Changes

After a short break caused by military service and laziness, I've decided to change a few things about my blog. First of all, this Blogger account will be left behind and I'm currently working on a new Wordpress blog that will serve as the channel for my film musings in future. I won't be posting reviews like the ones on this blog, but instead I'm going to let the form run wild. I will post more sparsely (but in longer format) about some of the films I see, but I will also share my other thoughts about cinema in general. Usually I will tie these two ideas into each blogpost - at least that's the plan.

The new blog can be found here: http://ozumaniac.wordpress.com/

The Naked Island

Essentially Kaneto Shindo's The Naked Island (1960) is a simple film. It depicts the hardships of a family living on a small and isolated island. The parents spend their daily routine maintaining their crops and the most time-consuming task for them is to fetch water from a long distance twice a day. They have two boys: one of them goes to school and the younger one spends his days on the island.

At first the film introduces us to the family's daily routine and despite its simplicity Shindo manages to make it very fascinating. In a single brilliant scene (with a magnificent, long buildup) he establishes the family dynamics. The film moves onto show how the family manages to survive through each season until the first "traditional" conflict is introduced in the final third of the film. Even then the film is more like a slice of life of the family's life instead of a dramatic narrative we so often see in other films.

What is so brilliant about the film's approach is the silence Shindo employs. Not a word is spoken apart from short bits of singing and chanting. Music is occasionally inserted, but even that is used rather subtly so that most of the film's power relies on the writing and the visuals. And these two aspects are worthy even on their own. Even though the film gives a rather stereotypical image of the Japanese (who dislike the image) it's a very striking and tragic portrayal of the problems of social change and isolation, among others.

Shindo's cinematography is mostly static or at least the movement is so smooth and controlled that the viewer hardly notices it. It gives the daily routine a fitting rhythm and emphasizes the cyclical life of the family. Although the pacing of the editing is rather fast it doesn't feel like the film rushes towards the ending. Shindo likes to intercut between multiple motions and creates rather fascinating scenes out of simple moments (like rowing).

The film is not without an arguable flaw. The blandness of the characters is probably intentional, but it decreases the impact of the film's ending a bit too much. Luckily the tragedy is still intact.

Score: 9 out of 10

Assassination

Masahiro Shinoda's Assassination (1964) was the first jidai geki (period drama) for the Nuberu Bagu (Japanese New Wave) director. It dives deep into Japan's history prior to the Meiji Restoration by presenting the story of a talented swordsman who worships the Emperor and is eventually corrupted by the rivalry between the Emperor and the Shogunate.

Shinoda does dig deep into history, but it's also a vivid character study. The fragmented presentation has its ups and downs: while it makes the film ambiguous in an interesting way it relies a bit too much on the assumption that the viewer knows the historical event. I managed to comprehend the film without prior knowledge, but it was a challenging task to say the least. The opening of the film tries to inform the audience of the context, but it's not sufficient enough.

Purely on the level of characters and themes Assassination is a triumph and the form is even more delightful. Breathtaking and menacing compositions, wild camerawork and intense editing make the film a gem on their own. Even ambitious attempts like disruptive freezeframes and first person camera work surprisingly smoothly. Takemitsu's soundtrack is experimental and great yet again.

Assassination takes too many risks in its execution. It could easily be considered a masterpiece if the audience knew the historical context well enough. Shinoda barely manages to make it historically relevant for other viewers (which is a bad hindrance for a film so deeply embedded in it), but even without that it's a rather impressive achievement.

Score: 8 out of 10

Passing Fancy

Yasujiro Ozu's Passing Fancy (1933) is a slight inferior film from the director's silent era. Takeshi Sakamoto plays an unresponsible widowed father whose attempts at courting a younger lady lead to no good.

The film does play around with the themes Ozu often explored and there are a few interesting aspects in store for Ozu fans because he modelled the main character after his father and few other men he knew as a kid. There are times when the narrative simply implodes under the pressure caused by the imbalance of comedy and drama. Luckily that doesn't destroy the screenplay completely since it happens only on a few occasions that are surrounded by all around pleasant writing.

Ozu's form is a bit careless with random camera movement and stiff editing. However, he manages to get brilliant performances from the actors and especially the lead character's child is surprisingly natural in his role.

Even if Passing Fancy has its significant flaws, it is flawed in an interesting way for the fans of the director.

Score: 7 out of 10

Silence

It is not easy to summarize Masahiro Shinoda's Silence (1971). In a way it's like Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957) if it was set in the 17th century Japan. But that would be a misleading comparison for multiple reasons.

First of all, Silence is not expressionistic at all. Secondly, it is not only about the "silence of God" because Shinoda makes the most of Endo's original novel which criticizes Japan and organized religion as well as exploring a cultural conflict vividly. How does he do that? By telling a story of two Portuguese Catholic priests sneaking into Japan to guide the Japanese Christians in secret, which leads to a long and gruesome aftermath. One might wonder if Shinoda can keep it all together coherently within a single film. He surely manages to do that: the writing is surprisingly fluid in all aspects.

However, the form is not perfect. The jaw-dropping cinematography and powerful editing work well with Takemitsu's musical score, but there are a few irritating inconsistencies. The lighting is odd in the early scenes and the worst offender is the English dialogue. It is written well, but the British actors stumble with it terribly. And it doesn't help a lot when it hasn't even been recorded well. This is a problem when English is used for a third (if not more) of the entire dialogue of the film.

Silence could have become the ultimate clusterfuck of religion, culture and faith if it the glaring flaw had been polished to be less noticable.

Score: 9 out of 10

I Lived, But ...

Kazuo Inoue's documentary on the director Yasujiro Ozu, I Lived, But ... (1983), is a stunning achievement. It represents a comprehensive and compelling summary of his filmography and a touching portrayal of the director's personal life. The mystery surrounding the kanji mu (embedded on Ozu's grave) is also nicely explored.

Through clips of actual behind-the-scenes footage, interviews and thousands of photos, Inoue manages to build a truly brilliant biography of the great director. Especially the interviews of the stars of his films are essential and Sugimura's interview gives the film the required sentimental touch which makes it more unforgettable than any other documentary. There's also a great deal of imagery used a bit like Ozu's pillow shots accompanied with great music. They serve in a nicely cathartic way along with giving the documentary a relaxing pace and mood.

The name is not only a clever reference to Ozu's early filmography, but it also captures the possible internal conflict of the director's loneliness. Inoue employs a number of little subtle things like this to get under the viewer's skin and manages to move us by the end of the film by giving Ozu the respect he deserves.

Score: 10 out of 10

Evening Classes

(image source)

Nicolas Ribowski's short film Evening Classes (1967) is solely built around Jacques Tati's famous character, Mr. Hulot. The director lets Tati loose for long takes in which he demonstrates his wide range of acting capabilities by teaching an acting class for eager (but hilariously dumb) students.

The film relies solely on the gags within the 30-minute running time and they are clearly hit-or-miss. Whenever Tati has nothing to do, the film is a real letdown because the other actors simply can't keep up with his great performance. The direction lacks the same sort of inspiration although it's rewarding because it gives most of its attention for Tati's performance by not distracting the viewer from it.

If anything, Evening Classes is a nice extra for the Criterion release of Tati's Playtime (1967).

Score: 6 out of 10

I Was Born, But ...

(image source)

Yasujiro Ozu's I Was Born, But ... (1932) is often called the masterpiece of Ozu's silent era and I agree with that sentiment. It succeeds at being a pitch-perfect comedy about childhood and a heartbreaking film about social injustice and family.

Even though the focus is on two brothers Ozu creates a huge ensemble of unforgettable characters around them. At first the film lulls the viewer with its lovely humor as performed by the wonderful cast of child actors, but gradually the tone becomes more and more serious ending in a heartaching way that is more than capable of delivering the central message.

Ozu also seems to finally master his form in this film: where it seemed a bit overblown or tired in Tokyo Chorus (1931) it seems to work smoothly despite still being vastly different from his sound film aesthetic.

I Was Born, But ... is an essential film for any cinephile - and especially if you're a fan of Japanese cinema or a fan Ozu, you can't miss out on this one.

Score: 10 out of 10

Tokyo Chorus

(image source)

Yasujiro Ozu's Tokyo Chorus (1931) is the film that (as David Bordwell said) was the important turning point for the director: it made him a major director. It is a fascinating mixture of comedy, drama and vastly different subjects - and all of that is charged with strong social values that are common for Ozu. There is a downside to the screenplay: it barely keeps its explosive expression together throughout the film. There's a constant change in mood and there are times when that almost doesn't work.

Like the writing, the form is also a bit different from what we are used to in later Ozu films. The kinetic yet precise camerawork and fast pacing make the film a bit exhaustive, but with its short running time (90 minutes) that's not a problem. Acting is good in general, but I'd like to give a nod to Tokihiko Okada for his great performance as the lead. He manages to combine the acting style common for silent films with a more grounded and tangible presence.

In the end Tokyo Chorus is a satisfying Ozu film even if it does not reach the height of his later masterpieces.

Score: 8 out of 10

Tokyo Twilight

(image source)

Yasujiro Ozu's Tokyo Twilight (1957) is probably the darkest film the director ever made. The familiar explorations of marriage and family are shadowed by grave misfortune. The focus is on two sisters who try to deal with children and marriage without a mother who left them when they were still kids.

Being an Ozu film, I had high expectations for Tokyo Twilight and even then I was a bit surprised because the film nearly reaches the complexity and emotional impact of the so-called Noriko trilogy. With a strong cast of characters (and actors) and a thought-provoking approach Ozu manages to create yet another unforgettable story.

Tokyo Twilight is not an exception to the formal aesthetic of Ozu's sound films and it isn't exactly stand out in his filmography, which means it is quite stunning on its own. The soundtrack is surprisingly a bit more emotional in comparison to the director's other films, but the difference isn't that significant in the end.

Ozu's incredible streak of great movies seems to have no end. Tokyo Twilight is often forgotten because the focus is on his other masterpieces like Late Spring (1949), but it is extremely fascinating and sublime as well.

Score: 10 out of 10

Three Times

(image source)

I'm a fan of director Hsiao-hsien Hou, but even then I wasn't that fascinated by Three Times (2005). The film is split into three segments that take place in three different periods of time (1910's, 1960's and 2000's) where Shu Qi and Chen Chang appear in the central relationship. As you might guess from that, Three Times' major theme is love.

The first segment is a schmaltzy tale of a soldier chasing an adventurous woman in the 60's. Why do I call it schmaltzy? There is an abundance of pop music of the period that is so mind-numbing in the end that the music loses most of its impact. Even Aprhodite's Child's "Rain and Tears" had a surprisingly tame impact due to the frequent usage.

The second segment is an oddly pretentious effort for Hou. Most of the segment tries to imitate silent films by muting dialogue and sound effects yet changes nothing else so it's a Hou film without sound apart from a constant flow of music. I guess he decided to approach the segment that way since it takes place in the early 20th century. However it's not only distracting, but nearly terrible because Hou still relies on dialogue as much as he usually does so that means there are a lot of title cards that becomes rather tiresome after a while. It also has a very calm, dreamlike pace for no good reason.

The final segment is Hou's take on love in the modern age and I have to say it is clearly the most successful and interesting one. It is the most complex and interesting one and there are no formal deficiencies in the way either.

Apart from the oddities specific to each segment, the form is rather fluid. Hou's incredible photography and sparse editing are still as beautiful as they have always been. The musical choices are good even if occasionally misused. The greatest occasion must be the closing song for the final segment: it is so well as a continuation of the heart-aching ending. And if there's anything to be truly praised in this film it's Shu Qi's amazing acting. The innocent joy of the first segment, the elegance of the second segment and the fragile tour de force of the final segment are all top notch performances. I hope she will eventually be acknowledged as one of the greatest contemporary actresses.

Even though Hou doesn't have that much to say about love he approaches it from so many different perspectives that the film is at least satisfying. I wonder what would have happened to the film without Shu Qi.

Score: 6 out of 10

Early Spring

(image source)

Yasujiro Ozu's Early Spring (1956) is a departure from the director's work thematically: even though the focus is on family and marriage the story is about a salary man who begins cheating on his wife after becoming dissatisfied with his life and work. There is a lack of authority and it is replaced by other social concerns. Ozu's musings on work are enigmatic since nearly every scene is related to work, but nothing comes out of it at least on surface.

Ozu's form has clearly become static by now as there is only one moving shot (that is used in a tad confusing way to be honest). The pillow shots are mostly of interior locations as opposed to the vast amount of scenery shots used in the director's other films like Tokyo Story (1953).

Early Spring might be a lesser masterpiece from Ozu, but that's not surprising because he made it right after one of the greatest masterpieces of all time, Tokyo Story. However it's a refreshing film (even if way too long at two and half hours) from Ozu's filmography so I would gladly recommend it.

Score: 8 out of 10

Samurai Rebellion

(image source)

Masaki Kobayashi's Samurai Rebellion (1967) is a spiritual sequel to Harakiri (1964): Kobayashi's critique of authority in a heavily dramatized form. After Isaburo (Toshiro Mifune) is forced to have his son marry a former mistress of a powerful lord the entire family discovers that the girl isn't as bad as her reputation suggests. Due to a grim turn of events Isaburo and his son decide to disobey the lord's newer orders even though it puts their family in danger.

Even though I would call Samurai Rebellion Kobayashi's bloody revenge story it doesn't involve a lot of action until the final third of the film (which has a lot of it). Most of the focus is on the fascinating central family that is used heavily for the director's strong message that is approached in a possibly better way than in Harakiri. The downside of the screenplay has to be the ending. While the final scenes are perfect it stumbles for 10 minutes before that. The tension generated in the film is released way too early and some of the scenes lose the dramatic impact they were supposed to have. There's also the mystery of Tatsuya Nakadai's character whose relevance is questionable and it almost feels like his role was severely cut in the editing room.

Kobayashi's form is full of menacing energy that stems from the absolutely brilliant photography and the intense yet "slow" editing that hits the viewer like a ton of bricks when it is needed. The approach to the climactic action scenes is surprisingly tame, but they are still powerful enough. Toru Takemitsu's soundtrack is great again. The entire cast delivers magnificent performances and especially Toshiro Mifune is in top form this time.

Samurai Rebellion could have become another masterpiece for Kobayashi in the vein of Harakiri, but the slight (but drastical) mistake near the end hinders the film a bit too much.

Score: 9 out of 10

Early Summer

(image source)

Yasujiro Ozu's Early Summer (1951) is yet another observation of family and marriage in post-war Japan for the director. A surprisingly large cast of characters is introduced in the first third of the film before the major conflict is even ignited. Not the only characters are rich, but the writing in general is deeply (but subtly) touching in the unique way Ozu always managed to embed into his films.

From Ozu one can always expect formal brilliance and Early Summer is not an exception. Scenes are shot from a fixed low positions in the traditional Ozu way, but there are surprisingly many moving shots this time. Some of them work well, but there are a few that feel more like formal deficiencies. Luckily they are few and the other parts of the film easily overshadow the moments the form stumbles. It's also miraculous how Ozu's musical scores are always so timeless whereas other Japanese films from the same period of time offer soundtracks that in hindsight seem so "obviously 50's" (not to say they are bad, but when you give enough thought for it, that's how it seems).

Ozu's deeply moving and life-affirming films are one of the biggest reasons why I'm so fascinated by cinema. The repressed emotions and subtlety of his writing and his utterly unique aesthetic provide unforgettable cinematic experiences that make me speechless. I hope I can one day express that delight in words because right now I'm not exactly satisfied with what I've written. Nevertheless I urge everyone to go and see the director's films because they are a lot more rewarding than what modern cinema can offer.

Score: 10 out of 10

The Game of Their Lives

Daniel Gordon's documentary The Game of Their Lives (2002) tells the incredible story of North Korea's national football team's adventure in the 1966 World Cup tournament. They shocked the entire world by defeating Italy in the group phase and thus, forced the old World Cup champions to drop out of the tournament.

Despite the film's questionably sympathetic depiction of North Korea it provides great insight into one of the biggest mysteries of football history. The documentary is dominated by old footage of the tournament and makes the most out of it, which isn't exactly hard since the subject is interesting. The director also travelled to North Korea to interview the few surviving members of the team and the bits of the interviews used in the film are great. I'm not sure if the great responses can be credited to the efforts of the interviewer(s) or the openness of the players themselves. Nevertheless, their own comments are essential for the documentary.

The documentary is not without its faults. It uses a few rather underhanded tricks to emotionally involve its audience and it can be asked whether the director had his own agenda with the film since it makes North Korea look like the most pleasant country on Earth. Which in turns makes one wonder how truthful the documentary is in the end.

Score: 7 out of 10

The Face of Another

The Face of Another (1966) is third collaboration between the director Hiroshi Teshigahara, composer Toru Takemitsu and writer Kobo Abe. The trio's achievements could be seen as pretentious and hilariously gritty, but somehow they always manage to completely enthrall me. It seems almost if their work became more subtle the more they worked together. The Pitfall's experimentality was strongly present throughout the film and even Woman in the Dunes was a bit, but that roughness was fitting for the film. The Face of Another is a significantly more restrained effort because even the unconventional bits flow smoothly.

The main character of the film (played superbly by Tatsuya Nakadai) explores the ambiguous nature of identity after his face is accidentally deformed and then replaced by a new one. Despite its heavy themes the film advances in a clearly comprehensible way that might be a bit ambiguous once in a while, but it never goes to the extremes of the trio's earlier films that are much more obscure (but not necessarily bad that way). The writing is intellectually very stimulating and provokes strong emotional reactions as it follows the questionable ethics of the main character.

Whereas Woman in the Dunes was formally claustrophobic, The Face of the Another is schizophrenic. After the menacing and experimental opening the film's form diverts a little from what is expected from the trio. The intense close-ups are fewer and Takemitsu's wonderful musical score is more subtle than before. The lighting and cinematography are just about as refined and powerful as they can be.

What could have been a misadventure in obscurity and pretension turns out to be yet another masterpiece from the famous Japanese New Wave trio.

Score: 10 out of 10

Buster Keaton's Short Films (Part 1)

Because I bought the Masters of Cinema's Buster Keaton box set I am going to review all of his short films (1917-1923) during the next few weeks in 4 parts (one DVD at a time from the 4-DVD box). In the first part all of the films might be directed by Roscoe Arbuckle, but Buster Keaton has a strong presence in each film. 

The Butcher Boy (1917) shows the core structure of what Arbuckle's films revolve around: the director's "greedy but lovable" character tries to win the love of a beautiful girl who is also courted by Al St. John's antagonistic bastard - and the whole story is full of slapstic comedy. In the first films Buster Keaton "only" gets unforgettable supporting roles. Even though the two setpieces of The Butcher Boys are funny and interesting the transition between them is ugly and some of the humor is unfunny because it is so lowbrow.

In The Rough House (1917) the same elements are mixed in a significantly more incoherent way that is worthy of a chuckle at best. The setting has changed from a general store to a big household which disappointing in comparison. The gags are still similar, but they come out of nowhere and don't add up into a hilarious sequence, which makes them cold. Or so it seems in comparison to other films Arbuckle and Keaton made. Nevertheless The Rough House is an enjoyable short film.

His Wedding Night (1917) is a tad slower than the other films in a way: the gags are more sparse and they are saved for the final third that is full of visual gags that are more or less funny. It's not exactly a great approach since the film doesn't work that well apart from its gags, but the comedy kicks more punch when you have to wait for it a bit longer than in the other films.

Oh, Doctor! (1917) follows a doctor who is seduced by a thief, but as the situation becomes more complicated a vicious amount of slapstick comedy dominates the film. For some reason the film is surprisingly dry even though it had the potential to be a lot better. It reminds me of The Rough House because my reaction was rather similar despite a superficially better screenplay.

Coney Island (1917) is clearly one of the better short films Arbuckle ever made. The amusement park section provides a bunch of classic and unforgettable gags. It is a shame the film takes a turn for more lowbrow humor in the end when it could have done so much more than that.

Out West (1918) is an interesting film for its time: it has (possibly accidental) anti-racist ideas that come through the parody of cliched tropes of the western film genre. This effort is more unified than Arbuckle's other films since it constantly makes fun of westerns in a refreshing way.

Out of the films I've seen so far The Bell Boy (1918) is the brightest result of the collaboration between Keaton, Arbuckle and St. John. The refined gags, top-notch acting and awesome setpieces guarantee success. There are moments that feel almost like subversion of established tropes in Arbuckle's films (such as St. John being one of the protagonists this time).

The final short film of this part, Moonshine (1918), hasn't completely survived to this day: only 6 minutes of the film have been found and released on DVD. As a result of that the short is more or less a mess that barely has the sort of brilliance you could expect from the makers.

In all of these films Keaton and Arbuckle perform magnificently in their heavily physical roles. Formally the films are stable and never distracting so I consider them successful in that regard as well.

Scores:

The Butcher Boy (1917): 8 out of 10

The Rough House (1917): 6 out of 10

His Wedding Night (1917): 7 out of 10

Oh, Doctor! (1917): 6 out of 10

Coney Island (1917): 8 out of 10

Out West (1918): 9 out of 10

The Bell Boy (1918): 9 out of 10

Moonshine (1918): 5 out of 10

24 Realities per Second

Nina Kusturica and Eva Testor's documentary on Michael Haneke, 24 Realities per Second (named after a famous quote by the director), could have provided great insight into the work of one of the most fascinating European directors working today. Even though there are intriguing scenes of him working on the set and answering questions of the interviewers and the audience at a screening the clips don't hold together very well - especially because transitions are completely missing. 

Haneke's thoughts are interesting on their own, but in the end they are rather sparse and are not though-provoking because the structure of the documentary doesn't let them become memorable. Without giving a clear focus to anything the film is too fragmented to give a strong image of the director or the films he makes.

No matter how badly the presentation is failed the director is a fascinating person when he opens up for the camera and that makes the documentary watchable.

Score: 5 out of 10

Flowing

Even though Mikio Naruse's Flowing (1956) tells about the geisha tradition in post-war Japan the audience is never shown scenes of the actual entertainment apart from brief glimpses of young geisha practicing. The film's focus is on the large cast of characters, all the different sort of people who live in the financially unstable geisha house.

Naruse's films usually develop at a relatively fast pace, but even under his standards Flowing's narrative is like a whirlwind. As multiple storylines develop simultaneously and intertwine, Naruse builds a fascinating world which easily gathers the audience's attention throughout the film. Each character is more or less colorful (and unforgettable) and the acting is top-notch. It is funny (yet amazing) how the film features so many of the greatest Japanese actresses of the 50's (only lacking Setsuko Hara).

The films Naruse made in the 50's follow the same sort of formal pattern so it is really hard to say anything new about it, having seen so many of his films in a row. It would be possible to approach each film more individually if I were to write an analytical text of the films, but within the restrictions of the review format it is quite impossible to say anything drastically different about each film. Flowing is formally excellent due to its great compositions (which differ in significant ways depending on whether the scene is set in an interior or exterior location) and crafty editing.

On the first view Flowing is great, but I'm not sure whether it is on the level of Naruse's greatest masterpiece (When a Woman Ascends the Stairs) yet. I guess I will have to watch it again at some point for final evaluation.

Score: 9 out of 10

Sound of the Mountain

In Mikio Naruse's Sound of the Mountain (1954) Setsuko Hara plays a housewife whose husband cheats on her. She faces an insurmountable decision as she has to figure out whether she should divorce him or not. Her close relationship with the father-in-law (who in turn neglects her own daughter) complicates the matter.

Essentially Sound of the Mountain is Naruse's exploration of family and marriage. It might be something he often observes in his films, but he always manages to bring a new aspect or approach to it - and this is not an exception. He handles the intimate "chamber drama" well in order to bring forth interesting details of the characters - which not only deepen the themes, but also make the film a lot more compelling to watch.

Naruse's form is pretty much the same as it is in his other films. His formal choices are barely noticable, but they are surprisingly powerful. In general it works well, but it is not mindblowing. In Naruse's film the soundtrack is often a bit of a nuiscance, but it isn't that bad this time.

Sound of the Mountain is a fine achievement for a director who is slowly becoming one of my all time favorites.

Score: 9 out of 10