Punch 
2011 / Lee Han > Punch is not a blockbuster. It's about a poor high school kid growing up with a disabled father hellbent on dancing at a cabaret. It's about mothers and being an outsider in a closed off world. It's about fathers and sons and teachers and students. Most importantly, it's about knowing that one cannot separate all these, that in the evermore complicated world we live in, everything converges at once, and we must learn to find solace in such traffic. And yet, maybe that's why the film sold 5.3 million tickets in South Korea (or a tenth of the population). In every aspect of the film, there's something to identify with. And while Punch isn't glossy, Lee's direction has shadows of Ozu's Floating Weeds in its relatively gentle approach to otherwise serious matters.
Centered around a subdued effort by Yoo Ah-in, who himself was a drop out and rose through the ranks as an independent actor, Punch successfully converges the aforementioned topics into a calming, enjoyable piece of work that touches upon, most interestingly but within respectable context, the institution of international marriage. Wan-deuk, the film's Korean namesake, discovers that his mother is Filipino. Combined with a hunchbacked father, the duo is a troubling mix for any teenager. Yet with the guidance of a teacher (who also happens to be his next door neighbour), he pushes through while learning some kickboxing along the way. At its weakest, it's charming. At its strongest, Punch exposes a sizable majority of the Korean population to the optimistic end of broken homes. All this being said, it does one thing more...
Choi Min-sik (Oldboy), Song Kang-ho (Memories of Murder) and Sol Kyung-gu (Peppermint Candy): For the last decade plus, these three have been the male triumvirate of Korean cinema. Their range, skill and ability to carry films even with minimal screentime have been a gift to moviegoers, but now we must work on adding a fourth: Kim Yun-seok. Active throughout the 2000s, Kim truly broke out as the morally melted cop-slash-pimp in Na Hong-jin's The Chaser in 2008. He followed that up with a grinding, fearless performance in Na's follow-up, The Yellow Sea, where he's a Korean gangster from across the waters. And now comes his turn as an enigmatic teacher whose moral compass seems a bit off. It's a role that's vastly different from the hard-edged nature of his previously noted efforts, but it's one that he owns. Yoo and Kim's back-and-forth rapport is a joy to watch and keeps the film from becoming an out-and-out melodrama.
To fully capture the impact of Punch in the Korean mindset, it should been noted that Filipino immigrant Jasmine Lee, who plays Wan-deuk's mother, has been shortlisted by the majority-controlling Saenuri Party as a potential candidate. Whether this is smoke and fog doesn't matter. The fact that this is even a possibility is significant in Korean culture and politics and speaks to the impact of the film.
Norwegian Wood 
2010 / Anh Hung Tran > In Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami crafted the college years of Holden Caulfield—a spirit of universal self-identification that made the novel a cult favorite for those who felt something was missing in their lives. It broke through traditional boundaries and expectations of love and set many of us upon a quest to find our own Midori. But I've not found her in Tran's adaptation. In her portrayal, Kiko Mizuhara is too sweet. The bite that gave Midori her allure just isn't here. And that, in itself, is a failure that I cannot look past.
Those who haven't read the novel may like—and even love—Norwegian Wood. With elegant, graceful panning shots, the cinematography is exquisitely done by In the Mood for Love's Mark Li. The score, by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood, is haunting but lovely and works in-step with Li's cameras. And Anh Hung Tran is still, by consensus, considered the best director to ever come out of Vietnam. The attention to detail Tran brought to the project is evident in nearly all aspects of the film, but ultimately, the issue is one of (mis)interpretation.
This is where it falls apart for those who cherish the book. The film simply fails to capture the wonder of Toru Watanabe, the way he's an everyman. There's simply too much focus on his relationship with Naoko wherein I've always considered his relationships with Midori as well as Nagasawa—who effectively works as a foil—to be more important. Lost amidst this is the most beautiful and tragic character of all: Hatsumi. What I've always considered my favorite passage (includes minor spoilers) is a passing narration. For some, this won't matter, but for me, this was the ultimate dealbreaker. As far as I'm concerned, no adaptation of Norwegian Wood can succeed without Hatsumi's poignance.
All in all, Norwegian Wood can be affecting, but it's more of a rumination upon the book: A lot of set pieces and lingering looks while lacking the work's full, transformative power. But for obsessive Murakami fans, it's also possible that this is the best adaptation we'll ever get.
Swordsmen
2011 / Peter Chan > Finally, something with flavor: After a series of bland, bloated martial arts/war epics from mainland China, Swordsmen (or Wu Xia, as it was called at its Cannes premiere) arrives with just enough salt to tend the wound. Half-police procedural and half-actioner, Chan makes good in building depth so that we care about what's behind the fighting. As Takeshi Kaneshiro's detective unveils the mystery of Donnie Yen, a common villager with a dubious past, it's hard not to think of this as a Chinese take on Out of the Past and A History of Violence. Then again, it's not so much that the film does anything new, but rather that it succeeds in being poignant, focused and rarely tries to hide behind the melodrama that has plagued its peers. Brooding and often brutal, it's a much-needed kick into an otherwise stagnating genre.
Fury
1936 / Fritz Lang > In cinema, lynch mobs are so often associated with the treatment of blacks in the South that we forget how such mentality exists across all of society. From To Kill a Mockingbird to The Ox-Bow Incident, we can note that it's just human nature to let our personal beliefs slide when coerced into a majority. Whether it's right or not, that's what ends up being for debate. Should one persecute only the leaders of a mob or everyone involved, no matter how little their contribution? In Lang's first film in the United States after fleeing Nazi Germany, he embodies this metaphor for his homeland with Spencer Tracy at the forefront. Fury is straight-forward, book-ended by just enough sentimentality to give context to the proceedings. The moral preaching is kept to a minimum, which allows the film to breathe in the minds of viewers after it concludes. Ultimately, when held up against the backdrop of what happened during the Third Reich, the film goes beyond entertainment and caps a perfect beginning to Lang's Hollywood career.
Countdown 
2011 / Huh Jong-ho > A family melodrama wrapped inside another melodrama about society's inability to cope with mental disabilities sprinkled with some bloated action and uninteresting, stereotypical characters who are part-time criminals but generally okay-to-good people. Actually, one of them is a "bad" guy, though he's kind enough to numb your legs before he breaks them. Novel, right? But let's not kid ourselves: Countdown has basically no rhyme or reason to exist, and in the process, wastes a performance by the great Jeon Do-yeon (winner of Best Actress at Cannes in 2007 for Lee Chang-dong's Secret Sunshine) and a stoic but relatively enjoyable Jeong Jae-yeong. This is, in many ways, the worst of Korean cinema: Mediocre, repetitive, unimaginative—the counterpart to Hollywood's run-of-the-mill blockbusters.
The Skin I Live In
2011 / Pedro Almodóvar > Almodóvar revels in complex storytelling, and there's also a kind of magic that emanates from his characters who generally make the journeys quite compelling. But The Skin I Live In fails on both fronts: Not only do we not care about anyone, the plot also feels flat, dated and reaches for an understanding that is too obvious, too easy and too cute. While we do get one of those subtle twists that the director is so keen on, it's not one that really satisfies. Instead, it comes off awkward, lazy and arguably unnecessary. These combinations lead to what is, to date, the most unsatisfying experience from the acclaimed filmmaker. While 2009's Broken Embraces was a very enjoyable homage to the classic telenovela, his overall quality of output has been decreasing since the excellent Talk to Her in 2002. One could even argue that, though he tries to show otherwise, he has become safe.
Contagion 
2011 / Steven Soderbergh > In 1965, Peter Watkins' The War Game faux-documented, in a brutally honest manner, a nuclear bombing and the fallout thereafter. It was timely and impacted people on a ground level, knowing that such an attack was entirely possible at the height of the Cold War. Soderbergh attempts to do the same with a deadly virus of unknown origin—as the term "biochemical weapon" is almost a mainstay in the paranoid media—but opts also to inject small subplots of great humanity into the the film's creases. Therein lies the problem: These stories dilute Contagion's effectiveness as a cold-blooded cautionary tale. While Cliff Martinez' chilling score does wonders to bring us into this world that we hope never exists, the script's near-black and white morality soon jilts our attention. After a while, everything becomes a happy-go-lucky caricature of who we should be as people instead of a deeper dissection of culture in the midst of a tragic outbreak.
Hugo
2011 / Martin Scorsese > As both an elegy and a celebration of cinema, Hugo is wonderful. But as a composition, the film meanders into side stories of no real consequence without ever fully realizing its promise to the audience: The adventure simply does not satisfy. Once again, Scorsese's biggest weakness remains glaring: The man's oeuvre is filled with by-the-numbers storytelling (often with stunning—and dependent—set pieces) that work because the stories themselves are very tightly constructed to begin with. This one isn't. While the heart is warmed in the manner a family film ought to, the editing lacks a certain tightness to genuinely enthrall us all the way through.
Then there's the 3D: Many have suggested Scorsese's utilization of the technology is the best to date, including James Cameron himself. But aside from some of the glowing 1920s Parisian scenery and the gleeful finale that only the most hardcore of film enthusiasts will really appreciate, the additional dimension adds little to the experience. It is a technology that has once again failed to justify both its box office premium as well as the bulky, uncomfortable accessory it depends on.
After Hours 
1985 / Martin Scorsese > Dated and often purposefully silly, After Hours is effectively Scorsese's love letter to 1980s New York, or as the film's working title would aptly have declared it, A Night in SoHo. For those, like myself, who missed the grungy glamour that made the area south of Houston Street such a haven to artists, this is a way to travel back in time. It's incredible to compare the grimy, scuzzy streets of yesteryear to the buzzing, higher-end commercial district it is now. But aside from that, it's a bit ho-hum. Centered around a typical office worker's overnight misadventures, the film has its fair share of characters, of which all but one work on the periphery. This is not the type of extraordinary journey we expect out of Scorsese, but rather a small detour where he's able to create a work of art that's filled with some small joys even if they're short of a full circle in the end.
Lolita 
1962 / Stanley Kubrick > Say what you want about the Hays Code, but Lolita is a clear example of where it worked wonders: Kubrick was forced to adapt Nabokov's classic for the screen with a level of creative subtlety that allowed its sexual proclivity to be hidden in plain sight. As the word "Lolita" itself has become part of our everyday vocabulary, it's now nearly impossible to go into the film with any expectation of shock. Thus the film not doling around on the erotic and, instead, focusing on the madman-at-hand actually benefits the storytelling. Admittedly, it lacks the in-depth analysis of Humbert Humbert, played so tautly by James Mason, but what it leaves to our imagination is much more preferable. We're allowed to fill in the gaps of what kind of background forces upon an older man the preference of younger, so-called "nymphettes" instead of women of similar age.
Unlike the novel, which is written from the viewpoint of a highly unreliable, subjective narrator, the film takes a couple of steps back but still keeps us within arms' reach of the situation. Across from Mason, 16-year-old Sue Lyon's performance as the titular character is astounding in its sophistication. It's hard not to wonder if she's an older actress playing the part of the 14-year-old, but such is the effectiveness of her "range" that has the feel of anywhere from 13 to 25. All the while, there's something very contained in her sensibilities that makes us wonder how much of what we perceive in the film is morally apt. Nabokov was considerably more black and white about Humbert's nature of obsession, but Kubrick's not nearly as judgmental. And the film is better for it—even with Dr. Strangelove's forceful and unnecessary cameo.
Margin Call
2011 / J.C. Chandor > Actual Bloomberg terminals and financial terminology without explanations: Have we come this far in cinema? Can we actually approach Wall Street without caricaturing it? Chandor's one-night-before-the-crisis take of a fictional Bear Stearns-wannabe is a giant step in filmmaking. Finally, we have a thoughtful, deliberate film about the crisis without condescension or a moral high-ground. Amidst the cries of crowds at Occupy Wherever, we are charmed with a thriller that allows us to track the moment of discovery to the impending fallout, all while focusing on the humanity of the situation. It doesn't matter whether one is a socialist or a capitalist, the reality is that truth often gets pounded by hearsay as long as it serves a greater purpose. But every story has two sides, and Margin Call does its damnedest to tell both. Were it not for the gravely miscast Demi Moore and slightly heavy expository dialogue, this could really have been one for the books. Still, the film is a must-see for anyone trying to dig into the psyche of those who stood at the foundation of a crisis that some will never forgive.
Drive 
2011 / Nicolas Winding Refn > The worst thing about Drive is the hideous, misuse of Mistral during the credits. You sit there, as Ryan Gosling drives into the night, wondering if you've been transported to a grittier version of Miami Vice. Maybe genre films remain an insular interest because the kitsch factor is too embedded in their culture? After all, this is the font that graced the intro of television's Night Court.
But then the film unfolds. And sets up. And takes off. And during this ride, which can effectively be described as a classic noir tale with a penchant for real violence, there is nary a hole that can be poked. Every second is necessary, every shot elegant, every piece of music supports the action on the screen. Every question normally asked of a film, this one answers either with some level of extrapolation or faith in its characters. Gosling, credited simply as "Driver," is reminiscent of Clint Eastwood's The Man with No Name. We gradually discover over time that he's exactly the kind of person missing in 99% of Hollywood cinema: One that doesn't cop out. That, in itself, is a tremendous victory.
As those who've watched his Pusher trilogy as well Tom Hardy's brilliant, psychotic coming-out party in Bronson can testify, Winding Refn is a momentous talent. In fact, the lyrics of Kavinsky and Lovefoxxx's "Nightcall," which overtures the opening sequence, speaks of both the director as well as Gosling's Driver: There's something about you, it's hard to explain. They're talking about you, boy, like you're still the same. In short: They are not to be underestimated. Drive shows the maturation of Winding Refn as a controlled director, Gosling as an action star and together they've come up with a fine piece of entertainment that's a beauty to look at, satisfying to watch and evocative enough to remember.
M
M by Fritz Lang represents 1931 in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film from each year since 1921.
1931 / Fritz Lang > How does M hold up to the test of time over similar cinema of the past (and recent times) that eventually fade from memory? Unlike others in the genre which have lost their luster due to overused plot twists, a simple sense of age or technical awkwardness, M stands firm because Lang's filming is claustrophobic but not overdone. His storytelling is imaginative but coherent. His treatment of the villain is respectful but not apologetic. In fact, it still supersedes most of its successors in terms of intelligence and overall composition.
Nowadays, tension in serial killer films seem necessary to be represented throughout the running time. However, in M, the great beauty is in its objectivity. The serial killer himself—and his capture—is only part of the game. The cops and robbers, the bystanders and victims, they all play a part in the total landscape without overshadowing the other. Moreover, it's impossible not to see what it's influenced (most notably, in my mind, was Sympathy for Lady Vengeance). Increasingly, this is one of the few classics where a modern remake would be interesting just to see if 80 years of technology and know-how could actually trump the original.
Originally posted on July 10, 2007 before inclusion into (Through Time).
Let the Right One In
Let the Right One In by Tomas Alfredson is the yearly favorite from 2008 as listed in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film of each year from 1921 to the present.
2008 / Tomas Alfredson > Ever since I first saw this by happenstance at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2008, it's been stuck in my mind. Coming of age stories tend to hold a constant place in my heart, but the choicest of these only float around once in while. Each has its own little niche: Rushmore channeled overachievement and the quirkiness of Wes Anderson, Hana and Alice dove into the teenage dramatics of Shunji Iwai and Let the Right One In somehow molds youth, alienation and things that go bump in the night into one cohesive jolt. Alfredson has created a film rooted in a dark loneliness and an even darker elegance. Every scene and detail is necessary, and even those that come across borderline-kitschy end up making sense in context.
But let's get the whole vampire bit cleared: This isn't one of those bloodsucking genre films that go by-the-book in their treatment of the Draculan descendants. Just like Cloverfield was an episode of The O.C. with a monster in it, Let the Right One In is a coming-of-age love story that happens to include someone with a penchant for blood. It's a surprisingly tactful method of curving an otherwise generic story into one of the year's best films. Rarely does the script take the viewer's intelligence for granted: myths are mostly hinted at, the gory visuals kept minimal and the camera angles respect our ability to extrapolate. The last sequence at the pool? It includes arguably the best scene in film from 2008. When Oskar's eyes open up, it's almost perfect.
Originally posted on March 12, 2009 before inclusion into (Through Time).
Tekkon Kinkreet 
Tekkon Kinkreet by Michael Arias is the yearly favorite from 2006 as listed in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film of each year from 1921 to the present.
2006 / Michael Arias > Tekkon Kinkreet paints a portrait of adolescence with the right pigments and shades, with beauty and sorrow, loneliness and anger all packed into tight spaces that refuse to go away once the credits roll. Arias and Studio 4°C's inventive style fits the bill perfectly, with its depiction of the fictional Treasure Town's grimy streets and the two youthful protagonists' parkour-style street running. But it's not just about how pretty it all is. The writing is superb, capturing brotherhood in a way that's neither sensationalist nor ideal. Violence and loyalty are two thematic elements that carry the film from beginning to end: The former as a medium by which to prove the latter. It's got the kind of gutsiness that can provoke the imagination as well as the heart.
Originally posted on October 6, 2008 before inclusion into (Through Time).
Vengeance is Mine
Vengeance is Mine by Shohei Imamura is the yearly favorite from 1979 as listed in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film of each year from 1921 to the present.
1979 / Shohei Imamura > For all the serial killer stories that have ever been put on the silver screen, none have approached the subject in a manner as blankly as this. Vengeance is Mine is a story about love—not that of a man and a woman, but about a human being vs. society. The way the dominoes fall don’t often go as planned, and sometimes killing a stranger and sticking his cold, dead body in the closet is necessary. For Iwao Enokizu, this is neither good nor bad. It is an action that complements his strategy for survival. There is no premeditation besides the obvious need to grow older, but in his eyes, one has a hard time seeing a rationale for even living. Ken Ogata’s performance as Iwao, for whom Japan led a 78-day manhunt in 1963, is chilling in its exactness as it captures the kind of stoic judgment the killer makes at will. His value of life is a mystery, but his existence is the kind of evil that myths are built around. He begs, over and over, a simple question to the viewer: Is it possible that there are those who cannot possibly be loved?
Originally posted on April 1, 2010 before inclusion into (Through Time).
Rushmore
Rushmore by Wes Anderson represents 1998 in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film from each year since 1921.
1998 / Wes Anderson > Not sure how much my familiarity with the soundtrack had to do with it, but my latest viewing of Rushmore was a completely different experience than I'd previously recalled. Seeing it in theatres upon release, when Anderson's tactics were still fresh, the first half was all the rage while the second half seemed banal at best. But over time, that first half became a sort of gimmick, something to create an illusion of substance when in reality it embodies much of the indie quirkiness that continues to plague current cinema. But now, multiple Anderson films later, I've finally realized what makes the film tick isn't its first half, but rather the second half, which maintains a sense of quiet rumination filled with the appreciation of living and acceptance.
In ways, this is as unusual a coming of age film as there ever may be. While Jason Schwartzman's Max Fischer isn't immediately someone to identify with, his emotional see-saw with Miss Cross (played by the elegant and lovely Olivia Williams) provides an intangible yet definite hook for us to latch onto. He seems the antithesis of what we see in Dangerous Minds, yet in many ways, he's exactly similar. Nobody said you had to deal with guns and drugs to be a delinquent—You can also do it with "extracurricular activities" like building aquariums on the baseball diamond or tending bees instead of taking exams.
Also impressively, no Anderson film has used music as effectively as Rushmore: The Who backing the revenge sequence, John Lennon supporting Bill Murray's hopeful Herman Blume and Max's road back to grace and Miss Cross taking Max's glasses off to Ooh La La by Faces (where the minor quiver on Williams' lip is one of the finest moments in my personal cinematic history). All of these are further impacted by the calculated camera work of Richard Yeoman. So beautiful, in fact, that the curtain scene at the end has forever become etched in my memory.
Originally posted on October 25, 2008 before inclusion into (Through Time).
I Saw the Devil
2010 / Kim Ji-woon > Kim has defined himself as one of the most versatile mainstream directors in Korean cinema. With outings that include the very good neo-noir in A Bittersweet Life, a Western steampunk epic in The Good, the Bad and the Weird and his foray into the English language with Last Stand later this year, it's little surprise he was able to secure two of Korea's top actors for I Saw the Devil: Lee Byun-hun (who many in the U.S. know as Brian Lee a.k.a. Storm Shadow in G.I. Joe) and Min Sik-choi (who, known widely in the West for his role as Oldboy, makes a long-awaited return to the big screen).
There's no smoke screen here: I Saw the Devil is about vengeance in the best way possible. Or is it the worst? That may, in fact, be the central question at bay. In his quest to avenge his wife's death, a government agent falls so deep down the rabbit hole that we're asked to second-guess how far we'd go to satisfy our deepest desires for revenge. But the lessons here aren't anything extraordinary. We walk away feeling mildly disgusted with ourselves not because of the gruesome violence we've been exposed to, but because it didn't mean much. Had this been made by a lesser filmmaker with lesser actors, it would have been naturally panned. But Kim, at the very least, knows how to direct an entertaining thriller that plays out with few visible regards for a moral compass. And though he's slightly late to the game—the genre has become so saturated over the last decade that the film's twists become relatively predictable—the film still works as a misdirection from our daily lives where we're expected a greater level of human compassion.
Sucker Punch
2011 / Zack Snyder > Never in my life have I so strongly felt the need for a film to be a video game—and just that. Snyder's first attempt at original material shows his lack of storytelling prowess, as Sucker Punch somehow turns glorious visuals and sexy schoolgirls with cleavage into something that's only a notch better than a mindnumbing bore.
Maybe I'm extra underwhelmed because the initial teaser was one of the best I'd ever seen. Expertly composed, it promised a fantastic adventure into the mind of a young girl in her fight for survival. A combination of dragons, samurai and zombie Nazis on a foundation of steampunk whetted our appetites for an exciting genre-bender. But Sucker Punch ends up failing for the same reason Snyder should be given some credit: He made it into a personal film instead of one that audiences would enjoy. One could argue that his intention was to combine his trademark visuals with the philosophic backbone of Bergman, but he simply didn't have the vision and/or chops to execute that effectively. Instead, it's predictable until it becomes silly. Emily Browning, who was excellent in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, is very much out of her depth here. Jamie Chung is wooden. Vanessa Hudgens has no lines worth repeating. Scott Glenn is a joke (though possibly on purpose). Abbie Cornish and Jena Malone are too good for the script. And as one of the most well-known contemporary, mainstream auteurs, Snyder has to take the blame for this mess. Still, if there's something of value here, it's that he was able to get a big budget film onto screens with his vision mostly intact, even if it depended on some of our basest fetishes for its appeal.
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp
The Life and Times of Colonel Blimp by Powell & Pressburger is the yearly favorite from 1943 as listed in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film from each year since 1921.
1943 / Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger > Why on earth would Winston Churchill want to negate the existence of a film about a gregarious British soldier who believes in the good fight and the love of a beautiful woman? Made at the height of the Nazi threat, The Life and Times of Colonel Blimp is a near-masterpiece chronicling forty-plus years in the life of Clive Candy, who we first meet after the unbeknownst-to-him British atrocities in the Boer War. This is a man whose military morals guffaw in disgust at the Germans and their war tactics. This is a man who believes the most important outcome of World War I was proof that the "good guys" could win. Much to Churchill's annoyance, Powell & Pressburger question the gentlemen's rules of warfare underneath the veil of a romantic epic. Does one stoop to the level of the Nazis in order to defeat them? What lengths would one go to in making sure that that Hitler was stopped before altering the world as we know it?
Roger Livesay's performance as Candy is as joyful as it is tragic. It takes a while to get past all the sweetness on the screen before realizing Candy represents a great class of man, but one who may be completely outdated in today's society. He loves and laments, but never is he anything short of a gentleman. His principles are strong, though it's inevitable to pinpoint the naivety of his purposeful ignorance. Colonel Blimp may also be, most importantly, a reminder of how critical a time it was for our world at the height of Hitler's regime. It affected how we approached and appreciated love, life and warfare. And now, nearly seventy years later, the film is equally as relevant in readjusting mindsets that blindly champion the goodness of the West vs. the evils of elsewhere.
Out of the Past
Out of the Past by Jacques Tourneur is the yearly favorite from 1947 as listed in Life as Fiction (Through Time): An Exercise in the Clockwork and Constriction of Cinematic History, a project to chronicle my favorite film for each year from 1921 to the present.
1947 / Jacques Tourneur > It's pretty obvious why David Cronenberg paid homage to Out of the Past in A History of Violence: If you're going to put a twist on a genre, why not pay respect to its standard-bearers? Tourneur's take on classic film-noir is thoughtful and riveting. The directing is meticulous, setting up a moody atmosphere, taking time to play out scenes that would otherwise have been rushed and making sure each of our characters are aptly developed. I can also now finally understand why Robert Mitchum was such a big deal. His quiet poise calls upon him an honest appearance while underneath he has the ability to carry deeper, darker secrets. And in a film where Jane Greer counters him as a dame of great beauty and equally great villainy, both work together balancing each others' brilliant performances.
But fundamentals aside, Out of the Past is more notable for its congruence of issues: Lies, murder, secret pasts, infidelity, love, hope, greed, happiness. Novelist and screenwriter Daniel Mainwaring threw the kitchen sink plus some toiletry in the story's mix of ingredients. But what amazes is how well it all works out. The final scene with the boy stands the test of time as one of those moments that leave you wondering the improbable quality of the film you've just witnessed. These days, the descendants of noir have simply too much cynicism or lack of storytelling skills to be this effective.
Originally posted on February 11, 2009 before inclusion into (Through Time).
Poetry
#1: Poetry by Lee Chang-dong. In the ten days leading up to the 83rd Annual Academy Awards, I will be listing, in reverse order, my ten favorite films of 2010. They will each be accompanied by a custom Criterion cover inspired by Sam Smith's Top 10 of 2010 Poster Project.
2010 / Lee Chang-dong > After a minor "hiccup" that earned Jeon Do-yeon Best Actress at Cannes for Secret Sunshine, Lee is once again at the top of his game. In three feature films (Peppermint Candy, Oasis and now Poetry), he's covered ground on the psyche of the Korean man, love in the darkest corners of humanity and the perils of aging in modern society. His ability to so seamlessly combine the brutal strength of the human condition with a probing yet tactful eye makes him arguably the greatest of all contemporary Korean directors.
Yoon Jeong-hee's masterful performance (the best of the year, I'd argue) guides us in Poetry. She is Mija, an older woman who seems to be losing her mind. She takes care of her moody, borderline insolent grandson while her daughter is M.I.A. She works as a part-time maid to pay the bills and stay busy. One day, she decides to enroll in a poetry class at a local community center. From the onset, we get the basic situation: The last century has been very unkind to aging parents who get left behind as their children take advantage of relocation. (The ease of remittances eases a guilty mind, but it doesn't make up for lost time.) Lee, however, doesn't transfer upon us the blame for Mija's current state. In fact, his habit for developing characters who learn to control their destiny is what makes him such a fine cinematic craftsman.
Over the course of the Poetry, Mija rekindles her relationship with the cruel world she's lived in for so long. Many of us don't realize the daily atrocities that occur until we find ourselves in the mud with others, and Mija is no different. Lee is not a flashy director: Every scene flows into the next without extra baggage. We know what's happening, but we're more interested in seeing things unfold than wanting an instant resolution. The process matters. The core conflict in the film, which is best learned while viewing (and may be spoiled immediately by most reviews), creates such a moral conundrum that there would be no consensus if viewers were polled on a course of action. Whether we agree with Mija or not, we still want her to find the strength to fight for what she believes is right. Poetry is not a melodrama. It is not about the underdog coming out victorious. As Mija writes her poem, there is a solemn tone of acceptance that the world will go on—but we know this acceptance has a price, and what's important is that we fight with her so that only she, independently, gets to judge its true value.
Somewhere
#2: Somewhere by Sofia Coppola. In the ten days leading up to the 83rd Annual Academy Awards, I will be listing, in reverse order, my ten favorite films of 2010. They will each be accompanied by a custom Criterion cover inspired by Sam Smith's Top 10 of 2010 Poster Project.
2010 / Sofia Coppola > For the third straight film, Coppola dives into the emotional troubles of the rich and famous. While the general perception may be that money has the ability to buy one happiness, the truth is that wealth is a relative meter of comfort and works only as a superficial divider amongst the populace. One of the great examinations of this came from Nick Smith in Metropolitan: "It's a tiny bit arrogant of people to go around worrying about those less fortunate." The theory works completely in reverse as well. Mistakes can be made by anyone, regardless of job, money or location. It's how we deal with those mistakes and what we learn from them that actually defines us.
In Somewhere, we follow Johnny Marco (played without pretension by Stephen Dorff), a Hollywood star lacking energy for life. We take in his aimless minutiae until his daughter Cleo pays him a visit. In Cleo, Elle Fanning is able to bring forth the grace of life that wakes up sleeping giants. In what may be my favorite supporting female performance of the year, her simple smiles keep our attention, and we understand, almost instantly, the value of truly loving someone away from all the glitz and glamour the world so continuously taunts us with. Sure, she's still able to order expensive room service in an Italian hotel because of her father's fame, but it's more important to think of the loving kinship here than let our mechanical jealousies take precedence.
Of all films from 2010, Somewhere might be the one that I find with the most rewatchable. Every scene mesmerizes in its naturalness—including a wondrous episode of Guitar Hero that many of us can identify with. In contrast to Nicole Holofcener's Please Give, Coppola doesn't really force any resolutions. Johnny's emotional curve remains relatively flat throughout because, let's face it, some of us never learn our lessons. And while that's a tragic truth to admit, it's a link that sticks.
The Illusionist
#3: The Illusionist by Sylvain Chomet. In the ten days leading up to the 83rd Annual Academy Awards, I will be listing, in reverse order, my ten favorite films of 2010. They will each be accompanied by a custom Criterion cover inspired by Sam Smith's Top 10 of 2010 Poster Project.
2010 / Sylvain Chomet > Charming. Heartbreaking. Wonderful. Chomet's follow-up to the brilliant The Triplets of Belleville isn't nearly as clever, but its story of lament and regret is equally as powerful. Originally written by iconic French filmmaker Jacques Tati in an attempt to reconciliate with an estranged daughter, L'illusionniste captures the kind of magic that cinema was always intended for. With almost no dialogue, Chomet is able to tug at our heartstrings with gorgeous, hand-drawn animation that transports us to a very different time and place. This isn't earth-shattering stuff, but there's something delightful in accompanying our magician in his twilight as he inadvertently becomes the guardian of a naive, young girl. His little tricks make us smile, but his inability to connect with the girl at a deeper level instills in us a tragic sense of eventuality. By not being explicit about their motivations, Chomet allows us approach the film how we choose. At a sparse 80 minutes, every scene is essential and none are heavy-hearted. Its beauty is in its simplicity, and it may be best watched on an overcast day as rain trickles down.
White Material
#4: White Material by Claire Denis. In the ten days leading up to the 83rd Annual Academy Awards, I will be listing, in reverse order, my ten favorite films of 2010. They will each be accompanied by a custom Criterion cover inspired by Sam Smith's Top 10 of 2010 Poster Project.
2009 / Claire Denis > Cinema has rarely treated colonialism with an objective eye. Instant disdain has been nothing short of what's been expected in a society hellbent on correcting wrongs of the past by hurting the present and future. Everything from affirmative action in the United States to the black empowerment movement in South Africa has set us up for further clashes without actually understanding the roots of the troubles. Even the origins of something as ever-present as Islamic terrorism remain oblivious to much of society, but you can't always blame them for it. The job of the mass media is to enrich and educate the lives of those who come home from a hard day's work, but sensationalism has taken precedence in lieu of rational discourse.
So, where do we go from here? While PBS may be on its last legs, technological ease has paved the way for well-spirited blogs and open-minded films like White Material. Unlike the foundation of liberal guilt that pervaded Hotel Rwanda, Denis makes no apologies for what the white man has done to Africa. She accepts it as fact, but digs deeper into the mindset of those who stay behind when the proverbial revolution happens. How does one treat those who were born into colonial society? Do we look with contempt the second or third-generation offspring who've always considered the African soil their home?
White Material is rich with doubt: Will there be a tomorrow? Will we survive even if there is? Will we be wanted? It is Denis' elegy to colonialism and represents the darkest corners of The African Queen. Isabelle Huppert is magnificent as Maria Vial, a woman trying to keep her coffee plantation functioning while the world around her falls apart. The enemies are both within and without, with additional tension provided by Maria's disillusioned son (played by Nicolas Duvauchelle in one of the best supporting performances of 2010). This is a film that promotes understanding of a dying world, one that we've already been told is very, very bad. But not all people, even when part of a terrible injustice, are evil. Sometimes circumstance just kills.
