrical tour through the rest of 2009 and some of 2010 before it is eventually released by the Criterion Collection(!) sometime next year. If you can, go see this thing in a full house, and expect a great night at the movies. If you can't do that (or even if you can), wait patiently until the Criterion DVD comes out, then pick it up and have a few friends over with a case of beer. You won't be disappointed.

Dogville (Lars von Trier, 2003)


And then there's Dogville, which I saw the day before Nuit Blanche and deserves a different sort of "wow." I'm usually somewhat skeptical of Lars von Trier due to his frequent pompous qualities, but I've always regarded him as a unique and truly fascinating artist. Dogville proves that in spades within its first few minutes, with John Hurt's eloquent voiceover resonating on the soundtrack and the camera lingering on the small township of Dogville from above. Just as Hurt's narration evokes a novelistic mode of storytelling (emphasized by the film's division into chapters), so too does von Trier's choice of presenting the town as merely a dark stage with drawn and labeled tracings of buildings and landmarks with a few props positioned among them put one in the mind of a stage play. As a result, you simply can't help but be drawn into the story purely through the performances being given onscreen (and onstage) as the actors bring to life their individual characters, adhering to the story being unravelled by von Trier. There certainly is an impressive cast to see this duty through, most prominent among them an impressive Nicole Kidman as the runaway girl Grace who seeks safety from the township of Dogville and gradually learns the costs of such a favor. The other fantastic actors who strut their stuff include Paul Bettany, Patricia Clarkson, Ben Gazzara, Philip Baker Hall, Chloë Sevigny, Stellan Skarsgård, James Caan, Siobhan Fallon and, to round things off with a couple of classic screen legends, Lauren Bacall and Harriet Andersson. As well as being another of von Trier's testaments to the importance of the actor and acting in film, Dogville is a beautifully written, brilliantly constructed morality tale; a fable both simple and complex that runs in the same vein as George Orwell's Animal Farm - as well as a remarkable portrait of Americana. Surely enough, Dogville gave me much to think about after its three hour running time had expired, and I very much look forward to a return visit.

Toronto International Film Festival 2009 + Fall Rumblings

A few weeks have passed since the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival came to a close, meaning it’s high time I posted some reviews of the films I saw. Now, as I have mentioned before, I only made it out to a few of the many films that were featured (a mere six), but I enjoyed each one and, overall, was not disappointed. At the very least, I can safely say that while my picks for this year were small in quantity, I was certainly compensated by both their variety and quality. Proceed below to read more about the grab-bag of flicks I sampled this year.

Micmacs à tire-larigot (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 2009)

A fuzzy but still-decipherable pic of Jean-Pierre Jeunet at the Q&A after Micmacs

As some can fairly guess from the trailers that are popping up online these days, and as my buddy Bob Turnbull states on his own blog, Jean-Pierre Jeunet delivers in his latest film, Micmacs à tire-larigot, everything you’d expect from his wonderfully unique vision. With Dany Boon leading the way as Bazil, a man who decides to take on the two weapons manufacturers that robbed him of his father and life as he once knew it (the latter via a bullet lodged in his brain), the film is packed with a checklist of classic Jeunet ingredients: quirky characters, screwball situations, mesmerizing visuals, creative cleverness and splashes of stylistic glee. I’d say those anticipating a mix of Delicatessen and Amélie will be fairly satisfied, as Micmacs channels the weirdness, wackiness and dark humor of the earlier Marc Caro-assisted work along with the vibrant color palette (from cinematographer Tetsuo Nagata, admirably meeting the high level of quality set by Bruno Delbonnel and Darius Khondji) and whirlwind tour of Paris of the Audrey Tautou-starring phenomenon. Propelling the film along with boundless energy and crowd-pleasing appeal is a fantastic ensemble cast, most of which comprising the makeshift family of inventors and misfits who help Bazil carry out his payback plan. Each of the actors is a joy to watch, some of them familiar faces from previous Jeunet outings like André Dussollier, Yolande Moreau and, of course, Dominique Pinon; others new faces like Boon, Julie Ferrier as a spunky contortionist and Omar Sy as the perpetually enthusiastic, proverb-spouting Remington. Micmacs sees Jeunet returning to his comedic roots with a vengeance while keeping his recognizable brand of magic flowing strong. It is yet another slam dunk for the filmmaker, and is easily the most satisfying one of the six films reviewed here.

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (Werner Herzog, 2009)

Michael Shannon and Willem Dafoe

One of the two Werner Herzog films shown this year at TIFF (the other being his already much talked-about reimagining of Bad Lieutenant), My Son, My Son was executive produced by David Lynch, and it somewhat shows, as if he was on the set whispering ideas to everyone’s favorite German wild man. While Michael Shannon’s impressive portrayal of the haunted, obsessive Brad McCullum fits neatly within the gallery of mad men that populate Herzog’s films, there are also several strange Lynchian touches like the many moments of agonizing awkwardness (hello, Grace Zabriskie), Brad Dourif as the foul-mouthed, ostrich-farming Uncle Ted and such memorable lines as “Razzle them. Dazzle them. Razzle dazzle them!” – inspired by the words on McCullum’s special coffee cup, no less. While it’ll most likely be remembered as a minor work in Herzog’s filmography, My Son, My Son is still an interesting, if ambiguous, character study wrapped in a suitably off-kilter vision of America.

Visage (Face) (Tsai Ming-liang, 2009)

Model and actress Laetitia Casta with Kang-sheng Lee

Not a love letter to the French New Wave so much as a solemn prayer, Tsai Ming-liang’s latest is a bizarre but constantly fascinating work of art – and this is certainly a case where Art with a capital “a” would be warranted. Face seems to tell a story about a (skeleton) film crew struggling to realize a project about the Salomé myth, but its actors play characters that very closely resemble their real-life personae, and there is no doubt that the presence of such legends as Fanny Ardant, Jean-Pierre Léaud, Jeanne Moreau and Nathalie Baye is meant to contribute to the film’s post-modern motif. Sure enough, the shadow of François Truffaut looms over much of the film, and the time that has passed since his death (and the glorious days when the New Wave was still in full swing) is all too strongly felt as Ardant, Léaud and others wander through mazes of mirrors and dark, subterranean passages, playing out a Day for Night relocated to Hades. The assortment of coldly beautiful images and reoccurring elements (reflections, animals, ghosts, water, sexual desire and, of course, faces) certainly give the viewer plenty to savor and ponder in equal measure. Face is definitely not for everyone, but those brave enough to seek it out just may become ensnared by all the enigmas contained within this spellbinding fever dream of a film. I myself am curious to see how it will hold up on a second viewing. Also, it has inspired me to check out another Taiwanese director’s ode to French cinema – Hou Hsiao-hsien’s Flight of the Red Balloon. Had Edward Yang lived long enough to make one of his own, I wonder which French filmmaker he might have tipped his hat to.

Les derniers jours du monde (Arnaud and Jean-Marie Larrieu, 2009)

Mathieu Amalric and Sergi López

Based on a novel by Dominique Noguez, this film by brothers Arnaud and Jean-Marie Larrieu follows Mathieu Amalric’s Robinson as he searches for Lae (Omahyra Mota), the woman he loves, amidst the end of the world. Through flashbacks, we learn how he met her while on vacation, became estranged from his wife and lost his arm while the “present day” sequences detail one episode (and erotic encounter) after another as Robinson calmly journeys through a world falling apart at the seams. Unlike most movie apocalypses, some traces of normalcy stubbornly remain: people still go to nightclubs, operas and restaurants as resources become scarcer, mass evacuations are carried out and armed troops become more prominent in the streets. The exact cause of the meltdown is never quite determined; instead, we are shown several of its effects such as disease outbreaks, air bombings and, at one point, a perpetually dark Parisian sky. The hysterical behavior that soon overtakes people (suicides, betrayals, anarchy) is truly disturbing to behold, and like Robinson, we can only watch helplessly before moving on to a fresh horror. This unique take on “the end,” captivating story and superb performances by Amalric, Catherine Frot, Karin Viard and Sergi López (who played the contemptible Captain Vidal in Pan’s Labyrinth) are all thoroughly fascinating to watch.

The Last Days of Emma Blank (Alex van Warmerdam, 2009)

Gene Bervoets and Marlies Heuer

This Netherlandish dark comedy has some of the same quirky vibes that run rampant through Napoleon Dynamite, only here they are thankfully put to far, far better use. The Last Days of Emma Blank is centered on a family seemingly trapped in their own micro-universe – a quality emphasized by their house’s situation amid a desolate landscape made up of shrubs, sand and a nearby beach. The titular character (Marlies Heuer) is a merciless tyrant suffering the final stages of a terminal illness. She enforces her will over the rest of the household with an iron fist and the promise of an inheritance, seeing that her every wish is carried out. This makes for an unbearable existence for her designated minions, which include her husband Haneveld (Gene Bervoets) and daughter Gonnie (Eva van de Wijdeven). A prominent subplot involves Gonnie’s cousin Meijer (Gijs Naber), who is romantically attracted to her while she seeks more realistic means of distraction and escape. The rest of the small cast is filled out by Annet Malherbe as Bella, Meijer’s mother and the family cook, Marwan Kenzari as a stranger pulled into the family’s madness and the director Alex van Warmerdam himself as the hilariously deadpan Uncle Theo, who spends the majority of the film acting like a dog. Smoothly adapted from van Warmerdam's own play Adel Blank, Emma Blank is made a great delight by the actors’ chemistry with each other as they make their way through the twisted story scene by barbed, terrifically hilarious scene. This is one well worth keeping an eye open (and praying, if need be,) for a wider North American release in the future.

Toad’s Oil (Kôji Yakusho, 2009)

Eita and Kôji Yakusho

My full review for well-known Japanese actor Kôji Yakusho’s directorial debut can be found at the Toronto J-Film Pow-Wow; here, I’ll simply say that it’s a whimsically concocted tale that dances between over-the-top humor and thoughtful seriousness while packing in everything in-between from heartfelt tributes to childhood to an impromptu road trip across Japan to a showdown with a black bear.



Well, that was TIFF for me this year – and it seems as soon as the fest ended, things shifted into autumn mode in one big hurry over here in the Greater Toronto Area. But even though I’m not a big fan of the cold, I’m digging fall so far this year – the leaves turning and falling, Halloween drawing steadily closer, the yearning for season-appropriate drinks like cider and dark specialty beers (like Hobgoblin, a delicious favorite of mine). Of course, that means my film tastes are also being affected, as I anticipate revisiting Ingmar Bergman’s Autumn Sonata and dig the fall color scheme of the trailers for Wes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr. Fox, which looks, well, fantastic. I’ll also be delving into some horror films before the 31st, including Let the Right One In – a film I know I’m late in getting to, but now that one of my sisters has given it to me for my birthday, I can finally see if it compliments the excellent novel by John Ajivide Lindqvist. Plus, the growing rumblings about Lars von Trier’s latest film Antichrist (which will apparently be coming out in the GTA a little after Halloween – boo) have inspired me to check out Dogville, which I’m very excited about finally seeing and should keep me in the dark, brooding, European and autumn season spirit I seem to have entered. I’ll get to the next entry in my Classic French Cinema Triple Bill series of ramblings soon, but I figure I should venture into some other areas of world cinema first, unless I want to re-name this site Marc’s Big French Film Blog. So, something else – and not French, for a change – will be featured here before too long. As always, stay tuned.

Break Time

Well, another year has come and gone for the Toronto International Film Festival, and from what I can tell, it was a resounding success. I myself only went to six films, but it seems I chose well, as there wasn't a bad one in the bunch. I'll provide reviews for them soon (the one for Kôji Yakusho's Toad's Oil is already posted at the Toronto J-Film Pow-Wow), but for now I need to take a much-needed break from writing, running around Toronto and stuff in general.

So in the meantime, and as a nod to my favorite of the films I saw at TIFF, Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Micmacs à tire-larigot, here's a link to the great Chanel No. 5 film released this past May that Jeunet made with regular star Audrey Tautou.

Classical French Cinema Triple Bill: Part I

As many have been discovering over the past few weeks, there is much to enjoy in Quentin Tarantino’s latest opus Inglourious Basterds: Christoph Waltz’s wonderful performance as Colonel Hans Landa, the many stylistic flourishes, the exercises in screen suspense that rival Alfred Hitchcock’s finest moments, the outflow of languages and wordplay. Easily among my favorite elements are the many tributes to classical French and German cinema. From the many mentions of Nazi propaganda filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl and master auteur G.W. Pabst to the marquee bearing the names of director Henri-Georges Clouzot and his 1943 film Le Corbeau to Mélanie Laurent’s escaped Jew-turned-movie theatre proprietress, the film is chock-a-block full of delicious homages to the elegant world of culture and art Europe produced and enjoyed before and during World War II.

So, in the spirit of Inglourious Basterds’ acknowledgment of that time in history, I myself decided to do a little fishing through the bountiful storehouse of classical French cinema. The following is the first of three pieces (or, hell, maybe even more) I’ll be writing on specific films made in France around World War II. While I’m still pondering potential picks, I’ll be considering and perhaps eventually choosing films from beyond 1945 that still represent and are of that overall time in French cinema. For example, one strong contender is Max Ophuls’ 1952 film Le Plaisir, which features huge French stars of the time like Jean Gabin, Simone Simon and Danielle Darrieux, to whom Laurent’s character is compared at one point in Inglourious Basterds.

Now, without further ado, here is my first entry, which focuses on Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast. Enjoy, and stay tuned for the second and third installments!

Beauty and the Beast (Jean Cocteau, 1946)


Made by one of the most unique figures not only in cinema, but in art history, the multi-talented, self-proclaimed poet Jean Cocteau’s 1946 film Beauty and the Beast is an enchanting experience. Only the third film by Cocteau (the other two being 1925’s silent short Jean Cocteau fait du cinéma and the quintessential 1930 arthouse film Blood of a Poet), it takes the classic fairy tale by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont and injects it with the artist’s own ideas and sensibilities surrounding myths, magic and the very act of storytelling itself.

Before actually getting started with the narrative, Cocteau presents the viewer with a number of meta-filmic prologues. The first one begins in a room occupied by Cocteau and another man with his back to the camera (I’m going to guess that he’s Jean Marais, the actor who was Cocteau’s friend and lover and appears in the film as the Beast, the Prince he eventually becomes and Avenant, a roguish scoundrel). With a piece of chalk, Cocteau scrawls the first credits for the film on a blackboard, as if to present himself as a professor before a ready and waiting class (us, the viewers), or an artist still literally in the “drawing board” stage of realizing his vision. After the title sequence, an assistant walks on-camera with a clapboard and an offscreen voice says “Action” – a moment which further implies that the audience is invited as witnesses to the goings-on behind the camera before the actual film, the woven fiction of Beauty and the Beast, begins.

But before that happens, there is one more establishing device: a message written in Cocteau’s distinctive handwriting that asks the audience to enter the film while practicing children’s tendency to place faith in simple yet extraordinary things as they give themselves over to stories. It’s an insightful and intriguing request to make at the start of a film; one that says a lot about both it and its maker.

Then, finally, the story begins. We are introduced to Belle (Josette Day), a young woman forced to toil for her wretched sisters (Mila Parély and Nane Germon, who later appeared in Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s The City of Lost Children). She also lives with her brother Ludovic (Michel Auclair, who brings a great wit to his scenes, like the early one in which he mimics his sisters’ harpy-like cries for their footmen and feigns smitten adoration as they tromp across their farm dressed in ridiculously lavish gowns) and her merchant father, who is on the verge of losing everything he owns to debt collectors. Also, there is Avenant, who frequently hangs around the farm while trying in vein to draw Belle’s romantic interest. Upon hearing that one of the lost ships containing his fortune has made it to port, the merchant sets out to investigate, only to find it empty. Dejected, he mounts his horse and begins the journey home in the middle of the night. He of course gets lost in the woods and eventually discovers a mysterious castle where he finds a stable for his horse and a grand banquet. As he leaves, he picks a rose for Belle, which provokes the wrath of the castle’s master: the Beast himself. The terrified father makes a deal with him and promises he will send one of his daughters back to the castle or return himself to offer up his own life. Upon learning of this predicament, Belle chooses to go meet the Beast. Once at his castle, she seems to occupy a grey area between prisoner and guest, wandering through the beast’s fortress and grounds wearing beautiful dresses and jewelry while inadvertently tormenting him with desire. Every night, he joins her and poses the same rather forward question: “Will you marry me?” She always refuses him, but gradually she gains a better understanding of his true nature.

That description should sound fairly familiar for those of you who watched Disney’s Beauty and the Beast at some point in your childhood. But what sets this film apart from the animated version and basically every other adaptation of the same story is Jean Cocteau’s spellbinding vision. In a way, the opening scenes introducing Belle, her family, her country household and her father’s sticky financial situation (partly brought about by Ludovic’s bad borrowing habits) could be seen as yet another prologue, as Cocteau’s magic doesn’t really get fired up until the journey through the forest and the subsequent discovery of the Beast’s castle. Both settings are brought to life by a slew of tricks and techniques: disembodied arms that hold candelabras, pull back curtains and pour wine; moving, smoke-breathing statues; slow motion; reversed photography; fog; disembodied voices; superimposed images; bushes, gates and other objects that appear to move by themselves and more. This is magic of the movies in the most literal sense, the strange and surreal quality of these effects plunging the viewer into a super-cinematic world dictated by the efforts of Cocteau and his crew of technicians. Perhaps most notable among his off-screen collaborators is cinematographer Henri Alekan, who would later work on Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire. According to the Internet Movie Database, he had to shoot the film with a variety of different film stocks due to the scarcity of film after the war, thus adding another method of cinematic manipulation to the film – and sure enough, Cocteau said that he felt the consequent inconsistency in the film’s visual quality contributed to the film’s overall poetic effect.

Also to be commended is the film’s decadent production design overseen by Christian Bérard and Lucien Carré. After Belle’s first encounter with the Beast, several statues and carvings of various creatures can be spotted throughout the film, most impressive among them being the massive stone dogs and stags that silently guard the grounds. The interior of the castle is decorated with ornate furniture and a trove of riches: cutlery, goblets, jewelry and furnishings all fit for a king. And then, of course, scowling and presiding over it all is Jean Marais as the Beast, buried under five hours worth of makeup and still turning in a one-of-a-kind performance. Speaking in a scratchy growl, he clearly expresses the menace imposed through his bestial form, transfixed lust for Belle and shame at himself for his appearance and savage tendencies (including the temptation to spill blood, which causes him to give off plumes of smoke). Marais plays the character skillfully, strongly asserting his personality from beneath the layers of makeup and fur that he wears. An everlasting testament to his success is the well-known story of how Greta Garbo (or was it Marlene Dietrich, as Roger Ebert claims?), after witnessing the scene in which the Beast transforms into the Prince at the film’s premiere, cried out at the screen, “Give me back my Beast!”


As seductive and beautiful as the various artificial elements of the film are, and as much as Cocteau asks his viewers to submit to the more unreal qualities of fairy tales, the way he ends the film seems to be contradictorily designed to make one question those very properties. In the quite abrupt turn of events at the end, Ludovic and Avenant scheme to break into the Beast’s pavilion that contains a hefty share of his treasures. While trying to climb through the glass skylight, Avenant is shot in the back with an arrow from a guarding statue. With yet another stunning visual effect, he transforms into the Beast before falling dead to the ground below. Meanwhile, the (original) Beast, who is on the verge of death after having been separated from Belle for a week, suddenly rises to his feet, transformed back into a man. The final scene between Marais’ Prince and Belle is a curious one, as she expresses a certain degree of disappointment towards him and her fate. Her initial reaction to the prince’s resemblance to Avenant is in the negative, and when asked if she is happy, she replies, “I’ll have to get used to it.” Shortly after, the Prince and Belle ascend together to his kingdom, their mingled bodies disappearing behind billowing plumes of smoke. It’s a classic fairy tale ending, but one met with some cynicism, as if to critique the way fairy tales tend to wrap everything up a little too neatly. Like Garbo (or Dietrich), perhaps the viewer was meant to embrace the man while he was still trapped in his beast form and be content with the more truthful relationship between Belle and the Beast in the middle portion of the tale instead of the idealized conclusion. There is a scene that gives a clue towards this point of view: the Beast, stricken with loneliness after having allowed Belle to go back to her father for one week, wanders through his castle, touching his magical possessions in an indifferent sort of way. It is as if to suggest that magic, no matter how wondrous, is a mere contrivance compared to genuine love. Indeed, as marvelous and integral to the film as Cocteau’s cinematic spectacles are, scenes like that make one stop and reconsider what their true worth really is, particularly when held in comparison with more human factors such as the film’s other most crucial element: Jean Marais in his three roles, but most importantly in that of the Beast, who manages to ironically convey more humanity than his other two human characters despite (or in spite of) his non-human form. The film first asks the viewers to accept its artifice, then tells them to look beyond it and consider the truths intermingled with it.

What’s wonderful about this film is that this is just one of many interpretations one can draw from it. I haven’t even gone into other things like the various magical objects of the Beast’s that may, as Philip Glass believes, stand in for the various components of the artistic process, or the more reality-based storyline concerning the merchant’s debts and the subsequent seizure of his furniture as he lies sick in bed while Ludovic and Avenant play chess on a small table before that too is taken away. As with many of Cocteau’s works, there is so much that can be seen and appreciated in his Beauty and the Beast. A film made to both lose oneself in and inspire a reconsideration of the creation of art, it remains to this day an indispensable classic and a treasure of French fantasy cinema.

An Unusual Rant about "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince"

I recently tagged along with my Dad and little sister to finally catch the latest Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. After seeing it, all three of us agreed that it was, on the whole, a decent movie. A terrible adaptation, argued my Dad who had just re-read the book and spotted the most discrepancies between text and film, but considered on its own, a decent movie (on the technical side, I must say that the true star is cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel, who brought us the dazzling images in Amélie, A Very Long Engagement and Across the Universe). But early on in the film, there was a small scene that stuck around in my head for the rest of the screening; one which quite effectively reminded me of my feelings for the franchise (and franchises in general) in relation to other films and, for better or for worse, affected my perspective on the boy wizard’s latest round of adventures on the silver screen.

The scene in question is the one that introduces our titular hero, eschewing yet another Dursley-centered exposition and zeroing in on Mr. Potter as he reads a newspaper in a small subway diner. He is interrupted by an alluring waitress (played by an actress named Elarica Gallacher) who, noticing his name all over the paper, innocently asks who Harry Potter is. The two strike up a small conversation that ends with her promptly telling him before he asks that she gets off work at eleven. It’s a nice little scene that’s shot and acted in a relatively natural style, allowing the two actors to establish both their respective characters and the slightest touch of attraction between them – a glimmer of potential that could lead to so much more. But then, after the waitress has gone, Harry looks out the window at the passing trains and sees, appearing out of nowhere in true wizard fashion…Dumbledore. Like an obedient dog who sees his master, Harry goes to join the headmaster’s side. After some words of greeting, Harry casts a longing glance at the diner where waitress has just exited. She looks around, searching for him. But alas, their rendezvous is not to be, and soon enough Dumbledore whisks Harry off to his next magical adventure.

Now, these two scenes inspired thoughts of protestation in me and slightly soured the remainder of the movie that followed them. The reason for this was simple: undoubtedly like Harry himself, I wanted him to ignore or dismiss Michael Gambon’s bearded wizard and go with the waitress instead. A completely pointless wish, I know – especially since I had read the book, was familiar with what lay in store for young (or not-so-young-any-more) Harry and knew all too well that the waitress’ scene wasn’t even in the book and was invented solely for the movie, meaning it’s highly unlikely that Ms. Gallacher will ever be seen again in the Potter-verse (contrary to Roger Ebert’s own hopes expressed in his review). But regardless, I wallowed in my feelings of futile hope and bitter disappointment all the same. The effect was similar to having had a juicy steak dangled in front of you, only to see it yanked out of sight and replaced with a bowl of tasteless grey gruel. Not that the remainder of the film was as unpleasant as eating gruel, but after having seen such a good, simple scene that hinged on a moment of genuine feeling and emotional subtlety instead of a similar moment intruded upon by a magical quest or CGI beastie, it might as well have been.

My feelings about this scene are no doubt similar to Daniel Radcliffe’s (and his costars’) own impatience with being chained to Warner Brothers and the remaining Potter films. He has recently made relatively successful ventures into non-Potter projects such as December Boys and My Boy Jack, the most famous one being the Broadway play Equus, which required him to perform nude onstage and paid off with a flurry of reviews commending his performance. Indeed, Radcliffe has improved as an actor, and it shows quite often in Half-Blood Prince. But to have to continually walk away from “real” acting jobs to fulfill an obligation to the series of children’s films he began at the tender age of eleven as well as its legions of fans must be annoying at the very least. Granted, seeing this particular responsibility through to the end is, all things considered, the right thing to do, and definitely preferable to having some other actor stepping in with only two or three films left to go. But still, it’s easier than ever to imagine just how eager Radcliffe must be to finish up the series so he can move on to bigger and better things.

In a recent online interview for guardian.co.uk, Radcliffe made the following observation about the Potter films: “You know what I take pride in more than anything else about these films? They’re the only films since Truffaut’s Antoine Doinel series that have featured one character going from about the age of 11 to 20. To be in Truffaut’s company, I’m happy with that.” That quote alone seems to contain in a nutshell Radcliffe’s sharp taste and intelligence and illustrates how, by now, both are visibly clashing with the Harry Potter franchise – or, heck, the whole notion of big budget, big studio franchises in general. While it is indeed refreshing to pick up on the similarities between the two characters’ onscreen exploits (including the freeze-frame at the end of Alfonso Cuarón’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, which is almost definitely an homage to the famous one at the end of Truffaut’s The 400 Blows), the simple truth is that, outside of the focus on young people, these are two very different animals. While all five of François Truffaut’s films to feature his alter ego played by Jean-Pierre Léaud (being The 400 Blows, the short Antoine and Collette, Stolen Kisses, Bed and Board and Love on the Run) are, in adherence to the filmmaker’s recognizable style, devoted to the simple wonders of everyday life and fittingly crafted with light-hearted compassion and naturalism, the Potter films for the most part remain primarily focused on two things: keeping the plot rolling and providing the spectacle of Harry’s magical world. There is still some attention to stuff like character development and moments of emotional significance (there would have to be in order for the films to, like the books, have any resonance with audiences), but such elements have to be packed in along with Quidditch matches, house elves, magic classes, spell casting and the inevitable, race-against-the-clock rush to stop the Dark Lord and/or his servants. Add to that the usual lack of style found among the franchise’s veteran mainstream directors Chris Columbus, Mike Newell and David Yates (Azkaban’s Cuarón being a notable – and noticeable – exception as a rare interloper from the world of art cinema), and what you have is a collection of films designed to be slick, glossy and easily consumed by the masses instead of the more interesting and personal expressions created by filmmakers such as Truffaut.

That’s what makes the diner scene such a gem within Half-Blood Prince – it’s something that Truffaut could have made. And just think about the film that would have resulted if Harry had told Dumbledore to find some other Chosen One and went off with the waitress! No Ron, no Hermione, no owls, no Voldemort – just, to borrow an analogy pricelessly used in Stolen Kisses, two people navigating through the minefield of young love. Plus, while Radcliffe has some nice, natural acting moments in Half-Blood Prince (like when he is comically “drunk” on the Felix Felicis potion), just think of the possibilities if he had the chance to show such bits of humor and subtlety in an entire film. I’m sure he’d be a match for Léaud at his most awkward and likeable.

But again, this is all kind of pointless, since, as I have said before and will say again, I shouldn’t be walking into a tofu shop looking for a steak. The sixth Harry Potter flick is finished, and there are only two more films to go (both comprising the events of the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows). They will be what they are meant to be, and then Radcliffe can move on to other, hopefully different things. It looks like the first one on his list will be a portrayal of Dan Eldon, the young photojournalist who was beaten to death in Somalia in 1993 in the upcoming film The Journey is the Destination (promising premise, but the title leaves something to be desired). There’s really no telling where he might go from there, but maybe, just maybe, could he do a New Wave-ish character-based film shot on the streets and in ordinary locations? I don’t think it’s too much to wish for.

Oh yes, and let’s also hope Elarica Gallacher pops up in a bigger role in something tasteful sooner rather than later.

The First Shinsedai Cinema Festival – Report

The Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre

All good things must come to an end, and August 23rd, 2009, marked the end of the Shinsedai Cinema Festival. It can certainly be said that the event, which was co-curated by Toronto J-Film Pow-Wow founder Chris MaGee and Midnight Eye co-founder and author of the new book Beyond the Pink Curtain Jasper Sharp and hosted at the impressive Japanese Canadian Cultural Center, was a notable success, especially for a film festival that was a) in its first year, and b) featuring independent films that had beforehand received little attention in North America. Indeed, Shinsedai offered a range of interesting films that one most likely wouldn’t find at such genre-focused festivals as Toronto After Dark, and in doing so provided a rich experience for adventurous viewers hoping to learn more about Japanese cinema and culture. Toronto now has a new resource that will enable many to expand their knowledge and appreciation of Japanese culture while showcasing the talents of independent filmmakers. I already can’t wait to see what next year will bring.

Chris MaGee, "Thunderfish" actress Junko Kimoto and Jasper
Sharp at the opening reception for the festival

While I didn’t catch all of the films that were shown at the festival, I certainly made an effort to see most of them – and am very glad I did. Here’s what I thought of the films I saw:

Weiner Waust (Maya Yonesho, 2006)

Shot throughout Vienna, Austria, this five-minute short was a colorful and imaginative delight. Using stop-motion animation, it mainly consists of abstract patterns and shapes dancing on index cards carried throughout different parts of the city, at time mimicking the sights seen in the streets. The enchanting concept and light tone of the film (partly contributed by an accordion score) make it a fun demonstration of cinematic experimentation.

Naked of Defenses (Masahide Ichii, 2008)

The first feature film shown at Shinsedai turned out to be a notable success, drawing a large audience and favorable reactions from virtually everyone who saw it (who I spoke to afterwards, at least). Focusing on the precarious relationship between two female factory workers (one being eight months pregnant, the other having suffered a miscarriage), it is a still, contemplative drama about past traumas and unspoken resentment. The story takes place in the eerily quiet countryside and urban spaces of Toyama Prefecture, providing a sharp contrast to the loud din of the plastics factory where the women work. Lead actresses Ayako Moriya and Sanae Konno both give superb performances, and writer/director Ichii delivers a very well-made film that adequately accommodates both of them.

Suzuki & Co. (Kazuo Kono, 2008)

This is a great comedic short about a desperate job seeker who joins the one-man team behind the titular internet auction company. Both funny and wise, it reveals hidden truths about the business of providing (seemingly) useless stuff and a philosophical perspective on consumer culture.

Inside Kobayashi Hall, where all of the films were screened

Freeter’s Distress (Hiroki Iwabuchi, 2007)

I was really looking forward to seeing this film, and it certainly didn’t disappoint. Freeter’s Distress is an onscreen account of Iwabuchi’s experiences as a part-time worker at a Canon plant who is trapped in a state of near poverty. Filming with his handheld camcorder, he talks to friends and acquaintances about the challenges of finding full-time employment and making progress in the world and at certain points addresses the larger political and social dimensions of his situation. For the most part, though, his film remains fairly intimate as it gives the first-person documentation of a life constantly spent striving for survival. We see what Iwabuchi sees as he rides his bike, journeys to Tokyo, tries to find places to sleep in the city until morning (at one point, waiting until noon, when he gets paid) and, in the final portion of the film, walks and stays awake through a night of pouring rain until he reaches the ocean. The film ends abruptly, but there is good reason for this: Iwabuchi himself is left facing a void of uncertainty at that point in his life, so why shouldn’t the audience share that experience? Such an ending is a better and more logical choice than a summative epilogue (as so many documentaries bear), and makes it clear that Freeter’s Distress is a slice of (a) life in the purest sense. If nothing else, it’ll make you want to know how Iwabuchi has fared beyond the film’s events.

emerger (Aki Sato, 2008)

Telling the story of a woman adorned with casts on her neck and leg who is looking for casual sex and a recently spurned gay man, the 42 minute-long emerger displays a rough, raw quality that suits its two emotionally damaged main characters.

Bunny in Hovel (Mayumi Yabe)

This dark, moody film dwells on a destructive family living in the Japanese backwoods. Returning to the house after three years, the mother’s son at first offers the possibility of hope, but isn’t the crusading hero that some viewers may mistake him for – the film is, to its credit, too deeply set in grim reality for a contrivance like that.

Csikspost (Yumiko Beppu, 2009)

Csikspost is a fun, sometimes downright goofy short about the simple pleasures of summer and childhood alike. The main character is the eight year-old Mina (charmingly played by Marina Kawamura), who strives to convince a young fruit vendor to marry her single Dad. Maintaining a great sense of humor, the film contains a few touches that certainly suggest a Wes Anderson influence.

Arungaku (Tomohisa Takashi, 2009)

This concert film was shown with four short works by its subject, the video artist and composer Takagi Masakatsu. Seen together, they certainly convinced me that he is quite the talented individual. His films are unfathomably beautiful spectacles of shape, color and motion that often simulate the texture of paintings. Then there’s the documentary, which showcases his aurally mesmerizing musical work and, simply, the creative process of making music. In the brief segments outside of the concert, Masakatsu is shown as a cheerful, animated person who takes genuine pleasure in what he does and strives to share that joy in all of his art. Thanks to this film, I’ll definitely be hunting for some of his albums over the next few weeks.

Here is Girls, one of his videos (with his own music):



Maledict Car (Kosai Sekine, 2008)

This music video for the band Jemapur consists of a kaleidoscopic stream of imagery reminiscent of Michel Gondry’s work. Here's the entire video:



Thunderfish (Touru Hano, 2005)

With hints of horror and noir, Thunderfish was easily the most genre-influenced film to be shown at Shinsedai. While telling the story of a photojournalist who investigates the prostitution trade and rural legends of Cantella Island, the film also sets out to explore themes such as traditional beliefs and how they clash with contemporary culture (it is set in the 1950s, but the island’s inhabitants more closely adhere to a 1930s way of living). Thunderfish maintains a great atmospheric quality throughout its duration that is primarily owed to Tetsushiro Kato’s cinematography, which perfectly evokes the stifling humidity of the island and uses a vivid palette of saturated greens and blues.

Me with "Thunderfish" actress Junko Kimoto

Vortex & Others (Yoshihiro Ito, 2001-2008)

This is a marvelous collection of short films that truly revel in visual and narrative creativity. Right from the first moments of the first film, Wife’s Knife (in which a man is stricken with horror and fear towards his meek, seemingly harmless wife), it’s clear that Ito is unafraid to venture into the realm of the bizarre – in fact, it’s more than likely that he knows that’s where the best ideas often lie in hiding. All five of these films (being Wife’s Knife, Imaginary Lines, Non-Intervention Game, Plum Double Suicide and Vortex) have something different to offer, and can be described in three adjectives: fascinating, fun and funny.

Jasper Sharp (left) with Yoshihiro Ito (right) in the Q&A discussion for "Vortex & Others"

Now I… (Yasutomo Chikuma, 2007)

Now I… is the first feature film by Yasutomo Chikuma, who maxed out his credit card and served as producer, writer, director and lead actor. He stars as Satoru, an incredibly withdrawn young man who is pushed to interact with the outside world after he is given a job at a winery. The film uses a minimal approach to clearly reflect the claustrophobic viewpoint of the antisocial Satoru. Besides being a capable filmmaker, Chikuma also proves his talent as an actor, especially since he was present for discussions after the screening and, thankfully, turned out to be a much more communicative and cheerful guy than his on-screen protagonist.

The Rule of Dreams (Naoyuki Tsuji, 1995)

Evocative of Maya Deren’s Meshes of the Afternoon and made with low-tech means (charcoal sketches that leave shadow-like trails as they “move” across their paper backdrops), this animated short is mystifying in its surreal images and the imaginative way in which they are created onscreen.

The Trains (Takahiro Hirata, 2005)

A fun and inventive short that will certainly make me think differently about passing trains.

Girl Sparks (Yuya Ishii, 2007)

I couldn’t imagine a more well-chosen pick for the closing film for Shinsedai than this one, which drew plenty of laughs from beginning to end. It provides an account of the strange and frustrating life of teenager Saeko who must contend with her cross-dressing father (who, he explains, also wants to be a mother to her), the assortment of odd boarders he takes into their home, the isolated rural town in which she lives and the rockets that constantly soar through the sky above her.

For more reports on the Shinsedai Cinema Festival, please visit the Toronto J-Film Pow-Wow here, here and here.

Five Films I'll Be Catching at the Shinsedai Cinema Festival

With both the Toronto After Dark Film Festival and, of course, the Toronto International Film Festival, the end of summer/start of fall period has always been a busy one for film lovers whether they already live in Toronto or are willing to make the trip to sate their cinematic appetites. Well, now there's one more attraction that looks like it's going to be a real treat for those same adventurous viewers: the Shinsedai Cinema Festival, which is being curated by Midnight Eye co-founder Jasper Sharp and my friend Chris MaGee, founder of the Toronto J-Film Pow-Wow. The Shinsedai Festival will be taking place from August 21st to 23rd at the Canadian Japanese Culture Centre and focusing exclusively on a diverse selection of new films from emerging Japanese filmmakers (some of whom will be in attendance to present and discuss their films; see the full list of attendees here and here).

A look through the list of films will tell you that the festival will be featuring quite an intriguing mix to choose from. While I'll be setting out to catch most (if not all) of the featured films, here's a quick "Top Five" list of the ones that I'm the most curious about.

1) Freeter's Distress (Hiroki Iwabuchi, 2007)

This film provides a first-person account of the life and trials of the 23 year-old Hiroki Iwabuchi's life as a "freeter" - an educated young person who is trapped in the world of part-time employment. While it looks like an informative watch, Freeter's Distress is sure to be so much more, especially because of its "confessional" quality (acting as both director and subject, Iwabuchi simply picked up a camcorder and recorded the details of his day-to-day life - and ended up with an entire 67-minute film!).

Read the review here.

2) Now, I... (Yasutomo Chikuma, 2007)

Right off the heels of Freeter's Distress, here's a fictional film that's sure to have its share of similarities and differences with Iwabuchi's film alike. Starring director Chikuma (who made the film on a shoestring budget that sent him into the all-too familiar territory of independent filmmakers: credit card debt), it details the experiences of a young man who must make his way through the world without proper education, work experience or his mother, whose death initiates a new chapter in his life.

3) Thunderfish (Raigyo) (Touru Hano, 2005)

While this film looks like the most genre-influenced selection in the Shinsedai Festival, even it sounds like a refreshingly unique work to get lost in. Touru Hano's film plunges a journalist into a mystery involving Cantella Island, a missing photographer, a local brothel and an old legend surrounding a giant fish known as the raigyo. Color me curious!

4) Peaches (Bunny in Hovel, emerger & Csikspost)

The very notion of the Peaches filmmaking collective has me very interested in what they have to offer, since they promote and practice both do-it-yourself filmmaking (controlling such aspects of their films as distribution and screenings) and women getting behind the cameras themselves (Peaches is currently comprised of nine young female directors). Shinsedai will be featuring three of the group's films: Mayumi Yabe's Bunny in Hovel (2009), about a young son's return to an abusive household, Aki Sato's emerger (2008), about two kindred spirits and their (mis)adventures in love, and Yumiko Beppu's Csikspost (2009), a summertime tale about a little girl, a single father and one black hole.

Read a review of emerger here.

5) Vortex & Others: Five Short Films by Yoshihiro Ito (2001-2008)

This series of shorts looks like a treasure trove of some of the stuff that makes Japanese cinema so appealing: unconventional stories, off-the-wall inventiveness, an eccentric, elusive mix of horror and humor. Written, shot and directed by Yoshihiro Ito, these five films are sure to remind many of the works of such directors as David Lynch and Seijun Suzuki and offer a surreal and exciting diversion from what one usually expects from the mainstream.

Read a review of the five Ito films to be featured here.

John Hughes 1950-2009

I remember two years ago when, during my stay at a cottage my family rented in Northern Ontario, I heard on the radio that Ingmar Bergman had passed away. Then, a few days later, I had gotten back home only to find out that another legendary filmmaker, Michelangelo Antonioni, had died within twenty-four hours of Bergman. Well, this year I received a similar shock: on the same day I got home from my family's latest cottage excursion, I read the news that John Hughes unexpectedly died from a heart attack at the age of fifty-nine.

Now, it goes without saying that John Hughes wasn't exactly the same kind of filmmaker as Bergman or Antonioni - he wasn't what you'd typically call an art house director, nor a "visionary" filmmaker. Instead, he shared the same ranks as Woody Allen - he had a distinctive voice that he used, through his films, to tell insightful, resonant stories that truly affected generations of people. As the many other online obits are saying, Hughes helped define the 1980s and pave the way for a new representation and understanding of teenagers in the movies. By simply looking at the handful of films he directed alone, you can easily get a measure of how drastically he changed the concept of the teen movie. I can safely say that he is the person most responsible for making the teen movie what it is today, and it's difficult if not impossible to not see the signs of his influence in others' work in the same area.


The first Hughes film I remember seeing is Ferris Bueller's Day Off, which my cousin Pierre showed me one afternoon at his place. It certainly was an excellent introduction to his work, not only because it contains his trademark sharp humor and great writing, but also because it's just so damn good. Around the same time (or possibly before? - my memory is hazy), Uncle Buck became a favorite of my family's, one that we'd revisit many, many times over the years. I'd later see other classic Hughes films such as The Breakfast Club and Planes, Trains and Automobiles and come to regard him with the same measure of respect and appreciation that so many have already bestowed, and that he so rightfully deserves.


And there is no more apt a time to renew that respect and appreciation than now - and no better way than by revisiting one (or a few) of his many classics. I myself plan to rewatch Ferris Bueller's Day Off as soon as I can on one of my days off from work (because, of course, you can't watch a movie like this one on a day you have to work or go to school!), probably followed up by The Breakfast Club.

Rest in peace, Mr. Hughes.