Lady Snowblood (1973)

Sabtu, 07 April 2007

Lady Snowblood (1973)

Lady Snowblood (Toshiya Fujita, 1973)
Japanese Title: Shurayukihime

To claim that Toshiya Fujita's Lady Snowblood is artful cinema, while not totally impossible, is verging on the absurd. The film cannot hide its true ambitions with Fujita's over-the-top visuals and methods. Exploitative as it may seem with its plentiful geysers of blood, Lady Snowblood provides a deep and understanding portrait of a woman whose existence on Earth has been predestined by oppression and violence. Forgo of the usual trappings of samurai cinema of its usually disrespected sort, and you'll discover that the film is quite good --- and deserves better attention than just a mere footnote in Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill films (2003-2004).

Adapted from manga books written by Kazuo Koike (of Lone Wolf and Cub fame), the film starts off with a scene inside a women's prison. A prisoner is suffering through a difficult labor; the irony of the scene is that when the baby is finally released to the world, there is not a notion of happiness or festivity in the air (for sure, even in a women's prison, the miracle of childbirth will cause a stir in the melancholy of the setting and situation). We later learn why the childbirth is no cause for celebration: the baby, named Yuki, has been tasked to continue her mother's mission of vengeance against those who have oppressed her. She was designed, planned, and created for that singular mission, hence, her being called a child of the netherworlds.

Fujita cuts to Yuki, now grown up to be a fine-looking lady (played by Meiko Kaji), donning an immaculate white kimono and holding a purple parasol while walking in an alley. A carriage carrying an important-looking fellow, and guarded by several men, try to get past her. Yuki reveals a samurai blade from her parasol and cuts her way through the bodyguards, then finally, assassinating the boss with a blood-bursting and far-too-easy thrust of her sword. The action is quick (perhaps too quick to be deliciously enjoyed), but very graphic. Fountains of blood spring every time a limb is severed or a body part is punctured. Yuki remains silent and stern; her blade does her talking.

Divided into chapters, with occasional narration by an off-screen presence (who turns out to be a journalist; who somewhat becomes a love interest for the vengeful lady), Lady Snowblood has a literary feel that provides a level of predictability to the exercise: each chapter concerns an inevitable victim of Yuki's vengeance; all culminating in eye-popping bloodbath. Each chapter however contributes an internal strife, an emotional weight to Yuki's inherent burden.

Time has changed her mother's oppressors --- her first victim is now a mere petty gambler; harmless, pitiful, and with a kindly suffering daughter; her final victim is an integral part of her journalist-friend's life. Each vengeful act, each final killing separates her more from humanity --- yet, it is through those dastardly acts that she may achieve atonement and redemption. Yuki's complicated existence on earth, and her predestination as her mother's continued existence for vengeance can only be removed by completing that task, no matter what the consequences may be. Her suffering is quite great, I think --- she has been hypnotized and educated into believing that she belongs to the netherworlds yet in each step through her mission, she realizes her humanity; which makes that final showdown a difficult mental struggle (witness Yuki's unusual lack of lightning fast killing skills in the scene above the party --- there's that moment of remorse, of the possibility of choosing to not go through her task).

The film's end sequence is a telling and very potent scene of cinematic redemption: wounded Yuki (after being stabbed helplessly by the daughter of her first victim) falls into the snowy ground. She cups a handful of snow and puts it in her face which causes her to weep; the sun rises in the background. She finally can feel; she feels that snow (that same snow that was falling when she was born into a life for vengeance) is actually cold, and harsh. Vengeance too, has left her cold, alone, and dying.

******
This post is my contribution to The Bleeding Tree: The Trashy Movie Celebration Blog-A-Thon.

Silip (1985)

Jumat, 06 April 2007

Silip (1985)

Silip (Elwood Perez, 1985)
aka Daughters of Eve

Elwood Perez's Silip has that ball-grabbing opening. It is that sort of opening that immediately catches your attention to either go on with the film with much more curiosity and gusto, or to just leave it be and consider yourself salvaged from further moral damage. The film begins with Simon (Mark Joseph), the village butcher, hitting a live carabao on the head. The carabao collapses as the man keeps on hitting it on the head. It's a savage sequence. Perez makes use of a real live carabao, probably a lot cheaper than an animatronic one (Perez didn't really had to worry about animal rights activists back then) which is later on killed, disemboweled, beheaded and butchered right in front of our eyes. The carabao, supposedly the pet of one of the village boys, is pleaded by the village kids to be spared. Headstrong Simon disagrees and preaches about the practicalities in life: what makes their carabao different from the rest, that the beast will die anyway, and that the village requires that he do the brutal act so that everyone can eat.

Silip (its literal English translation is Peeping) was released outside the Philippines as Daughters of Eve. The film was peddled as bizarre curiosity from an exotic land, a softcore (or described as near-hardcore) pornographic feature; and quite rightly so. The film features an onslaught of sex scenes, both titillating and disturbing, and long stretches of time wherein all we see are naked bodies prancing around the village. Yet there seems to be something else brewing beneath the film's flesh-colored celluloid other than mere titillation. Silip is very rebellious in its themes and even in its production.

Made in 1985 during the decline of Ferdinand Marcos' dictatorship in the Philippines, Silip was one among the many soft-core to hard-core (locally referred to as pene films because it featured actual penetration) that sneaked through the uncharacteristic laxity of the local censors. Unusually though, Silip, unlike other sex-themed features like Peque Gallaga's Scorpio Nights(1985) , did not try to dent governmental institutions or just to make a quick buck out of the nation-wide depression and dissent, but instead sought to arouse questioning of that other important and prominent institution in the Philippines, the Catholic Church.

The film features two sisters, Tonya (Maria Isabel Lopez) and Selda (Sarsi Emmanuelle, one third of the trio of sexy actresses named by their managers after soft drinks). Tonya teaches catechism to the children of the village while the parish priest is recuperating from an illness in another town. However, Tonya has a secret sexual attraction for Simon, who is currently bedding Maria (Myra Manibog, whose surname an obvious pun on the Tagalog word for "horny"), elder sister of the young lad from the opening (now holding a grudge against Simon for killing his carabao, and having sex with his sister).

Selda just came home from the city with an American lover. She's the exact opposite of Tonya as her views on sex is more liberal and less guilt-filled. Amidst the apparent disagreement between the two, a similarity surfaces: that both of them are in a state of heat. Tonya tries to ease the lust by rubbing herself with salt or sand while Selda, on the other hand, beds any man she sees while desperately eying Simon.

Scripted by Ricky Lee, who has achieved revered status as the Philippines' best film scribe, the film features several sequences of remarkable bravura. Perez, who alongside the late Joey Gosiengfiao has ushered in Philippine films with cult exploitative flavor, knows the value of shock. Silip may in fact be regarded as numerous eye-opening and sweat-producing scenes stringed together by drab and lengthy connectors; which is probably why the film feels far too long. The opening scene can only be topped by the film's astounding conclusion: a gang rape that appears to be a sweaty, greasy and undoubtedly un-arousing orgy inside a bamboo shanty. Each big scene is an attack on valued principles and norms of propriety; it's actually quite easier to digest the film as mere exploitation than actual art. Art dictates a semblance of truth while exploitation is for mere sensual pleasuring.

The inclusion of religiosity within the context of the characters' flesh-starved existence complicates matters. It seems to beg the question of that difficult balancing act of rigid faith and the natural call of the flesh. It definitely is not a masterpiece as Perez's filmmaking is quite too elementary to raise the film's level to heaven heights. However, it cannot be considered as mere curiosity, or even definitive of Philippine cinema during that era of governmental turmoil and public discontent. The film is Pasolini-esque in its irreverence and Bunuel-esque in its social absurdity.

******
This post is my contribution to The Bleeding Tree: The Trashy Movie Celebration Blog-A-Thon.

Mondo Macabro has done an excellent job in restoring this unique film. Previously, one can only view this film, dubbed in English and subtitled in Greek, through the many bootlegs that roam the black market and the internet but with the loving dedication of the guys behind Mondo Macabro, we have with us a 2-DVD set, with the original Tagalog track and a bevy of extra features.

Tuli (2005)

Tuli (2005)

Tuli (Auraeus Solito, 2005)
English Title: Circumcision

After the introduction of Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros (The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros, 2005) to appreciative crowds during the 1st Cinamalaya Film Festival, director Auraeus Solito would release Tuli (Circumcision), his first time working under a studio (Viva Films, under its digital filmmaking branch), a mere few months after in competition in the Cinemanila Film Festival. The film would win the top prize, but would be banned from public consumption by the mercurial local censors board. While Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros is wowing critics and audiences worldwide, Tuli is left unseen, underappreciated, and almost forgotten. Released locally on DVD (which brandishes the infamous censoring and its lesbian love angle as advertising come-on's), Tuli would later on follow the footsteps of its fabulous elder brother. The film has since been screened in Sundance, Berlin (where it won the NETPAC prize), and other festival cities.

It's completely different from Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros. It is situated in an unnamed forest village wherein a mixture of Catholicism and native mysticism is still strong. It withdraws from the urban realism of Manila slums, and instead develops a folkloric touch to the narrative. It's also less colorful, due to the fact that first, Solito chose to shoot the film in an old sepia look which further enunciates the timelessness or the removal from modernist reality, and second, there's a lot less humor --- no Maxie and friends sashaying in beauty pageant costumes.
Tuli has a marvelous opening: the village circumciser (Bembol Roco) prepares a group of kids to their circumcision rituals. He asks these kids to jump into the stream, supposedly to soften their foreskins. Solito captures these innocent kids like botticelli angels floating underwater; with special loving attention to their manhoods --- presumably the last they'll see them in that particular state. The circumciser, with the help of his daughter, one by one, circumcises each kid. The ritual is interesting: he asks for their names, makes them chew on guava leaves before hitting the foreskin with a handmade instrument, then forces them to spit the mixture of saliva and guava leaves on the fresh wounds.

The film proceeds years after, Daisy (Desiree del Valle), the circumciser's daugher, has grown up to be a beautiful lady. The same group of kids who got circumcized during the film's opening have become men; one (Luis Alandy) dutifully serenades Daisy nightly (giving the circumciser the idea of marrying the two) while another (Ping Medina) impregnates local lass Botchok (Vanna Garcia) before leaving her permanently. Nanding (Carlo Aquino), the grandson of the local shaman, is the only man in town who is uncircumcized --- causing him to be the point of jokes of his peers. In that village of traditional customs and patriarchal norms, Daisy seeks to rebel, first from her father's daily fits of drunken anger, and lastly from that village's own state of hypocritical contentedness.

The screenplay, written by Jimmy Flores (Solito' batchmate during his Mowelfund days), won first prize in a local screenwriting contest. It is considerably complex with its detailed implications of relationships within the village (the circumciser being forcedly married thus have very little or no love for his daughter; the close-knitedness links of each family). Yet, I cannot grasp any psychological maturity among the characters. Some of the characters inhabit a deluded state (for instance Nanding, whose goals in achieving his grandfather's agimat seems to be a mere afterthought rather than an actual plotpoint), with reasonings of questionable integrity (Botchok suddenly comes up with the idea of having a baby to ease Daisy's mother's sufferings). The screenplay's complexity is its downfall; it addresses too many issues that much needed humor, or even essential sprinkles of possibly humanity, are foregone.

While Flores struggles to balance his tale, Solito lends a helping hand in adding credibility to such. Solito's style inflicts a hint of mysticism to the familiar melodramatic ordeals. Instead of mere nipa huts and traditional passion plays, he adds interestingly placed mosquito nettings (to make the light pass through with a lot more sensual flair) or zealously crafted materials (observe the backgrounds, or even the costumes) that would presumably be unavailable to any typical villae. In Solito's eyes, Flores' village is no ordinary village --- it is that imaginary village of sexual aches that try to rebel in a very traditional Filipino context of what should and what should not be.

The film's plot flutters like a forgettable excuse to tell Solito's story --- of confrontation to tradition, and of the many possibilities of love within any cultural context. It is with that mindset that I see Tuli as a worthy successor to Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros' accolades. Although largely different in style, in mood, and in setting, there's that undeniable link that connects the two films together.

Ten Canoes (2006)

Kamis, 05 April 2007

Ten Canoes (2006)

Ten Canoes (Rolf de Heer & Peter Djigirr, 2006)

The title is derived from a black and white photograph by Dr. Donald Thompson, an anthropologist who studied the aborigines of the Arafura Swamp in the mid 30's. The photograph which was shown to director Rolf de Heer by iconic aboriginal actor David Gulpilil showcases aboriginal men aboard canoes made out of the bark of trees, presumably on an expedition to hunt geese and their eggs.

The film, through the expert eyes of cinematographer Ian Jones, would mimic the serene beauty of those photographs. De Heer would make sure that there would be a still moment; a moment of understated simplistic beauty that can attest to the undervalued magnificence of this culture --- men atop makeshift platforms, a tense posture before the releasing of a hunting spear, men aboard their canoes patiently observing the swamp for geese or crocodiles.

The goosehunt would take a number of days and several men from different camps, presenting an opportunity to tell an ancient story. The story, about a warrior, his three wives, and his wife-less and jealous younger brother, is told from an older brother to his wife-less younger brother, who he suspects is jealous of his three wives. The story is patiently narrated; composed of sprinkles of native mythology yet more importantly, an invaluable lesson to the younger brother. Paced within their mundane hunt, de Heer visualizes the ancient tale in full color and from that tale, even mini-tales (stemming from the highly imaginative minds of the aborigines) burst into life.

Ten Canoes is undeniably gorgeous. The shifting from black and white to color, the convincing details of the Arafura Swamp, the rare portrait to this underappreciated culture --- all these are painted by de Heer with loving and respecting artistry. However, beyond the undeniably good filmmaking, is the even better storytelling. There would be times in the film wherein I would close my eyes, and satisfiedly digest David Gulpilil's jovial narration. The lack of visuals didn't hurt the experience as mixed with the atmospheric sound details (the insects, water, plants aural contributions) and the screenplay's method of appropriating the importance of oral tradition in storytelling would nonetheless complete everything. Ten Canoes is a film wherein the visuals are secondary or merely complementary to the narrative; it's quite very unique.

It is not exoticized; instead, the tale is appreciative of cultural differences. The narrator makes a joke right in the beginning, convincing us that the tale is from a faraway land and from long ago, and then recants by telling us that the story is not like that, but a story about his culture. There's a sense that in a world of cultures where everyone is given an opportunity to tell their respective stories, that representative from Aboriginal Australia chose to tell this one, not as a tale that would arouse mere curiosity or interest, but as a tale that would fit other worldy tales.

There's no arbitrary sense of invasion (as compared to other films that detail marginalized cultures --- like Mel Gibson's Apocalypto (2006) or even harmless tributes like Robert Flaherty's Nanook of the North (1922) or much more recently Zacharias Kunuk's Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner (2001)). Ten Canoes is a film that feels so natural in its setting, its methods, and its choices in storytelling that there's a sense of belonging, of a welcoming invitation to immerse oneself to the culture, and not being merely extraneous viewers.

Django (1966)

Rabu, 04 April 2007

Django (1966)

Django (Sergio Corbucci, 1966)

The film's opening has achieved a certain legendary status. Greeted with a sense of prophetic foreboding by an over-the-top song set in the tune of the film's musical score (composed by Luis Enríquez Bacalov), the titular hero (played by Franco Nero) drags a wooden coffin through a muddy valley. Atop a cliff, he witnesses a band of Mexican bandits whipping a prostitute Maria (Loredana Nusciak), before being killed by a separate band of cultic racist soldiers who opt to burn the prostitute in a red-tagged cross instead. Showcasing his nimble fingers and his ability for gunslinging, Django kills each and every one of the girl's tormentor, rescues the girl, and brings her to safety in a ghost town inhabited by prostitutes and their kind-hearted brothel-owner.

Django finds himself in the middle of an ongoing feud between the Mexican vigilantes under General Hugo (José Bódalo), and the cultic gringo army led by Major Jackson (Eduardo Fajardo). We learn from his trousers and certain hints that Django is a former Yankee soldier who would later turn into a soldier of fortune, using his talents and techniques to gain the amount of gold to leave (or metaphorically bury) the gunslinging Django of old. Furthermore, Django has a history with the respective leaders of the opposing camps. He once saved General Hugo from impending death while Major Jackson killed his wife, while he was away fighting for the Union. Their fates again intertwine in that ghost town. Is there redemption for the morally questionable Django?

Nero's Django is stonecold. He does not afford any hint of emotionality in his exterior, even his striking blue eyes declare a shallowness that prevents character study. Nero's Django is more calculating than anything --- from the start (wherein he drags a prostitute and a coffin to that ghost town) to near the end, everything seems to be a product of his devious plans. Yet upon the unintended passing of fate and destiny, of awkward romanticism, Django's plans fall flat and he has to struggle to again take control of his world.

It is that unintended glance at the anti-hero's humanity that keeps the film riveting. He starts out indestructible; he even becomes more superhuman when he reveals his secret weapon --- yet in a cruel twist of coincidence and accident, he is suddenly left with a choice to die with his conceived plans or to save himself and go with the spirit of the frontier; be swept away by that wind of possible new romance. It's nice in it's simplicity; that spark of hope for the ambiguous Django shines bright in the heap of dead bodies and bullets.

Django is considered as the seminal spaghetti western. It ushered in a horde of sequels (all, except for one, are unrecognized by Sergio Corbucci), and likeminded films. Corbucci, himself, would remain in the genre and would later on craft even better films (like The Great Silence (1968)). Along with Sergio Leone (Corbucci served as assistant director in A Fistful of Dollars (1964)), Corbucci stands as a figurehead for European-made westerns, often considered lesser (described as B-type) equivalents of the American-made ones. Spaghetti westerns are pulpier, more visceral, with characters whose interests are not necessarily indicative of human nature (quite animalistic in fact --- sex, greed, vengeance). In that way, spaghetti westerns forego of those wistful ideologies and virtues of the frontierland and has exchanged it with frank fatalism with blood, violence, and multiplying body counts. Django, even more than Leone's A Fistful of Dollars (although I prefer Leone's film), establishes the staple of the genre.

Wonderland (1999)

Wonderland (1999)

Wonderland (Michael Winterbottom, 1999)

Wonderland is a lovely film, probably director Michael Winterbottom's best film to date. It's like looking at a well-kept salt water aquarium, where the individual fishes are all very interesting to look at; their interactions among themselves, with other species, and their environment, transport you into a hypnotic state of static observation. The aquarium is modern London; the different kinds of fishes are the citizens of different races and denominations; the rocks, corals and plastic structures are the tenements, the bars, the restaurants.

When viewing the artifacts swimming inside an aquarium, you tend to quietly observe a favorite subject --- probably a family of fishes doing something uniquely engrossing. Yet at times your eyes would follow another fish, but then quickly get back to your original subjects. Winterbottom treats his characters the same way; his subjects, a London family and their closely connected acquaintances, are painted with pathos, yet most of the time, his camera (under the direction of cinematographer Sean Bobbitt) would stop to peer at the faces of other citizens (the expectant date, the immigrant beggars, the ravenous football fans, the onlookers of the fireworks display). It's a worthwhile endeavor. Winterbottom seems to be saying that his characters aren't living inside a bubble; that they are connected in that intricate emotional and social web of other middle and lower class Londoners; that all these other faces Winterbottom lovingly gives time to have their own stories to tell, probably even graver than his subjects.

Winterbottom tells their stories with poignant accuracy. The film is set on a specific long weekend (Thursday to Monday morning) wherein a host of events coincidentally happens. He starts everything off with a botched blind date. Nadia (Gina McKee) cleverly eases her way from an uninteresting date. She eventually ends her Thursday night with a dozen replies from her message to a dating service; fervently hoping to hook up with that perfect date. Nadia's two sisters are Debbie (Shirley Henderson) and Molly (Molly Parker). Debbie is a beautician who singlehandedly takes care of his pre-teen son as the father (Ian Hart) is completely immature. Molly is very pregnant with her first child with husband (John Simm), who suddenly feels an unbearable anxiety with the coming of another mouth to feed.

By the morning of Friday, we get a sense of these characters' problems; Winterbottom further deepens their histories, their pains, and their longings. It's an investment that we're willing to make. We learn of these sisters' parents (Jack Shepherd and Kika Markham), an aging couple whose married life is being snatched away by daily bingo games, sleepless dogbark-filled nights, and flirtatious drunken dances with a next-door neighbor. There are sideplots (involving the lonesome son of the next-door neighbor and a couple on a romantic getaway) that will only eventually find meaning and satisfactory connections by the film's end.

Winterbottom keeps you drawn. He infrequently injects certain scenes with the music of Michael Nyman, usually during the night wherein Bobbitt's grainy cinematography are most intense, and stylized with fast-forwards, slow-motions that enunciate internal happiness or sorrow. While the film has an overall feel of depressing realism, it is balanced with the normal and natural joys of life --- childbirth, infatuation, motherhood, a long-awaited reunion. It's a balancing act that respects the depth and possibilities of reality; there are no ill-conceived literary connectors as mostly used by Iñárritu or fellow wannabes. The film offers a satisfying look at London life; and in that aquarium Winterbottom builds for us, there are no plastic-made beautiful mermaids, lavish windmills and castles. Just reality, hard-hitting, difficult to digest, but ultimately redemptive and worth it.

Scoop (2006)

Minggu, 01 April 2007

Scoop (2006)

Scoop (Woody Allen, 2006)

In a scene in Scoop, Woody Allen's character, neurotic magician Sid Waterman, tells Scarlett Johansson's character, journalism student Sondra Pransky, that his wife left him because he never grew up, never matured. Physically, Allen shows signs of maturity --- the white and grey hairs, the numerous wrinkles and his even more diminutive frame. Artistically, he seems to have stagnated; he never grew up and aside from the few surprising good works he's done in recent years, there's nothing really exciting, or defining as his past works like Annie Hall (1977) or The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985). Scoop is no different; it's drab, barely entertaining, and just a tad interesting.

It's a murder mystery set in London. It actually starts quite well: a famous Brit journalist (Ian McShane) has just died and while traversing the river to hell (heaven? hell no, with these journalist's vicious means of getting a scoop?), gets a reliable information from a fellow deceased that the son of a lord might be the dreaded Tarot Card Murderer. Death is no hindrance to the journalist to unravel a possible scoop, so he escapes death; contacts Sondra, the amateur journalist, while inside one of Sid's magic boxes and tells her everything he knows. Sondra, with the help of Sid, comes up with a plan to uncover the dark secrets of the suspected murderer Peter Lyman (Hugh Jackman).

Allen again inhabits his usual neurotic character; yet in London wherein restraint and decorum are characteristic qualities, his quirks and usual monologues are ungainly and unimpressive. He clowns around the beautiful locales and among the demure upper class without much comedic effect, only a slightly absurdist touch, mostly unintended. Johansson fares much worse. She dons a pair of spectacles and brandishes her retainers; confidently showing off her transformation from naive bombshell of former roles to this nutty, outgoing, and manipulative Allen-esque femme. The only problem is that there seems to be no smooth transformation; Johansson mumbles her dialogue, she has no talent for physical comedy, and strives too hard to inhabit the same neurosis Allen's character has, unsuccessfully.

While it's a patent lack for comedy that betrays Johansson, it is also Allen's writing that's at fault. Allen conceives Sondra as a female version of his offscreen and onscreen self. Allen's obsession for Johansson is quite apparent --- the conversations between them tend to prolong endlessly. These exchanges aren't necessarily helpful to the plot, nor are they always funny (mostly amusing, to be honest), but there's a certain sense that they have to be there to satisfy Allen's ego; that there might exist a chemistry between him and Johansson, which sadly isn't true.

While the murder mystery stretches the imagination to a great extent, I would've preferred that believability remain intact. However, in Allen's mind, logic is thrown out the window to satisfy his cinematic and narrative quirks. A Brooklyn magician with absolutely no sense of stage finesse successfully lands a gig in London; a wealthy up-and-coming political figure of semi-royal background befriends and romantizes a girl she hardly knows, at a whim; among others. The film is really quite a mess; it's imaginative at times but fails in a way that is already very predictable with Allen.