Contemporary Philippine Cinema at MoMA: Thy Womb

It is hard to believe we are talking about ancient practices like polygamy and dowries with respect to a nation as worldly and Roman Catholic as the Philippines, but this is Tawi-Tawi under discussion, the southern-most archipelago province of the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM). Don’t worry, polygamy is only legal for Muslims and polyandry is safely verboten for everyone. An aging barren first-wife will try to make the best of circumstances by taking an active role in the selection of her husband’s second wife, but it is a bitter pill for her to swallow in Brillante Mendoza’s Thy Womb (trailer here) which screens during MoMA’s film series, A New Golden Age: Contemporary Philippine Cinema.

To add irony to injury, the infertile Shaleha often serves as a midwife to the pregnant island women. After years of trying to conceive, Bengas-An is determined to try with a younger, healthier second wife. Sadly, his prejudices against adoption preclude that option. Given the importance of children as a source of support to the aged, Shaleha relents, but she assumes the primary responsibility for screening potential brides. She will also find herself scrimping and borrowing alongside Bangas-An to raise the necessary dowry.

During the course of Thy Womb (talk about a heavy-handed title), we see Shaleha care for Bangas-An when he is sick, toil like a yoked mule on his behalf, and even face a pirate attack while they are fishing in the open ocean. And how do you think Islam rewards such faithfulness?

Dear, of dear, this is a difficult film to watch, because it is so inevitably tragic. (Tellingly, Mendoza apparently couldn’t bring himself to administer the final indignity, but it is unambiguously implied.) Of course, Mendoza is culturally sensitive to a fault. He takes great pains to show how the islanders live in concert with nature and the seas. He also captures the color of their ceremonies with an ethnographer’s eye. That still doesn’t change the fact you clearly do not want to be an old disposable wife in the ARMM.

Nora Aunor is considered a Philippine national treasure—and it is easy to see why in Thy Womb, even though she completely disappears into the role of Shaleha. It is a courageous, openly vulnerable performance, with nothing that would appeal to a thesp’s vanity. Viewers will want to slap Bembol Roco’s Bangas-An, precisely because he is so believable. They really feel like a couple with decades of hardscrabble history together. It should also be noted Lovi Poe makes quite an entrance as Mersila, the prospective #2, who threatens to de-stabilize the equilibrium.

Thy Womb is often striking to look at—perhaps even too much so. There are considerable interludes in which Mendoza soaks up the local color and traditions rather than develop character or advance the narrative. However, the power of his intimate but extreme marital drama is undeniable. Recommended for those who are genuinely concerned about women’s rights internationally, Thy Womb screens tomorrow (6/13) and Thursday the 22^nd, as part of MoMA’s Philippine film series.

Contemporary Philippine Cinema at MoMA: Clash

So, you think Donnie Trump is an authoritarian? Well then, what do you make of Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte? This would be the former Davao City mayor who made of practice of reading lists of alleged criminals over the radio, many of whom were subsequently murdered by extralegal death squads. To be fair, the alleged vigilante killings predated the anti-American demagogue’s term as mayor, as did this searing dramatic expose. Timelier than ever, Pepe Diokno’s Clash (trailer here) screens during MoMA’s ongoing film series, A New Golden Age: Contemporary Philippine Cinema.

Richard is the older teen brother who wants out of the gangster life. Raymond is his younger teen brother, who wants in. Frankly, Richard may have waited too long. His gang has been decimated by their rivals and the death squad has publicly targeted him. The plan is to catch a boat to Manila with his prostitute girlfriend Jenny-Jane. However, he will have to raise 1,000 pesos for their fare. He would also like to set Raymond back on the straight-and-narrow before leaving, but his brother has already fallen under the sway of his nemesis, Tomas. All the while, Mayor Danilo Dularte Suarez’s blustery propaganda speeches blare out from every radio, like a veritable Big Brother.

Barely reaching the one-hour mark (including every last closing credit), Clash should still be considered a fully developed feature. Arguably, Diokno combines the social conscience of Brillante Mendoza with the snarling grit of Erik Matti’s noirs (such as On the Job, also included in MoMA’s series). Restless in the extreme, Diokno’s disorienting handheld hops from person to person like Linklater’s Slacker, but in need of a tetanus shot and some serious deodorant. Sometimes the shaky-cam is just too much, but the sense of urgency is always palpable.

This is a violent, predatory world, where anything could happen to anyone at any time, especially someone like Richard, who arguably has it coming. The conflict between brothers takes on almost Biblical symbolism, but they are based on real life siblings Diokno met while conducting research. Indeed, Clash is the sort of film where there does not seem to be any acting going on. Yet, that is rather a tribute to Felix Roco and Daniel Medrana, who are utterly convincing as Richard and Raymond, respectively. Eda Nolan similarly gives a brave yet completely natural and unaffected performance as Jenny-Jane.

We sort of know where Clash is headed, but not quite. There is an inescapable logic to the finale, but it still will turn your guts to ice. This is a powerful, pungent film that expresses Diokno’s rage at the dysfunctional political and legal systems that have continued unchecked since the film’s initial release in 2009. In fact, they have produced the nation’s president. Intense and unforgiving, Clash screens with the prison documentary Bunso this Thursday (6/8) and Friday the 23^rd, as part of MoMA’s Philippine film series.

Contemporary Philippine Cinema at MoMA: Gemini

If Tennessee Williams had the opportunity to write a Philippine horror movie, it might have gone something like this. Julia and Judith were always like the Corsican Brothers. If one suffered from some sort of pain, so did the other. Unfortunately, Judith is bold and curious about the world, whereas Julia is sickly and allergic to nearly everything. Due to her frail health, both sisters must live sequestered lives. As a result, Judith harbors a great deal of resentment for her sister. That bitterness and sexual repression leads to violence in Ato Bautista’s Gemini (trailer here), which screens during MoMA’s new film series, A New Golden Age: Contemporary Philippine Cinema.

As Manuel’s interrogation begins, the detective acknowledges the slippery nature of truth, but we have to start somewhere. Julia finally wants to come clean. Her sister murdered Anton, the brother of their tutor, with whom the more forward Judith was romantically involved. When Anton eventually showed his true colors, it sparked a bloody altercation, after which Julia helped Judith dispose of the body. At least that is Julia’s story and she is sticking to it, for the time being. However, there are plenty of reasons to doubt her veracity, starting with the fact Manuel’s partner is a dead-ringer for Anton.

Gemini is filled with doubling, including the central twins, the odd doppelganger, and the frequent use of reflections. Frankly, the film is weird in just about every way. Somehow, Bautista uses techniques and motifs of experimental cinema to disorient and thoroughly creep out viewers. It is hard to say just what Gemini is, because it is probably too cerebral to be horror and too gory to be a straight psychological thriller. Regardless, it is certainly distinctive.

Sheena and Brigitte McBride are indeed identical twins, who are eerily cold and distant as Julia and Judith (or possibly Judith and Julia). Yet, we can vividly feel the fear of the former (presumably), as her constructed realities begin to collapse. However, it is Mon Confiado who really holds the film together and carries it through its twists and turns as the interrogator.

On top of all the surreal reality-problematizing, there is also a fair spot of body horror in Gemini. Yet, despite the profoundly warped perspective, there is a very human tragedy at the film’s center. Viewers have to be comfortable with all the gamesmanship, but experienced genre fans will find it is worth the effort. Recommended accordingly, Gemini screens this Sunday (6/4) and Saturday the 17^th at MoMA, as part of their upcoming Philippine film series.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: Swords in the Moonlight Parts 1, 2 & 3

Daibosatsu Pass is bloodier than the Khyber or Breakheart, thanks largely to the mean-spirited samurai Ryunosuke Tsukue. Years ago, a Buddhist monk tried to sanctify the picturesque mountain rest stop, but it clearly did not take. Instead, it is the sight of a senseless murder that will unleash a convoluted chain of bad karma in Swords in the Moonlight (a.k.a. Souls in the Moonlight) Tomu Uchida’s three-film adaptation of Kaizan Nakazato’s Great Bodhisattva Pass, all of which screen in succession during MoMA’s ongoing retrospective of the major Japanese auteur.

This is indeed the same Tsukue of Kihachi Okamoto’s Sword of Doom, but there is clearly more to his story. Part 1 follows roughly the same narrative. It starts with Tsukue killing the pilgrim at the pass out of simple wanton cruelty, but he is survived by his granddaughter Omatsu, who will have a significant role to play in later films. Once again, Tsukue is to face the inferior swordsman Bunnojo Utsuki in an exhibition match that carries great important for Tsukue’s opponent but virtually none for himself. Utsuki’s fiancée Ohama begs the notorious swordsman to have mercy on her intended, but her intervention stimulates his lust instead.

The recaps that start parts one and two first says Tsukue “abducts” and then “seduces” Ohama, but it is really something in between. Regardless, their time spent together is mutually miserable, despite the son they bring into the world. Ironically, some of Tsukue’s most peaceful times are spent with Otoyo, a spooky dead-ringer for Ohama (with the emphasis on dead), who nurses the now rogue ronin back to health. Meanwhile, the pilgrim’s granddaughter Omatsu and Utsuki’s young brother Hyomi are thrust together by their shared history with Tsukue. They are also falling in love, but the junior Utsuki gives precedence to his quest for vengeance.

Even if you have seen Sword of Doom, films 2 and 3 largely cover new territory. In yet another ironic twist of fate, part two climaxes with both Tsukue and Utsuki fighting the same crooked feudal lord’s attempt to confiscate a prosperous mining concern, unbeknown to each other. The scope of the epic continues to broaden in the third film when Tsukue and Utsuki align themselves with rival lords, albeit rather reluctantly in Tsukue’s case.

Frankly, Swords in the Moonlight is all good, but it gets even better with each installment. Tsukue also becomes an increasingly intriguing figure. Despite his sociopathic tendencies, we start to see something that resembles tenderness from him in the second and third films. His relationships with women defy easy categorization, especially his ambiguous involvement with a disfigured noble woman, who is another involuntary guest of Tsukue’s patron-lord. Part three also ends with some stone-cold Buddhist “fire and brimstone,” well above and beyond anything in Doom.

Indeed, the series goes from good to great, but Chiezô Kataoka is always an electric presence as the psychotic yet guilt-ridden Tsukue. He just radiates badassery, even and especially when Tsukue’s eyes start to fail, making him into an evil early ancestor of Zatoichi. Yumiko Hasegawa fully capitalizes on her opportunity to be exquisitely tragic under two very different circumstances as Ohama and Otoyo, while Satomi Oka and Yorozuya Kinnosuke are rather appealing as Omatsu and Hyomi Utsuki. As an added bonus, Muku (the wonder dog) manages to be as handy as Lassie without coming across as a gimmick.

That’s right, there is a ton of hardcore hacking and slashing in the Moonlight trilogy, plus a faithful canine saves the day several times over. Uchida even throws in some macabrely expressionistic dream sequences. Seriously, what more could a movie lover ask for? Very highly recommended for Jidaigeki fans, Swords in the Moonlight Parts 1, 2, and 3 screens again this Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons (11/1-11/3) as part of MoMA’s revelatory Tomu Uchida retrospective.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: Straits of Hunger

We’re not saying Tomu Uchida’s three-hour film noir masterpiece is dark, but it starts with a ferry disaster killing hundreds of innocent people. Those currents off the coast of Hokkaido are so treacherous, they even spit up two extra bodies. It turns out they were ex-cons, mostly likely responsible for a lethal home invasion. Det. Yumisaka will pursue the “third man” like Javert in Les Miserables. The cop from The Fugitive might be an even more apt comparison. Although Takichi Inukai (if that is his real name) is not a one-armed man, he has a crushed finger that definitely counts as an identifying characteristic in Uchida’s Straits of Hunger (a.k.a. A Fugitive from the Past), which screens as part of MoMA’s ongoing retrospective of the major Japanese auteur.

During the immediate post-war, black market years, it was not just those straits that were hungry. Nevertheless, Inukai seems genuinely distressed by the fate of his traveling companions and also their victims. With the cops out in full force, Inukai takes refuge with hostess-oiran-prostitute-borderline dominatrix Yae Sugito, who gives him a bit of hard time, but rather takes a shine to the rough but shy character. The feeling is somewhat mutual judging from the whopper of a tip the mystery man left behind.

As Yumiska spends years following-up false leads, Sugito uses Inukai’s money to pay off her family’s debts and start leading a relatively straight life in Tokyo. Ironically, she will return to her former profession, preferring the stability of life with her new paternalist mom-and-pop employers. Alas, the government eventually decides to be progressive and reformist by shuttering legal houses of prostitution. Forced to make yet another new start, Sugito happens to notice a provincial philanthropist’s picture in the newspaper. Mr. Kyôichirô Tarumi certainly bears a strong resemblance to the man responsible for her nest egg, who has taken on almost saintly status in her own head.

It is not hard to understand why Straits (or Fugitive) is regarded in Japan as one of the finest Japanese films of all time. It truly combines elements of the sympathetic (if not wholly innocent) fugitive thriller, in the tradition of Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man, with the sweeping scope and tragedy of Les Mis (which Uchida adapted straight-up in 1931). His use of gritty widescreen 16mm also gives it a 1960s docu-drama vibe. Yet, what makes the film so appealingly idiosyncratic is the delight Uchida takes in breaking all the rules. Inukai disappears for a long period of time, allowing the second movement to become an empathetic woman’s story, roughly akin to Naruse’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs.

Sachiko Hidari is remarkably sensitive and forceful as Yae, commanding the screen and keeping viewers tightly focused even when the noir skullduggery is at a low ebb. Rentarô Mikuni is indeed generous with the spotlight, but he brings some seriously hardnosed intensity in the first and third acts. Noir fans will also appreciate Junzaburô Ban’s wheezy Yamisaka, who projects world-weary fatalism worthy of Inspector Maigret.

Aside from the three-hour running time, it is hard to puzzle out Straits’ under-screened and unsung status outside of Japan. Perhaps Uchida’s lurid color washes used during times of extreme psychological stress have not aged so well, but the exquisite work of Hidari and Mikuni gives this ironic tale the ring and heft of classical tragedy. Very highly recommended, Straits of Hunger screens again next Sunday, November 6, as part of MoMA’s Tomu Uchida retrospective.

Tomu Uchida at MoMA: Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji

Class distinctions could be profoundly unfair during the Edo era, but sometimes they cut both ways. Cut is indeed the correct operative word in this socially conscious samurai film. A poor but honorable samurai and his faithful servants become increasingly aware of the injustices of the world as the make their way to the capitol in Tomu Uchida’s slightly misleadingly titled Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji, which screens as part of MoMA’s revelatory retrospective of the major Japanese auteur, who remains bizarrely under-screened in the West.

Sakawa Kojūrō is a good man and a good samurai, but not when he drinks. Therefore, his servants, Genpachi the lancer and Genta the more conventional manservant are under strict orders to keep him away from the sake. As they travel to Edo to offer tribute to their lord, they fall in with an itinerant shamisen player and her young daughter. The orphaned Jirō also takes a shine to Genpachi. In fact, the first two acts have a vibe weirdly reminiscent of The Canterbury Tales, as Kojūrō and his servants re-encounter many of the same fellow travelers (to use an unfortunate term) at every inn along their route.

In this case, familiarity largely breeds respect and affection, especially from the samurai, who will bitterly reproach himself for his inability to aid them in times of tribulation. However, his own egalitarian conduct with his servants will attract the wrong sort of attention from his fellow samurai.

Bloody Spear represented Uchida’s return to the Japanese studio system after spending over a decade making movies in Manchuria, so he had to call in favors with one-time contemporaries Yasujiro Ozu and Hiroshi Shimizu to act as production advisors. In fact, there is an intimacy and a sensitivity to Bloody Spear not unlike that of their domestic dramas. Of course, that spear will eventually get bloody—and when it does, the film gets massively heavy.

Resembling today’s Kôji Yakusho, Chiezō Kataoka is all kinds of hardnosed middle-aged steeliness as Genpachi. He has the gravitas and the hack-and-slash chops, but he also develops rather sweetly tender chemistry with Chizuru Kitagawa as the shamisen player and Motoharu Ueki’s Jirō. Daisuke Katō quite effectively counterbalances Kataoka as Genta, who initially seems to be the typical Falstaffian servant but slowly reveals himself to be a considerably deeper, more complex figure. Plus, Ryunsuke Tsukigata really kicks viewers’ legs out from under them as the mysterious Tōzaburō, whose secret really elevates Bloody Spear to the level of high tragedy.

Bloody Spear is just a terrific film that combines the sort of outrage at injustice that marked Reginald Rose’s early work with an affectionate needling of the common folks’ foibles, all within the Jidaigeki format. There is a lot of life happening on the road to Edo—and Uchida takes in quite a bit of it. Very highly recommended for fans of classic cinema of any variety, Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji screens again Thursday (11/3) as part of the Tomu Uchida retrospective now underway at MoMA.

Pema Tseden’s Tharlo

For centuries, the sight of a shepherd with a pony tail has been common place in Tibet. However, things have changed in the nation, just as the occupying power intended. Filmmaker Pema Tseden often pointed out such truths—getting arrested and badly battered for his efforts—or so international observers suspect. Again, details are sketchy, just as the Communist authorities want them. The circumstances surrounding Tseden’s incarceration and hospitalization makes the piteous fate of his latest cinematic protagonist all the more poignant. In addition to the cultural oppression, the CP occupation also has a corrosive moral influence in Tseden’s Tharlo (trailer here), which opens a week-long run this Wednesday at MoMA.

Tharlo has come to the nearest provincial administrative center to receive his I.D. card, but has no context for the errand. Frankly, he is not even used to being addressed by name. Never before has he had to prove his identity. Of course, the local police chief finds Tharlo’s bemusement amusing. He is also condescendingly impressed by the Tibetan shepherd’s ability to recite a long Chairman Mao speech, even though mostly of the ideological meaning is lost on him.

Of course, an I.D. card needs a photo, so Tharlo will have to visit the local photographer catering to such business. She in turn sends him across the street to get his hair washed by the hairdresser, Yangtso. She makes quite an impression on the traditional herder with her short hair and modern attitudes. She also happens to be young and attractive. The flirtatious time they share together leads Tharlo to question his pastoral life, but his growing doubts will distract him at inopportune times.

Adapting his own novella, Tseden creates a parable of modernist temptation and subsequent downfall that eclipses Dreiser in its tragic significance. Although the local authorities are not Tharlo’s direct antagonists, Tseden makes it clear they created the climate that made his victimization possible.  The film is also visually stunning thanks to the vastly cinematic vistas of Tharlo’s Tibetan plains and Lu Songye’s stark black-and-white photography.

Despite the rugged locales, Tharlo is a relentlessly intimate film filled with uncomfortable silences and telling moments. As the title character, Tibetan comedian Shide Nyima looks like his picture should be in the dictionary next to the term “world-weary.” His haggardness is plain to see, but his innocence is just as palpable. He and Tibetan actress-vocalist Yangshik Tso develop some highly ambiguous but undeniably potent romantic chemistry together. Rather than just playing the femme fatale, she gives the worldly Yangtso subtle flesh and blood dimension.

Initially, Tharlo’s ability to rattle off Mao’s secular sermon seems rather surreal, but the third act reprise is so bitterly ironic it might leave an aftertaste of bile behind. Yet, Tseden is primarily a stroryteller, who only lets political implications seep in through osmosis. Nevertheless, there is clearly more truth in his films (such as Old Dog) than the Party is comfortable with. Highly recommended for viewers with adult attention spans, Tharlo opens this Wednesday (9/28) at MoMA.

Argentine Noir: Never Open that Door

It is a two-part triptych. Obviously, it was intended to be a trio of Cornell Woolrich (a.k.a. William Irish) short story adaptations, but in early 1950s Argentina, there was even greater pressure on filmmakers to conform to manageable running times. At least Carlos Hugo Christensen’s original vision was more or less preserved. One segment became its own film and the other two were released as a strange matching pair. Yet, the parallels between the constituent stories work rather well together in Never Open that Door, which screens as part of MoMA’s current retrospective, Death is My Dance Partner: Film Noir in Postwar Argentina.

Once the seventy-three minute If I Die Before I Wake was split off, Door became a lean and most definitely mean eighty-five minutes of hard-bitten noir goodness. The first segment is very much in the tradition of Alfred Hitchcock Presents and the various incarnations of Lucille Fletcher’s Sorry, Wrong Number, but it also has a number of night club scenes for extra swinging fun.

In “Someone’s on the Phone,” grown siblings Raul and Luisa have a wildly dysfunctional, vaguely incestuous relationship. They both live in their absentee parents’ spectacularly cinematic town house (that sort of looks like a Trader Vic’s as designed by le Corbusier), but lead separate wastrel lives. However, their privileged existence is shattered when Luisa’s mounting gambling debts culminate in her suicide. Bitterly regretting his own ineffectualness, Raul sets out to kill her tormenting mystery caller. Irony will be involved.

Many consider “Phone” the weakest of the two-film anthology, but it might be the most stylish of the lot. The big band Latin jazz is hot and Pablo Tabernero’s slick noir cinematography is super-cool. Production designer Gori Muñoz and his team also crafted an ominously decadent environment perfect for the genre.

Family relations remain problematic in “The Hummingbird Comes Home.” Blind Rosa is a virtuous widow, who lives with her devoted niece and memories of her beloved son Daniel. After eight years without contact, Daniel suddenly returns, along with two gangster associates (one of whom is unlikely to see the sun rise) and a bullet-riddled car. Despite her love for her son, Rosa is not blind to the circumstances. To save her niece, she will turn the tables on the criminals during the dark of night—when the advantage shifts to her, assuming everything goes as planned.

Once Mother Rosa kills the power, Christensen stages some wonderfully tense and skillful cat-and-mouse skulking sequences. He and Tabernero evoke a sense of her unsighted POV, while clearly conveying the action to viewers. These are scenes that are worth close study. Of course, Ilde Pirovano is the crucial X-factor as the sainted but resourceful mother.

Structurally, it is a little weird to have the considerably shorter “Phone” stuck together with the longer “Hummingbird,” but they are both crackerjack noirs, so they never clash in terms of tone or aesthetics. It is still tough to beat Hitchcock’s Rear Window or Truffaut’s Mississippi Mermaid, but Never Open that Door definitely ranks close behind amongst the many film and television adaptations of Woolrich/Irish stories and novels. Happily it has been preserved and partially restored for future fans by the Film Noir Foundation. Highly recommended, Never Open that Door screens again this Tuesday afternoon (2/16), at MoMA.

Not Playing ’15: H.

It seems strange to name your town after a legendarily sacked and subsequently lost city, but the residents of Troy, New York voted to do exactly that in 1789. They must have thought it sounded more Dutch than Pompeii. Over two hundred years later, the Hudson River burg might be going the way of its classical forerunner, but the end will come through mysterious meteors than a horse. Then again, a weird equine may yet be involved in Rania Attieh & Daniel Garcia’s relentlessly ambiguous H. (trailer here), which screens during MoMA’s annual Best Film Not Playing at a Theater Near You series.

This is Troy, New York, so it must have a few Helens. There are at least two. We will meet the older, retired Helen first. She is happily married to the not so happily married Roy. Helen is the youtube video-posting leader of Troy’s circle of “reborn baby” enthusiasts, who care for their lifelike vinyl dolls as if they really were infants. It is sort of like the Tamagotchi craze, except even creepier. Roy puts up with it stoically, but he is clearly not crazy about it.

The younger Helen is the pregnant artistic and life partner of fellow performance artist Alex. Evidently having nasty fights is part of their alleged creative process. However, younger Helen is starting to realize that portends bad things for when the baby arrives. Suddenly a meteor or some such cosmic event hits Troy—and all bets are off. Reports are sketchy, but apparently many locals have fallen into somnambulist state. They felt the urge walk into the wilderness, losing consciousness in the process. Younger Helen might be susceptible to the phenomenon, just like Roy.

Attieh & Garcia’s Homeric Troy references never really add up to anything, but it is not for a lack of belaboring them. Tonally, this film is a baffling mish-mash. Frankly, it is hard to say whether older Helen’s reborn obsession is a wildly awkward distraction or necessary groundwork to make us believe, all things being equal, Roy would rather shuffle through the forest like a zombie. At least there is some lived-in credibility to their relationship. In contrast, younger Helen and Alex are nauseatingly annoying. When we first encounter them, we see a series of their photos in which they have been made up to look battered and bruised, because domestic violence is only important when it is the subject of hipster art.

It is a shame H. is so maddeningly pretentious, because some of the apocalyptic sequences are really unnerving, precisely because they are so subtly rendered. Likewise, Alex Weston’s classical-ambient themes perfectly underscore the eerie mood. Arguably, if H. were twenty-five percent more exploitative and a third less mannered, it really could have gotten somewhere.

In some ways, Attieh & Garcia just cannot reconcile the two halves of their film. Robin Bartlett and Julian Gamble are totally credible and earthily effective as Helen and Roy. Their story also ends on a fittingly ironic note. In contrast, the Helen and Alex arc is undermined by an ambitious conclusion that was clearly beyond their budget (despite the baffling Gucci sponsorship). H. should have been more like the not half bad Perfect Sense, but it is just too consumed with its own arty self-importance. A frustrating misfire, H. screens this Friday (12/11) and Sunday (12/13) at MoMA, as part of the 2015 edition of Best Film Not Playing at a Theater Near You.

Japan Speaks Out: The Only Son

Arguably, no filmmaker ever handled father-daughter relationships with the sensitivity Yasujiro Ozu displays in Late Spring, one of his universally acknowledged “Noriko” masterpieces. Of course, he could also do mothers and sons. For Mother’s Day (more or less), Ozu’s very first talkie, The Only Son, screens as part of Japan Speaks Out, MoMA’s current survey of early Japanese talking pictures.

Although Tsune Nonomiya was widowed at an early age, she still manages to scrimp and save from her provincial silk factory job to send her one and only son Ryosuke to middle and high school. Even in 1920s Japan, she understands he will never amount to anything without an education. However, she may very well wonder if it was worth it when she finally visits her grown son in 1936 Tokyo. Much to her surprise, he has a wife and a young son. He has also lost his government job and now works as a night school instructor.

Her visit is awkward for Ryosuke because he knows how disappointed she must be. After all, he is bitterly disappointed in himself. The additional food costs are also an issue. Yet, an opportunity for redemption might arise for Ryosuke—maybe.

Ozu was one of the last major Japanese filmmakers to transition to sound, but arguably it is absolutely essential to his mature style. To fully appreciate the way he uses stillness and silence, you have to sound in order to recognize its absence. Like many of his great classics, Only Son is laden with his elegant visual haikus depicting home and hearth. Yet, there is a harder edge to the Nonomiyas’ story than one typically finds in the Norikos. Despite the trials and tribulations those characters endure, they are a warm, soothing presence. In contrast, it is rather uncomfortable to watch Nonomiya’s reunion with her son.

Chôko Iida’s performance as mother Nonomiya will just rip your heart out and stomp on it, while looking at you with sad eyes. She definitely makes you forget Irene Dunne. Frequent Ozu company player Chishû Ryû further pours on the pained dignity as Ryosuke’s former teacher, who also came to Tokyo brimming with optimism that was soon deflated like Tom Brady game-ball. Shin’ichi Himori is a bit cringey as Ryosuke, but that is sort of the point, while Yoshiko Tusbouchi quietly echoes Iida’s motherly virtue as his submissive wife.

Frankly, any Ozu film is always worth seeing, so if MoMA’s screenings of Only Son are your first opportunity to experience his masterful cinematic touch, by all means take it. Still, if you choose your introductory film at a later date, select one of his later works starring the incomparable Setsuko Hara. Regardless, Only Son paints a grim portrait of dog-eat-dog Tokyo, but it inadvertently captures the sort of generational sacrifice and resiliency that drove Japan’s rise into a global economic power, despite the devastating interruption of WWII. Recommended with all respect due to the master, The Only Son screens this coming Wednesday (5/13) and the following Wednesday (5/20) at MoMA, as part of Japan Speaks Out.

Japan Speaks Out: Our Neighbor, Miss Yae

She is the girl next door, both in a strictly literal sense and in terms what that expression typically evokes. Her sister is not, even though she has recently moved back in with Yae-chan’s family. Awkwardly, both sisters will become rivals for the attention of the same neighborhood boy in Yasujiro Shimazu’s Our Neighbor, Miss Yae, which screens as part of Japan Speaks Out, MoMA’s upcoming retrospective of early Japanese talking pictures.

Yae-chan is a high school upper-classman with eyes for Keitaro, a university freshman still living at home. He is not very romantically inclined, preferring to spend his free time eating and training his younger brother for the Koshien little league championship (memorably depicted in Umin Boya’s Kano). It would not surprise anyone if Yae-chan and Keitaro ended up together, which would be just fine with their respective parents. However, the return of Yae-chan’s older sister Kyouko complicates everything.

Arriving unexpectedly one night, Kyouko announces her intention to divorce her husband and move back in. Naturally, her parents are a bit flummoxed. Divorce is not unheard in their era, but it is still far from commonplace. Of course, they must be very mindful of appearances. Both fathers are lower middleclass middle-managers, who have not exactly distinguished themselves in their careers. Still, everyone gets used to having Kyouko around, except maybe Yae-chan, who becomes increasingly frustrated by Keitaro’s apparent interest in the older woman.

Shimazu was a master of Japanese shomin-geki (home dramas), predating the master of masters, Yasujiro Ozu. Neighbor will surely bring to mind the look and vibe of Ozu’s classic films, but it feels worldlier and less delicate. We need not place it in terrarium for its own protection. Frankly, there is no way this endearingly innocent family film would have passed Hollywood’s Hays Code.

In fact, Neighbor is a richly ambiguous film in a number of ways, particularly with respect to Kyouko’s marriage. While her parents assume she has left her unseen hubby out of general flightiness, Shimazu offers enough hints for Twenty-First Century Westerners to suspect there were darker, more abusive reasons Kyouko rejects her married life. As a result, it is hard to determine with certainty whether Neighbor is a feminist or anti-feminist film, but that makes it much more intriguing.

Yet, there is no better reason to watch and enjoy Neighbor than Yumeko Aizome’s wonderfully sensitive yet lively performance as Yae-chan. Just as Shimazu prefigures Ozu’s masterworks, her work is reminiscent of Setsuko Hara’s Norikos. She makes emotional resiliency something rather breezy and cute.

Neighbor is the sort of film that will inspire nostalgia in viewers for a time they maybe never really knew. There is something very appealing about the casual mi-casa-su-casa intimacy shared by the two families, even when unsettling reminders of what of the early 1930s meant in Japan obliquely seep in (like Keitaro’s German homework). There is a messiness to the resolution that also rings true to the unruliness of life. Very highly recommended, Our Neighbor, Miss Yae screens this Wednesday (5/6) and Saturday the 16^th at MoMA, as part of the upcoming Japan Speaks Out film series.

Discovering Georgian Cinema: April Chill (short)

April 9^th is now Georgia’s official Day of National Unity. This film shows why. Everybody always assumed good old Gorby would never send in the tanks to crush dissent, but he did in Tbilisi. Hundreds were severely injured and twenty people died that fateful day, seventeen of whom were women. While many were beaten beyond recognition, CN and CS gas inhalation was the primary cause of death. One of the Soviet invaders gets a glimpse of the true warrior’s spirit in Tornike Bziava’s Clermont-Ferrand award winning short film, April Chill, which screens during MoMA’s ongoing Discovering Georgian Cinema series.

As several of the Soviet “soldiers” note, it was quite a nice day for their ruthless business. The enlisted men duly follow their orders, chasing democracy demonstrators into barricades, rounding up and beating anyone who looks suspicious. Like good Communists, most of the Soviets seem to enjoy the crackdown, including the focal character. However, the sound of a hand drum and rhythmic counting sparks his curiosity. Within a battle-scarred Soviet Brutalist building, he encounters a young boy learning to perform the traditional military-inspired Georgian Khorumi Dance.

He will learn something about dignity and determination from that boy, but it probably will not be enough to make a difference for his soul or the Georgian people’s immediate well-being. Chill is a brilliantly shot short film that viscerally captures the panic and abject terror caused by the Soviet shock troops. Giorgi Devdariani’s black-and-white cinematography is starkly arresting. He and Bziava frame the action in inventive ways that create jarring perceptual effects. Bziava also uses the imposing Soviet-era architecture to convey a vivid sense of place.

Although Chill is more of a director’s film than an actor’s showcase, there is no denying the fierceness of the young boy. He has the dance chops too. It only runs for a mere fifteen minutes, but it manages to say quite a bit with great eloquence. Sadly, it is also terribly timely. In 1989, nobody thought Soviet tanks would roll into Georgia, yet they certainly did. Afterward, nobody thought they would ever return, but they already have. Now it’s Ukraine’s turn. April Chill shows viewers just what that entails, in bracingly up-close-and-personal terms. Very highly recommended, April Chill screens with The Other Bank this Wednesday (12/3) and next Wednesday (12/10) as part of MoMA’s continuing survey of Georgian cinema.

Discovering Georgian Cinema: Blue Mountains, or an Unbelievable Story

Georgian book publishers were probably not amused by this portrayal suggesting they were mostly a bunch of self-absorbed loons, who lolly-gagged around the office, pretending they had read manuscripts they never touched. As a publishing professional myself, I can safely say: “no comment.” Initially, the Soviet authorities were what you might call “circumspect,” prohibiting director-co-writer Eldar Shengelaia from attending the international film festivals that had happily accepted it (despite his Party membership). Roughly thirty years later, with a freer, more enlightened government now elected in Georgia, Shengelaia will be in New York to present Blue Mountains, or an Unbelievable Story when it screens as part of MoMA’s latest film series, Discovering Georgian Cinema, Part 1: A Family Affair.

Soso has just finished his next novel, Blue Mountains or Tian Shan. Yes, it has two titles, like Melville’s Pierre: or the Ambiguities—a fact that constantly vexes the Director of Soso’s publishing house, when he remembers it. Soso will make the rounds, duly dropping off copies of the manuscript to staff throughout the office, all of whom are delighted to have it and pledge to read it immediately, including the Director.  Yet, each time Soso returns, he makes the same circuit through the house, getting largely the same empty promises. Meanwhile, only the mining engineer eternally waiting to pitch his collection of folk stories notices the cracks in the ceiling growing at an alarming rate.

Thirty years have passed, but Blue Mountains is as razor sharp as ever. It is a masterfully constructed satire, that repeats large tracts of dialogue, but the implications become ever more absurd as the seasons and circumstances change. Poor Soso does everything by the book (if you will), yet he can never jump through enough bureaucratic hoops.

Although Blue Mountains does not address politics per se, it is easy to see how an apparatchik could decide Shengelaia’s ruthless send-up of bureaucracy, paperwork, and meetings was just bad for Party business. Nevertheless, it eventually won several Soviet film awards (presumably because they had to give them to something credible). Evidently, even if you were a cultural commissar, the humor of Shengelaia and Rezo Cheishvili’s screenplay was still quite potent stuff.

As Soso, Ramaz Giorgobiani might be the greatest cinematic straight-man ever, perfectly facilitating the comedic chaos, while serving as a sympathetic audience surrogate. Gosh darn it, we would really like to see Blue Mountains or Tian Shan get published in the end, but don’t get your hopes up. Likewise, Teimuraz Chirgadze deftly modulates the Director’s madness, at times almost coming across reasonably, given the bedlam erupting around him.

The subtitles are absolutely no hindrance to a wickedly droll skewering of paper-pushery. In all truth, Blue Mountains is a masterwork of international cinema, bordering on outright masterpiece status. Shengelaia is also a fascinating figure in his own right, who had a long and tumultuous political career, leading up to his support for the Rose Revolution. It is an altogether fitting selection for MoMA’s Georgian retrospective and his presence at its initial screening there should be considered a real event. Very highly recommended, Blue Mountains, or an Unbelievable Story screens this Wednesday (9/24) and next Monday (9/29) at MoMA.

Discovering Georgian Cinema: Will There Be a Theatre Up There

When celebrated actor Kakhi Kavsadze states he came of age in a country that no longer exists, he perhaps should not speak so soon. Putin clearly has designs to reassert the USSR’s old spheres of domination and Kavsadze’s native Georgia was one of the first nations he trained his military crosshairs on. Yet, current events make Kavsadze’s reminiscences of the Stalin era even more poignant in Nana Janelidze’s documentary, Will There Be a Theatre Up There?! (trailer here), which screens during MoMA’s new film series, Discovering Georgian Cinema, Part 1: A Family Affair.

Kavsadze came from a long line of well respected traditional Georgian singers, as Stalin himself would attest. A letter from the dictator to his revered grandfather has a special place of irony in his family’s history. Kavsadze’s father was also an accomplished vocalist and choir-master, but WWII was not kind to him, or Kavsadze’s family by extension. The senior Kavsadze managed to save scores of Georgians POWs by organizing a camp choir, but such benign survival strategies would earn him the label: “enemy of the people.”

Through his words and occasional songs, Kavsadze revisits his early childhood years, paying tribute to his parents for enduring their endless tribulations. Technically, it all takes place in one location, but the hanger-like industrial building re-purposed as a film studio is remarkably versatile. Janelidze will often stage dramatic tableaux to illustrate Kavsadze’s recollections, which frequently seem to stir legitimate emotions deep within the grand thespian.

Kavsadze’s stories are about as personal as they get, yet they offer tremendous insight into the nature of the Communist system. Perhaps most telling is the episode in which a pair of KGB agents came to the Kavsadze home looking for an incriminating document, but tried to carry off their dinner table instead (fun fact: Putin was a veteran KGB agent).

Kavsadze is a forceful presence who truly commands the viewer’s attention. Likewise, Janelidze’s sparse but elegant approach gives rise to some striking images that often bring to mind Eastern European cinematic classics, like Wajda’s Everything for Sale. Despite its relatively short running time (fifty-five minutes), Theatre offers viewers quite a bit to take in. It is especially fitting that it had a special screening during this summer’s Odessa International Film Festival, since Georgia has been informally advising Ukraine how to respond when Russia invades their sovereign territory. Very highly recommended, Will There Be a Theatre Up There?! screens this Thursday (9/25) and Sunday (10/5) as part of MoMA’s upcoming Georgian film series.

Marina Abramovic: the Performance Artist is Present

An innovator in her field, Marina Abramović made the seemingly ephemeral performance art collectible.  The limited edition photographic prints of her performances would play a role in her 2010 trailblazing career retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art.  While it also featured re-stagings of her famous work by a troupe of young collaborators, the cornerstone of the exhibit was a brand new Abramović performance conceived specifically for the show.  Deceptively simple, it would prove one her most physically and emotionally grueling undertakings.  Matthew Akers follows her preparations and 736 hours of on-site performance in the HBO documentary Marina Abramović: the Artist is Present (trailer here), which opens theatrically this Wednesday in New York at Film Forum.

The concept is pretty simple.  There are two chairs.  Abramović sits in one and the public queues up to sit in the other.  For a while there was a table between them, but Abramović removed during the performance.  There is no talking, just eye contact.  However, many participants find great significance in their real or perceived unspoken communication. 

From March 14^th to May 31^st, as long as the museum was open to the public, Abramović was in her chair.  Though her prior work is rather notorious for its extreme transgressiveness (often featuring nudity and self-inflicted physical pain), the need to be constantly “on” throughout The Artist is Present pushed her to her limits.  After all, these are New Yorkers she was facing, at least for the most part.  Any questionable character could walk in, including even James Franco, who shockingly comes across like a shallow, self-absorbed twit during his brief sit with Abramović.

If nothing else, Present the documentary will give viewers a deep appreciate for the professionalism of the MoMA’s security personnel.  They are quite impressive sweeping down on the inevitable freaks crossing the line.  However, the film makes a crucial miscalculation, assuming Abramović’s performances are so self-evidently “art,” they require no case to be made on their behalf.  Yet, the film could rather use such a manifesto moment.  It is clear Abramović’s performance becomes a cultural phenomenon, but that does not necessarily make it art.

Indeed, more cultural-historical context would help aesthetically conservative viewers come to terms with Abramović and her performances.  The daughter of an overbearing military martinet of a mother, recognized as a hero of Communist Yugoslavia, Abramović herself acknowledges the influence of her excessively disciplined early years on her outré art.  However, the subversive use of Communist and Russian imagery in her early performances is never explored in depth.  Neither does Akers ever push for her perspective on the early 1990’s Bosnian War as an expatriate Serbian, even though it is an issue that will surely cross the mind of most viewers.

An accomplished cinematographer, director-dp Akers films Abramović with sensitivity bordering on reverence.  Frankly, he might have become too close to his subject.  While the overwrought emotional responses of many sitters may have seemed appropriate to those sharing the moment, it looks more than a little bizarre on screen.  The resulting film is often fascinating, but it rather feels like reality television for the elite of the gallery world.  Recommended for partisans of the avant-garde, Marina Abramović: the Artist is Present opens this Wednesday (6/13) at Film Forum, ahead of its HBO broadcast on July 2nd.

Truly Extraordinary Stories

In a tried and true film noir convention, a stranger comes to town. He is not particularly strange, nor is the town, but the resulting stories are unusually intricate and slippery in nature. Yet, it is the telling of them that is the whole point of Mariano Llinás’ obsessive-compulsive four-and-a-half-hour thriller Extraordinary Stories, which begins a special week-long run at MoMA today as part their retrospective celebration of Cinema Tropical’s tenth anniversary.

Actually, not one, but three unnamed strangers come to provincial Argentina for work that seems absurd, only to find themselves sidetracked by skullduggery of some sort or another. “Z” is supposed to be performing some sort of survey work, which the ubiquitous narrator tells us not to worry about at this stage, when he happens upon a lethal falling out between conspirators. Finding himself an inadvertent participant, Z largely sequesters himself shortly thereafter.

“X” has reluctantly accepted a figurehead position “managing” the regional office of something simply called “the Federation.” Initially, he fears getting stuck there like his anonymous predecessor. However, as he learns about the mysterious Cuevas, X becomes increasingly obsessed with the recently deceased bureaucrat. “H” has also accepted a job that makes no sense to him. Yet, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation why he was hired to photograph old concrete markers placed along the river, which is explained in detail during Extraordinary’s first of many flashbacks.

Extraordinary is a lot like an Alain Robbe-Grillet novel, accept it has a recognizable plot. In fact, it has a whole mess of plot, bursting with flashbacks, back-story, and red herrings. At one point a tangential character even appropriates Z’s plot line, but considering how much time he spends hiding in his hotel room, viewers can hardly blame Lola Gallo, the narrative femme fatale.

While the comparisons to the literary gamesmanship of Borges and Cortázar are obvious, Llinás more or less keeps matters grounded in reality. Despite the film’s many lingering mysteries, he surprisingly establishes the truth of just what did and did not happen in a number of instances with explicit clarity. As a result, viewers are more likely to be dazzled by his elaborate puzzle than feel played. Rather, one might say Extraordinary is a game, not a con.

Clearly, Extraordinary is all about concept and execution. For good portions of the film, actors are only seen as tiny ants dotting open fields or figures obscured by shadows in cramped spaces. Indeed, it is not happenstance that X, Z, and H are reserved, even withdrawn characters. However, Ana Livingston gives the film a jolt as energy as the elusive Gallo, while Lola Arias and Mariana Chaud add credible human dimensions as the daughters of the Italian farmer X eventually takes refuge with. Of course, it would be far too complicated to explain how he gets there. Besides, the narrator(s) are dying to explain it all.

Indeed, it is that sense of story persistently unfolding the so assuredly pulls the audience through all 245 discursive minutes of the film. (It certainly is not the shabby looking video, though given the running time, obviously trade-offs had to be made). Regardless of his macro structure, Llinás’ on-screen developments are interesting on a micro level. That is the real trick. Frankly, it is why post-modernism has won academia yet lost the culture. No matter what the implications of Heisenberg or Foucault might be, people want to hear stories. Extraordinary has them in spades. Remarkably ambitious, yet completely engrossing, it is an altogether aptly titled film. MoMA and Cinema Tropical deserve considerable credit for programming it for a full week (six days), starting this afternoon (5/4). Considering how tricky it is to book a 245 minute subtitled film, patrons are strongly advised to see it while they can.

NYKFF ’10: Good Morning, President

South Korea’s democracy might be relatively young, but writer-director Jang Jin will age it quickly. In a bit over two hours, he takes viewers through three successive “ripped from the headlines” fictionalized presidencies in the light-hearted comedy Good Morning, President (trailer here), which screens at MoMA as part of the New York Korean Film Festival.

Lame-duck President Kim Jung-ho has two dilemmas. A respected veteran of the democracy protests, he intends to pardon two of his authoritarian predecessors as an act of national reconciliation, but has had difficulty selling the idea to the public. His symbolic purchase of a national lottery ticket also just hit the multi-million won jackpot, but how can he collect?

Eventually, the old warhorse turns over the reins to Cha Ji-wook, the youthful single-father son of one of Kim’s former cohorts. Cha immediately faces a foreign policy crisis when militaristic Japan precipitates an international incident with a peaceful North Korea that was just minding its own business (I kid you not). However, his successor, South Korea’s first woman president, Han Kyuong-ja, faces a more personal crisis when her unsophisticated husband’s ill-conceived dealings raise the danger of her impeachment.

Morning works best when it is least political, finding humor in the rather unusual circumstances that come with being a public figure. As President Kim, Lee Soon-jae has a flair for physical humor and outrageous situations, never resorting to crass mugging. Han Chae-young is also quite attractive as his daughter Kim Ei-young, who eventually becomes the press secretary of President Han and a potential love interest for President Cha.

In contrast, Cha’s political story arc is essentially kumbaya wish-fulfillment that ignores the psychotic nature of the Northern regime, while indulging in old-fashioned American and Japanese bashing. Still, Jang Dong-gun has movie-star presence as Cha. Bringing to mind Cherry Jones’ President Allison Taylor on 24 (unfortunately), President Han’s administration gets short shrift, concentrating instead on her domestic problems. In fact, the best scenes of Morning’s third leg feature the reappearances of her two predecessors.

Politically, Morning is rather simplistic, but it is fairly accomplished in the fart joke department. There are indeed a number of gentle laughs, particularly in Kim’s administration and enough romance throughout to pull viewers through. A film with a Clintonesque need to be liked, Morning screens again this afternoon (9/24) at MoMA and Sunday after next (10/3) at BAM, as the New York Korean Film Festival continues.

Global Lens ’10: The Shaft

As a consequence of its One-Child policy, marriageable women are now scarce in China, and the situation is only projected to get worse. This will obviously result in long-term sociological shocks, but the effects are already being felt to some extent. Such realities indirectly influence one family struggling to find its way in a remote mining village in Zhang Chi’s The Shaft (trailer here), which screens this week at MoMA as part of their annual Global Lens collaboration with the Global Film Initiative.

Old Baogen very definitely lives in a company town. Your choices for employment are basically mining and not much else. Baogen has worked in the mines for years while raising his son and daughter as a single parent. His daughter Jingshui now works in the mining company’s front office and has been carrying on a clandestine relationship with Daming, a rather taciturn miner. His son Jingsheng does not want to follow in his father’s footsteps, but having made a complete hash of high school, stopping just short of formally dropping out, he has no real alternatives.

Looking distinctly out of place in this drab environment, the beautiful Jingshui is far out of Daming’s league, but rumors of an affair with her supervisor have disturbed him, fraying their relationship. Still, as a woman, she has certain options for leaving town—namely marriage—not open to her slacker brother.

Though it is organized as a triptych, Shaft forms a complete and sequential storyline without any doubling back or other tiresome narrative games so popular in festival films lately. This is the story of Baogen’s family, incomplete as they might be. After all, someone is obviously missing: their mother, a trafficked bride who was reclaimed by her family after the birth of Jingsheng.

In many ways, Shaft is the flip side to Li Yang’s Blind Mountain, humanizing those who have resorted to buying wives through unsavory means. It is a decision that still clearly tortures old Baogen, both for what his wife endured and that his children grew up without a mother as a result.

Though Shaft never offers any direct criticism of the Chinese government per se, its unflattering depiction of contemporary society could hardly be considered propaganda either. Indeed, Zhang’s sets a grim, naturalistic tone throughout the film. Yet for all the tribulations endured by Baogen’s family, it is not a hopelessly bleak film. In fact, it actually ends on a relatively optimistic note (another rarity among serious festival films). Shaft is also buoyed by a strong principle cast, particularly the haunting Luoqian Zheng as Jingshui. Pulling off the trickiest role, Deyuan Luo keeps old Baogen sympathetic despite his past, giving the film a real humanist heart.

Global Lens tends to select serious art films that can sometimes be a bit of a tough haul to get through. Though the quiet Shaft is certainly not a megaplex movie, it is never obscure or dryly intellectual. At its core, it is a family drama, and a rather good one at that. Easily one of the best of this year’s Global Lens, Shaft screens at MoMA through Wednesday (1/27).