Kinji Fukusaku
1975
This barn-burner Jitsuroku (true account) flick is a manic four-minute-mile through the grimy bombed-out alleys of postwar Tokyo, and the sleazy smash-and-grab experience of a yakuza's tattooed life. At the center, real life gangster Rikio Ishikawa is played against type by Tetsuya Watari in an aviator-clad downward trajectory towards ignominy and the unyielding surface of the jailyard blacktop.
After a series of costly and violent faux-pas' against other families Rikio is tossed from Tokyo's yakuza network. Serving only one of his ten year banishment he returns from exile freshly hooked on smack. From here, its a jerky and prolonged ending for him and his prostitute-turned-geisha gal, Chieko. Not even an assassination attempt from the spurned bosses, or a few lengthy stints in prison can get rid of cockroach like Rikio who, is finally (mercifully) killed by his own hand after scrawling a farewell on his cell wall: "30 years of madness, what a laugh."
To say it is difficult to identify with the film's protagonist is modest in the extreme. Our hero is a man who rapes his future wife on the first date, and turns an angry blade to any hand offering aid. This extreme behavior leads to some excellent setpieces, particularly Rikio proving he's a "crazy motherfucker" by munching on the bones of his freshly cremated spouse. A tramp junkie with a hand-cannon provides some great moments as well, adding even more chaos to the shit-shit storm surrounding public enemy number one.
Fukusaku's visual sense is as unrelenting as his subject. Shaky cameras mix it up in both haphazard brawls (there's a lot of them), and topless, sake soaked, parties alike. There's a dizzy, canted-angle sense of frustration in the wake of the great war, that only the yakuza seem to profit from. Societal infrastructure only comes across in the forms of the Japanese police and occupying forces, who are painted just as corrupt as the yakuza, yet devoid of a sense of honor and propriety.
Rikio is the embodiment of Japan's postwar rage, masochistically lashing out against a fulfilled fate. While the gang bosses appear to be wise and benevolent bastions of power, they turn to flabbergasted children with Rikio's audacious defiance. This utter disregard and complete disrespect for any kind of authority (even the outsider/underworld variety) is the only way to come to grips with this knockabout gangster in a heroic light. This ultimate uncompromising individual, simultaneously worthy of our pity and disgust, gets his in the end. For all its downbeat subject matter "Graveyard of Honor" never really feels depressing, Fukusaku shoots like a candle alight at both ends, and the penultimate suicidal leap feels strangely like a triumph. What a laugh.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Wassup Rockers
Larry Clark
2005
Larry Clark's latest effort is a pleasant surprise to say the least. While the story once again centers on outsider youth, Clark eschews his tendency towards exploitative sensationalism and shock value tactics in favor of a more honest representation of the joys and difficulties of being a teen. While Clark's fans may find this less inflammatory picture a hokey cop-out, there's still enough hell-raising mayhem to give the film some bite and backbone.
The opening is an intimately awkward video interview with one of the film's infectiously likable non-actor moppets. From here we learn that he and his variously aged friends are a cultural oddity in their south central environs due to their attraction towards skateboarding, punk, and tight pants. The film picks up with the regular routine of a Friday in the life, and follows into a very eventful Saturday in which the kids hop the bus to skate in Beverly Hills. Once the wrong side of the tracks have been crossed things start to go haywire, but the ever charming devil-may-care attitude of skateboard ethos carries the group back home, well most of it anyway.
The most striking element of the film is that all the usual Larry Clark staples are in place here, namely a wayward group of overly sexual, drug abusing teens with a rebellious streak, albeit its a little watered down here. What makes "Wassup Rockers" so successful as opposed to other Clark films is the tone. Whereas "Kids" and "Bully" feel like films made by an adult trying to shock other adults (and entertain kids in the process), here's a film made by an adult with a genuine understanding of his subjects portraying them simply as they are, without excessive stylization. There's all the familiar sex and drugs, but for once its not the focus, and some of it even happens tastefully offscreen. The affection and appreciation for these kids is palpable even as the camera hones in on common teenage foibles, bizarrely grown nipple hairs, and zits.
The visual emphasis on skateboarding is pure eye candy. Clark clearly knows the power of the skate video and elevates it in a gloriously cinematic manner. The score is solid, with a much more unified feel than past Clark films aided in no small part by contributions from the actors' band who have a great little on screen performance themselves. Also the score is pretty much punk-centric giving the film a unified, uncluttered sound.
The film's most apparent misstep comes from an overly long (pre? post? coital) conversation between hispanic skater Kiko and a rich Beverly Hills admirer. The overly sentimental exchange is cute at first, but loses its appeal rapidly once it turns into trite, scripted exposition as Kiko explains life in South Central ("Its complicated out there..."). The picture's party crashing last reel is a bit jarring also, but easy to get into once it starts going. The indictment of Hollywood and L.A. cool is mercilessly funny, and effective in it's unsubtlety. When a none-too-veiled Clint Eastwood lookalike brings out the big guns (literally) and a preposterous Janice Dickinson parodies herself it is, at the very least, worth watching.
While this picture may be a fluke for Larry Clark, its definitely a step in the right direction. "Wassup Rockers" is the best film I've seen so far this year, and it would be nice to think that a director known for bandying pat sensationalism about could also turn to making fun, effective films like this.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2005
Larry Clark's latest effort is a pleasant surprise to say the least. While the story once again centers on outsider youth, Clark eschews his tendency towards exploitative sensationalism and shock value tactics in favor of a more honest representation of the joys and difficulties of being a teen. While Clark's fans may find this less inflammatory picture a hokey cop-out, there's still enough hell-raising mayhem to give the film some bite and backbone.
The opening is an intimately awkward video interview with one of the film's infectiously likable non-actor moppets. From here we learn that he and his variously aged friends are a cultural oddity in their south central environs due to their attraction towards skateboarding, punk, and tight pants. The film picks up with the regular routine of a Friday in the life, and follows into a very eventful Saturday in which the kids hop the bus to skate in Beverly Hills. Once the wrong side of the tracks have been crossed things start to go haywire, but the ever charming devil-may-care attitude of skateboard ethos carries the group back home, well most of it anyway.
The most striking element of the film is that all the usual Larry Clark staples are in place here, namely a wayward group of overly sexual, drug abusing teens with a rebellious streak, albeit its a little watered down here. What makes "Wassup Rockers" so successful as opposed to other Clark films is the tone. Whereas "Kids" and "Bully" feel like films made by an adult trying to shock other adults (and entertain kids in the process), here's a film made by an adult with a genuine understanding of his subjects portraying them simply as they are, without excessive stylization. There's all the familiar sex and drugs, but for once its not the focus, and some of it even happens tastefully offscreen. The affection and appreciation for these kids is palpable even as the camera hones in on common teenage foibles, bizarrely grown nipple hairs, and zits.
The visual emphasis on skateboarding is pure eye candy. Clark clearly knows the power of the skate video and elevates it in a gloriously cinematic manner. The score is solid, with a much more unified feel than past Clark films aided in no small part by contributions from the actors' band who have a great little on screen performance themselves. Also the score is pretty much punk-centric giving the film a unified, uncluttered sound.
The film's most apparent misstep comes from an overly long (pre? post? coital) conversation between hispanic skater Kiko and a rich Beverly Hills admirer. The overly sentimental exchange is cute at first, but loses its appeal rapidly once it turns into trite, scripted exposition as Kiko explains life in South Central ("Its complicated out there..."). The picture's party crashing last reel is a bit jarring also, but easy to get into once it starts going. The indictment of Hollywood and L.A. cool is mercilessly funny, and effective in it's unsubtlety. When a none-too-veiled Clint Eastwood lookalike brings out the big guns (literally) and a preposterous Janice Dickinson parodies herself it is, at the very least, worth watching.
While this picture may be a fluke for Larry Clark, its definitely a step in the right direction. "Wassup Rockers" is the best film I've seen so far this year, and it would be nice to think that a director known for bandying pat sensationalism about could also turn to making fun, effective films like this.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Army of Shadows
Jean-Pierre Melville
1969
While JPM's insider ode to the French Resistance is full of cool spy antics and tense secrecy it feels much more like a funeral dirge, or a reminiscence of a terminally ill loved one.
Lino Ventura plays Gerbier, the head of a tightly knit network of freedom fighters, an underground faction at odds with the Nazi occupation of France. The performances, particularly Ventura's, are above reproach in granting a sense of humanity and quiet determination to this group of plainclothes turned unlikely heroes. Melville revels in picking apart the maddeningly covert lifestyle of the resistance to the point of obsession. This becomes doubly effective in the near nonchalant lensing of the "army's" activities. Indeed, the seemingly documentary like attitude towards such extreme cloak and dagger exploits gives the underground a wildly romantic feel.
What seems most striking about "Army of Shadows" however is the Resistance's utter inability of harry or harass the Germans in any meaningful way. Gerbier's Resistance force seems only capable of two things: existing and getting caught. There are some excellent suspense and action sequences in the film, but nearly all revolve around escaping imprisonment and rescuing imprisoned allies. Uncle Fritz's iron monocle hardly suffers a smudge.
While the shadows may make an army, they are definitely not soldiers, and the portrayals are that of citizens inexperienced at war. While the Nazi's are a one dimensional monster all too capable of atrocious violence, the Resistance lacks that cold military professionalism. This plays out most awkwardly in the underground's difficulty in snuffing out a cherub-faced turncoat, and the usually tough and stern Gerbier is comically humbled in his hesitancy to parachute from an allied British plane. Melville's honest and humane treatment of this group is as touching as it is endearing, and eventually they become very pathetic bunch indeed.
For all its hardy veneer "Army of Shadows" belies a somber sentimentality, albeit a sober one. Its an excellent film that feels like a genuine labor of love, but I wonder what real Resistance fighters would think of it: The men who were bombing German supply trucks and honing hunting rifle crosshairs on grey uniforms.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1969
While JPM's insider ode to the French Resistance is full of cool spy antics and tense secrecy it feels much more like a funeral dirge, or a reminiscence of a terminally ill loved one.
Lino Ventura plays Gerbier, the head of a tightly knit network of freedom fighters, an underground faction at odds with the Nazi occupation of France. The performances, particularly Ventura's, are above reproach in granting a sense of humanity and quiet determination to this group of plainclothes turned unlikely heroes. Melville revels in picking apart the maddeningly covert lifestyle of the resistance to the point of obsession. This becomes doubly effective in the near nonchalant lensing of the "army's" activities. Indeed, the seemingly documentary like attitude towards such extreme cloak and dagger exploits gives the underground a wildly romantic feel.
What seems most striking about "Army of Shadows" however is the Resistance's utter inability of harry or harass the Germans in any meaningful way. Gerbier's Resistance force seems only capable of two things: existing and getting caught. There are some excellent suspense and action sequences in the film, but nearly all revolve around escaping imprisonment and rescuing imprisoned allies. Uncle Fritz's iron monocle hardly suffers a smudge.
While the shadows may make an army, they are definitely not soldiers, and the portrayals are that of citizens inexperienced at war. While the Nazi's are a one dimensional monster all too capable of atrocious violence, the Resistance lacks that cold military professionalism. This plays out most awkwardly in the underground's difficulty in snuffing out a cherub-faced turncoat, and the usually tough and stern Gerbier is comically humbled in his hesitancy to parachute from an allied British plane. Melville's honest and humane treatment of this group is as touching as it is endearing, and eventually they become very pathetic bunch indeed.
For all its hardy veneer "Army of Shadows" belies a somber sentimentality, albeit a sober one. Its an excellent film that feels like a genuine labor of love, but I wonder what real Resistance fighters would think of it: The men who were bombing German supply trucks and honing hunting rifle crosshairs on grey uniforms.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
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