Eastwood’s Hereafter

That bright light must be significant. Near death researchers argue that since so many accounts agree on the particulars, there must be something to them. Some even hint at a conspiracy of silence in Clint Eastwood’s latest film, but the jazz-supporting actor-director thankfully never veers too far into such X-Filish territory in Hereafter (trailer here), which opens today in New York before expanding nationally next week.

Conversing with the dead made psychic George Lonegan nearly unfit for life among the living. Much to the dismay of his slick operator brother, he chucked it all in, despite the serious money to be made, preferring a quiet blue collar life. Yet, just like Pacino’s Michael Corleone, he keeps getting pulled back into his former life. French television talking head Marie Lelay got a glimpse of what haunts Lonegan. Caught up in a Southeast Asian tsunami, she briefly crossed over and back. Slightly preoccupied with the experience, her career and romantic relationship suffer as a result. While in third story arc, young Marcus, an identical twin grieving his brother Jason, is desperately searching for a legitimate medium like Lonegan amidst all the charlatans of London’s New Age scene.

Eventually, these three twains will meet, but it takes an awfully long time to get there. Despite the supernatural themes, Eastwood strives for an elegiac tone throughout Hereafter, eschewing cheap chills. (However, it is truly horrifying when the action culminates at a publishing trade show.) Though a bit snoozy, the director’s string-heavy score sets the right mood. Indeed, Hereafter has a very Euro-art film sense of time and ambiance.

Arguably, Hereafter is one of those films whose whole is less than the sum of its parts. The opening tsunami sequences are reasonably intense and realistic. However, subsequent scenes of Lelay moping around taking bad career advice are paint-by-numbers stuff. Lonegan’s relationship with his brother is also rather standard issue, but his aborted flirtation with a fellow student in his adult ed cooking class is sharply written and really finely turned, by Matt Damon and Bryce Dallas Howard, respectively. However, the most reliable strand involves the two twins, quite impressively played by Frankie and George McLaren. Completely natural in every scene, they are remarkably assured young actors.

Sensitively lensed by cinematographer Tom Stern, Hereafter is certainly a classy package. The discrete payoff might also grow on mature viewers upon later reflection. However, the overall presentation is a bit too long and much too self-serious. A respectable film but nowhere nearly as engaging as Gran Torino, Hereafter seems unlikely to be a major player come awards season. Earning a modest recommendation, Hereafter opens today (10/15) in New York at the AMC Loews Lincoln Square and Regal Union Square 14, before spreading wider next Friday.

Assayas' Carlos

Ilich Ramírez Sánchez killed on behalf of just about every violent extremist movement of the twentieth century. Sheltered by the East German Stasi, he was most closely aligned with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP). An ardent Marxist and notorious terrorist, Ramírez Sánchez is best known as the infamous “Carlos the Jackal” (though he preferred just plain “Carlos”). French director Olivier Assayas dramatizes his infamous crimes (and there are a lot of them) in his grandly ambitious, thinly fictionalized historical thriller Carlos (trailer here), which screens in its full five and a half hour glory for 38 special "Roadshow Edition" presentations at the IFC Center starting today (with popcorn included).

Soviet educated, the Venezuelan Ramírez Sánchez views the world through a radicalized prism. He is convinced “direct action” (meaning terrorism) is necessary to bring about supposedly progressive change. A promising volunteer for the PFLP terrorist network, Carlos steadily establishes a reputation for ruthlessness with a number of grenade attacks on cafes and the unsuccessful assassination attempt of Edward Sieff, president of Marks & Spencer and a prominent member of the British Jewish community.

Carlos forged alliances with the Japanese Red Army and extremist German Baader Meinhof/RAF splinter groups, acting more or less in concert. While he was not directly involved in the murder of the Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics or the hijacking of Air France Flight 139 freed by IDF’s famous Entebbe operation, he was personally charged with subsequent reprisal attacks. However, his greatest international infamy probably arose from his attack on the 1975 OPEC meeting, taking the cartel’s delegates hostage.

Ramírez Sánchez is an anti-Semitic mass murderer. His crimes have no justification. Wisely, Assayas does not really go down that road. While his Carlos has a certain animal magnetism and a voracious sexual appetite, the film never makes a martyr of him, unlike the terrorist agit-prop of Uli Edel’s Baader Meinhof Complex. Essentially, Assayas shows Ramírez Sánchez going about his destructive business rather matter-of-factly, only occasionally paying lip service to some leftist cause, such as Allende in Chile. Yet, there are a handful of truly telling scenes, as when a former RAF accomplice remarks to Carlos how sick it is for Germans like himself to be killing Jews.

The five plus hours of Carlos are packed to the gills with violent intrigue. Yet, it is all pretty well grounded in historical fact. Indeed, it is quite in synch with the facts established in Barbet Schroeder’s Terror’s Advocate, a documentary profile of Jacques Vergés, the attorney for Ramírez Sánchez, the PFLP, and just about every other terrorist of the twentieth century (who also briefly appears as a character in Carlos). Frankly, it would make a much better double feature with Assayas’s film than Edel’s love-letter to terror.

Edgar Ramírez is appropriately both charismatic and creepy as Ramírez Sánchez, nicely capturing the ferocity of extremism. There are also scores of effective supporting performances from its large but completely credible ensemble cast. Yet, Carlos is much more a director’s film than an actor’s, seamlessly recreating complicated historical events around the globe and staging gritty action sequences with tick-tock precision.

Originally broadcast on French television and recently on the IFC Channel, Carlos might be divided into three parts, but it truly is one unified film, entirely helmed by Assayas (unlike the three interlocking films of Red Riding). Truthfully, the 319 minutes is a long haul. As fascinating and absorbing as it is, most viewers will be desperately hoping for his capture by the final half hour. For those with short attention spans, a two and half hour cut will also screen at the Lincoln Plaza. However, if you are going to see a big epic film like Carlos, you should do it right and get the full Roadshow experience at the IFC Center starting today (10/15).

From the Outback to the Streets: Samson & Delilah

Australia is a Commonwealth country, but it has roughly 150 living indigenous languages (though the majority of those are considered endangered). By capturing the life and language of a central Australian Aboriginal community, Warwick Thornton’s feature debut Samson & Delilah (trailer here) earned considerable attention as the country’s official 2009 submission for best foreign language Oscar consideration. After a bit of a wait, the Cannes Camera D’Or winner finally begins its regular theatrical engagement in New York this Friday.

With names like Samson and Delilah, it would seem like the two young aboriginal teenagers were meant to be together. Yet, as the film opens, both will need some convincing, particularly the distinctly unimpressed Delilah. Her ailing grandmother is all for it though. Eventually, they somewhat warm to each other, but when the elder women of the community turn against Delilah under tragic circumstances, she and Samson leave their hardscrabble homes to live on the streets of the big city. This turns out to be a harrowing mistake.

Delilah was a responsible young woman, content to take care of her aging Nana. By contrast, Samson could euphemistically be called a troubled youth. A compulsive huffer with anger management issues, he could use some growing up. As a result, he is probably not the best partner to face the dangers of homelessness with—a fact Thornton viscerally drives home in spades.

Watching S&D is a bit like stepping in front of a speeding freight train. Beyond naturalistic, its brutal realism can be overwhelming. While it might be difficult to watch at times, Thornton exerts a rather masterful control over the audience’s emotional responses. He also has a shrewd ear for soundtrack music, whipsawing viewers from the effectively anachronistic country of Charlie Pride to the ever present garage ska band chugging away outside Samson’s squat window.

Thornton’s young leads are disturbingly realistic as the street-dwelling teens. Marissa Gibson is truly heart-rending as Delilah, while as Samson, Rowan McNamara gives a rather courageous performance, portraying all his irresponsibility and manifold character weaknesses. Indeed, despite its tangible anger regarding the inequities faced by Aboriginal Australians, S&D never lets its characters off the hook for their personal failings.

S&D is a tough, uncompromising film. Though Warwick risks wallowing in the degradation of his protagonists, his relentless realism is always honest to their traumatic story and mean circumstances. Like Jay Rosenblatt’s The Darkness of Day, it is definitely recommended, but only to those not predisposed to chronic depression. It opens this Friday (10/15) in Manhattan at the Village East and in Brooklyn at IndieScreen.

Hurry Up Mid-Terms: I Want Your Money

In the time it takes to watch Ray Griggs’ new documentary, the current administration will rack up another $182,000,000 in debt. It’s not that long, either. While the makers of I.O.U.S.A. are strangely silent on the Obama debt explosion, it is nice to know some filmmakers have their eye on the ball. Audiences will even be able to see Griggs’ I Want Your Money (trailer here) when it opens in over 500 theaters tomorrow, though not in New York City (but it will screen in Albany, where the message of fiscal discipline is also sorely needed).

The trailer for Want is already something of an internet sensation, racking up over 450,000 views. It shrewdly showcases the strength of the film—bobble-head inspired animation featuring President Reagan schooling Obama in economics. It is often pretty funny in a subversive way. However, the lesson hews more closely to theory than nuts and bolts data, so it is doubtful to change many partisan minds. This is unfortunate, considering the opportunity Want has to influence the debate through its impressive distribution and attention grabbing animation.

Griggs and lead animator Alex Kahn nicely capture the famous twinkle in Reagan’s eye and the pomposity of his current successor. While the core audience might not groove to the caricature of President George W. Bush as a well-meaning frat boy, it establishes nonpartisan cred for the film. Still, the lecherous Bill Clinton jokes feel a bit old by now. (Indeed, it would be cleverer and more cutting to lampoon the ways he has cravenly sold his services since leaving office.)

Want also features a tea party rally’s worth of talking head interviews, including new media maverick Andrew Breitbart (disclosure: I have contributed to his Big Hollywood site), as well as imminently recognizable political figures like former Speaker Newt Gingrich, Rep. Thaddeus McCotter, Steve Forbes, and Michael Reagan. Frankly, they probably should have been allowed more time to present their points, particularly someone like Forbes, who understands economics better than nearly anyone in public life today.

The facts are on Griggs side, so one wishes he used them more. Comparing the fiscal heath of a state like Texas to a New York teetering on the brink of insolvency makes the point, as does the economic record of the current administration. Want is pleasantly entertaining and surely cannot hurt, but it is unlikely to appreciably reshape the debate. It opens nationwide this Friday (10/15), including the Crossgates Cinemas 18 in the Empire State’s capitol.

Brazil at its Seediest: Carmo Hit the Road

Even in romantic Brazil, border towns are pretty skuzzy. There are not a lot of career opportunities either, unless you happen to be a self-starting smuggler. Determined to get out of town, the floozyish Carmo invites herself along with a particularly surly contraband runner, but there will be no clean getaways in Murila Pasta’s gritty, grimy road movie, Carmo, Hit the Road (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Carmo has been trading on her looks and rather flexible morals, but it has not gotten her far enough from her past. Carrying merchandise hot two-times over, the wheel chair bound Marco is not looking for a partner, but circumstances force him together with Carmo. Naturally, they bicker, sulk, and part ways several times, while the goods in the back of Marco’s track (whatever they might be) often change hands between him and a rival pair of low life thugs out to hijack his big score.

Though these might be relatively standard issue road movie capers, the earthy characters have a refreshing lack of quirkiness. Do not look to Marco for cheap life-affirming inspiration. Instead, Fele Martínez’s admirably unsentimental performance brims with anger, resentment, and considerable menace. Likewise, writer-director Pasta never sugarcoats Carmo’s less than ladylike life strategies. Indeed, Road is largely distinguished by the honesty of its characterizations (aside from the cartoony portrayal of Carmo’s sexually voracious, super Catholic mother). Yet, Pasta dissonantly wraps it up with a gauzy, compulsively happy ending completely at odds with the grungy naturalism that led up to it.

Intense and frankly a bit scary, Martínez is just really darn good as Marco. Credibly attractive but not ridiculously so, Mariana Loureiro also holds her own quite nicely, projecting a strength of character to match Marco’s bitterness. Together they exhibit decent screen chemistry, allowing the audience to buy into their inevitable mutual attraction.

It is hard not to smile at the Latinized version of Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road Jack” heard all too briefly in Pasta’s feature debut. Still, make no mistake, Road is no Two for the Road or It Happened One Night. At times, there are moments of jarring violence totally consistent with its seamy border-town setting. Indeed, that effectively seedy atmosphere and the strong performances of its two principal leads nicely differentiate Road from other recent road movie offerings. Bold in its grubbiness, Road opens this Friday (10/15) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Tragic Collage: Jay Rosenblatt’s The Darkness of Day

Those of a certain age will remember the old classroom film projector and the dated-for-decades films that used to flicker through them. Experimental filmmaker Jay Rosenblatt certainly does. His latest work consists entirely of such found footage. Like Jonas Mekas (a comparison that would surely flatter the filmmaker), Rosenblatt is obviously fascinated by the promise of castoff cans of film, frequently assembling their retro images into cinematic essays, like The Darkness of Day, the title film of a mini-retrospective program of Rosenblatt’s recent work that begins a weeklong run at MoMA tomorrow.

Consisting of two substantial twenty-some minute meditations on mortality and three comparatively minor shorts, the Darkness program starts with the blackly comic Afraid So, a briefly sardonic answer to the question “how bad can things get,” marrying Rosenblatt’s vintage imagery to Garrison Keillor’s recitation of Jeanne Marie Beaumont’s poem of the same name.

Indeed, the unspoken refrain “afraid so” seems all too apt for Rosenblatt, considering the personal tragedies that inspired the longer, richer films of Darkness. Though Rosenblatt was only nine years old when his younger brother died, the ever-present grief and guilt he and his parents suffer to this day is a tangible presence in Phantom Limb. At first, Rosenblatt’s constructivist technique feels at odds with the confessional tenor of Limb’s first vaguely Kübler-Ross-echoing section, yet it becomes clear this is how Rosenblatt processes his pain. Disconcertingly, he strips his family emotionally bare with silent, brutally honest inter-titles, interspersed with ironic imagery culled from film archives.

Yet, Limb goes beyond mere collage, making larger connections and drawing wider parallels, as when interviewing a man experiencing phantom pains after losing an arm. While it might sound like a questionable mish-mash, especially for such a delicate topic, Rosenblatt somehow maintains a deeply elegiac tone, aided in great measure by the music of Estonian minimalist classical composer Arvo Pärt, including his starkly beautiful Für Alina. (No stranger to hardship himself, Pärt’s music was banned under Communism and he dedicated all performances of his work during the 2006-2007 season to the murdered Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya.)

Though not quite as moving (or as challenging) as Limb, The Darkness of Day rather unflinchingly examines suicide with found footage that often looks too disturbing for the staid era during which it was filmed. Drawing on the journals of a friend who killed himself, Rosenblatt revisits famous suicides past, like that of the Japanese student who started a national craze when she hurled herself into the Mount Mihara volcano in 1933. Yet, where Limb offered a synthesis of grief, obscure and elusive as it might be, Darkness is only a cautionary lamentation that makes no pretenses of consolation.

As the closing titles reveal, Rosenblatt’s family was also touched by suicide during the production of Darkness. Along with Limb, it is one of the more grimly powerful works one will see programmed under the rubric of experimental film anytime soon. Frankly, the other two shorts films are rather flat in comparison, especially I Just Wanted to be Somebody, which essentially gloats at Anita Bryant’s divorce and professional setbacks following her famous foray into the gay rights debate. However, Limb and Darkness are undeniably the guts of the program and they are worth seeing—provided viewers are not predisposed to depression. The Darkness program opens at MoMA on the (lucky) 13th, with Rosenblatt in attendance for the Wednesday and Friday night screenings.

Mourning in Mexico: Norah’s Will

José Kurtz is an atheist, or at least he plays one to annoy the religious leaders of Mexico City’s tightly knit Jewish community. That puts him in an awkward spot when charged with organizing the funeral services for his former wife Norah. Yet, it quickly becomes clear nobody knew her better than her curmudgeonly ex in Mariana Chenillo’s elegant elegy Norah’s Will (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

When Kurtz walked out on the mother of his grown son, he did not get far—just across the street, in fact. Still in contact, he thinks nothing of receiving a large shipment of frozen meat for her, presumably for the upcoming Passover dinner. Indeed, her final exit appears to be part of a grand manipulative act to gather the family together. Unfortunately, her suicide and Kurtz’s prickly attitude make it difficult for him to fulfill the terms of her will—particularly the religious burial service.

Though we occasionally see a younger Norah in flashbacks, it is remarkable how well Chenillo establishes the dynamics of their complicated relationship through José’s eyes. In the process, we come to understand he was actually a far better father and husband than his son will ever know. One of the great grumpy old men of the movies, Fernando Luján’s José Kurtz is devilishly funny and painfully real. It is one of the most gracefully nuanced turns audiences will see on-screen for quite a while.

Unfortunately, the acorn seems to have fallen fairly far from the tree with his rather milquetoast son Rubén, never really brought to life by Ari Brickman. In truth, most of the extended family is colorful in a rather bland indie movie kind of way. Yet, it is Luján’s film and he makes the most of it in several deeply moving scenes. Wisely, it also holds onto a few of its secrets, in effect respecting the privacy of its lead characters.

A classy package, Chenillo and cinematographer Alberto Anaya Adalid bathe Will in warm glowing light, giving the proceedings an art-house sheen, while Darío González’s score is appropriately sensitive (if not especially memorable). It all serves an apparently simple but surprisingly deep family drama. It is even ultimately forgiving of organized religion, finding wiser representatives than the fuss-budgets Kurtz delights in antagonizing.

Mexico City’s Jewish community has proved quite cinematic, appearing in Alejandro Springall’s relatively recent My Mexican Shivah as well. (Hopefully, the next such film will involve a wedding rather than a funeral.) It proves to be a milieu worth revisiting though. At heart, Will is a deeply humanistic love story, featuring a near perfect screen performance from Luján. Wiser and gentler than most of the decidedly gritty recent Mexican cinematic imports, Will is definitely recommended. It opens this Friday (10/15) uptown at the Paris Theatre, New York’s single screen movie palace.

ESPN in Theaters: The Two Escobars

In the wake of the scandals that rocked the game of baseball, it is impossible to pretend the illicit drug trade never intersects the world of sports. After all, if you believe Jose Canseco’s memoir, his blood must have serious street value. However, the extent to which drugs have corrupted American athletics pales in comparison to recent Colombian sporting history. In chronicling the violent destinies of two very different Colombians who happened to have the same surnames, Jeff and Michael Zimbalist expose the corrupting influence of drug money on the Columbian national football (soccer) team in their documentary The Two Escobars (trailer here), part of ESPN’s 30 for 30 film series, which opens in New York this Friday after premiering at the 2010 Tribeca Film Festival and airing on the commissioning network this June.

Though unrelated, Andrés and Pablo Escobar both were born in Medellín, the city which the latter man would make infamous as the seat of his cocaine empire. By contrast, Andrés Escobar gained notoriety for his brilliant defense and genuine sportsmanship on the football field. However, he could not avoid the world other the other Escobar, who secretly funded the national team with his blood money.

While Pablo basically got what was coming to him, Andrés Escobar’s death was senselessly tragic. Unfortunately, he was the player who inadvertently scored the own goal during the Colombian team’s ill-fated 1994 World Cup tournament. Soon thereafter, he was gunned down outside a Medellín nightclub by underworld figures probably associated with a faction aligned against Escobar’s cartel (though it may not necessarily have been direct motivated by his World Cup mistake).

Although the scrappy American team was the beneficiary of Escobar’s mistake, watching his own goal replayed repeatedly in Escobars will make audiences cringe several times over. Yet, the film is more a tribute to the footballer Escobar rather than a true crime examination of the drug lord’s rise and fall. Indeed, the film is strongest when depicting the athlete’s life and legacy. Whereas, the Pablo Escobar material is somewhat undercut by thin, unconvincing conspiracy musings that detract from the overall film. In fact, its biases against the Colombian government seem rather off-base, considering what they sacrificed to join the international battle against narco-terrorism, not the least being a competitive national football team. Still, when Escobars sticks to straight reportage it is informative and its interviews with Andrés Escobar’s still grieving but strikingly dignified family are frankly quite moving.

Andrés Escobar set a graceful civic-minded example for Colombia, both on the field and in the difficult days leading up to his murder (the circumstances of which remain somewhat murky). Fortunately, his country has come a long way since that fateful night (which foreign policy makers should be mindful of). Escobars is worth seeing to get a sense of Andrés as an athlete and as a national symbol of something greater. Imperfect but not without merit, it opens theatrically this Friday (10/15) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Zen & Its Opposite: Kwaidan

Lafcadio Hearn helped popularize the distinct cultures of both the Crescent City and the land of the Rising Sun (where he is still well respected) to English speaking readers. The Irish Greek who naturalized in Japan via New Orleans remains best known for his ghostly tales adapted from Japanese folklore. The original Nipponophile, Hearn would have appreciated the premise behind Zen & Its Opposite, the Japan Society’s latest film series exploring the nexus of Zen Buddhism and the darker reaches of humanity. Appropriately, it starts this Friday with Kwaidan (trailer here), Masaki Kobayashi’s classic anthology film adaptation of four Hearn tales.

While Kobayashi needed three films to tell the story of his towering The Human Condition cycle, he was able to tell four stories within Kwaidan, albeit at a relatively generous running time 164 minutes. Fittingly for the Zen-inspired series, one is immediately struck by the lack of idle chatter therein. Of course, the samurai in the opening The Black Hair does not have much to say for himself. Divorcing his loyal wife to remarry into a connected family, he makes no pretenses of honor. However, he soon discovers why it took so long to marry off his shrewish new wife. For years, he pines the warm embrace of the wife he wronged and of course her long black tresses. If you are expecting a happy reunion though, you don’t understand the supernatural genre.

By contrast, young woodsman Minokichi seems to find domestic bliss in The Woman of the Snow, after being spared by the title spirit during a freak blizzard. She does so on the condition that he will never discuss the incident with anyone or she will immediately appear to finish the job. Hoichi the Earless then tells the story of a legendary blind biwa player living at a Buddhist monastery. Night after night a ghostly samurai takes him to recite the epic Battle of Dan-no-ura to the restless Heike spirits who lost to the Genji forces. Obviously, the very title telegraphs just how things will end up for Hoichi. Kwaidan concludes on a particularly strange note with In a Cup of Tea, a story of a samurai haunted by a spirit in his tea and the author who was unable to finish the tale. A rather clever narrative change-up, it still feels fresh in this game-playing postmodern age.

The quietness of Kwaidan makes the musical accents of avant-garde composer Tôru Takemitsu all the more unsettling. Yet it is the Daliesque landscapes that truly give the film its unworldly character. Eschewing realism, its haunted forests and eyeball filled skies are some of the most striking imagery ever immortalized on color film. True, there are not a lot of surprises in store for viewers, but Kobayashi ratchets up the tension quite effectively as viewers wait for the expected inevitable to happen. Indeed, many relatively early manifestations of j-horror tropes can be found in Kwaidan, like the supernaturally long flowing black hair and the malevolent spirits seen in reflections.

Connoisseurs of Japanese cinema will appreciate the first rate cast as well, including Tatsuya Nakadai frankly looking a bit old for the eighteen year Minokichi, but perfectly suiting the woodsman as a supposedly more mature family man. Though not as cute as she was in Ozu’s Early Spring, Keiko Kishi still makes quite an impression as his wife Yuki. Also keep an eye out for the always watchable Kurosawa regular Takashi Shimura as the head priest in Hoichi. Perhaps most haunting though is Michiyo Aratama, luminous in Kobayashi’s Human Condition, both poignant and disquieting here as aggrieved first wife of Black Hair.

Arguably, Kwaidan is the greatest realization of the horror movie as high art. Sumptuous to look at, while appropriately atmospheric and creepy, it is a work of strange beauty that should be even more rewarding on the large screen of the Japan Society’s first class theater. Highly recommended, it kicks off Zen & Its Opposites this Friday (10/15).

Ozu at IFC: Floating Weeds

In post-war Japan, itinerant actors were rather closer to the bottom of the social ladder than the top. Considered little more than homeless tramps under the best of circumstances, this essentially becomes the reality for a traditional company stranded in a Japanese seaside village. Yet, for one veteran thespian, long neglected family matters become more pressing in Yasujiro Ozu’s Floating Weeds, which screens today at the IFC Center as part of their ongoing Ozu weekend series.

If anything, the economic prospects for a troupe like Komajuro Arashi’s have only gotten worse since 1934, when Ozu first told the story of the high and dry actors in his silent feature A Story of Floating Weeds. For a self-consciously modernizing society, Arashi’s productions seem distinctly old-fashioned. Patrons simply are not coming, except for a handful of old faithful, including Oyoshi, a single mother with whom he has a bit of history. Her son Kiyoshi knows Arashi as “Uncle,” but he is really the young man’s father.

When the company manager absconds with the meager receipts, at least it affords Arashi some time to spend with Oyoshi and his son. Unfortunately, this inflames the jealousy of his lover Sumiko. Out of spite, she bribes her sexpot colleague Kayo to lead on Kiyoshi and then cruelly dump him. Of course, unforeseen complications arise when the actress falls for her prey.

Like Kurosawa and Masumura, Ozu used a regular stable of actors in his films, in both lead and supporting roles. Frequently appearing as meddling aunts and gossipy family friends, Haruko Sugimura has one of her fullest, most sympathetic roles as a member unofficial Ozu repertory playing Oyoshi. Warm and nurturing, but all too conscious of the difficult nature of life, she is a quintessentially Ozu character. By contrast, the seductive Kayo is not exactly Ozu-ian, though Ayako Wakao (dubbed “Mad, Bad, and Dangerous” by the Japan Society in their retrospective earlier this year) was no stranger to sexually charged roles. However, she brings a sort of innocence to Kayo that is ultimately endearing. In the nominal lead, Ganjiro Nakamura holds it all together effectively enough as the gruff but deeply flawed Arashi.

Clearly acclimating to color cinematography, Ozu’s transitional beach and seaside shots have a burnished glow befitting his trademark style. Bittersweet and forgiving, it is yet another classic example of his deeply humanistic filmmaking. Weeds screens again this afternoon and Sunday (10/10) at the IFC Center.

NYFF ’10: Mysteries of Lisbon

Everyone in Portuguese novelist Camilo Castelo Branco’s late Eighteenth-early Nineteenth Century Lisbon seems to be secretly connected to each other. At least, this seems to be the case for all those marginalized on the upper-class peripheries: the noble penniless, the social climbing adventurers, the cousins twice-removed, the scandalous and the scandalized. Each has their own story to tell in Raúl Ruiz’s 272 minute epic adaption of Castelo Branco’s novel Mysteries of Lisbon (trailer here), which screens this Sunday at the 48th New York Film Festival.

Pedro da Silva is Lisbon’s first and over-riding meta-narrator, who will be frequently interrupted by the flashbacks and voiceovers of others. He does not even have a proper surname when he starts his story as an orphan in the boarding school administered by the kindly Father Dinis. Known only as João, he is frankly lucky to be alive. The illegitimate product of the Countess of Santa Barbara and her impoverished true love, fate spared him the premature death ordered by her vengeful husband, the Count. Eventually, da Silva furtively meets his abused mother through the assistance of Father Dinis, who duly explains his parents’ doomed romance.

Yet, Lisbon is just getting started. Everyone has crisscrossing back-stories that we learn in glorious detail, including the Count, Father Dinis, and even the killer sent to dispatch the infant da Silva. In fact, he reappears after a profitable Brazilian hiatus as a swashbuckling self-made man, who will play a strange role throughout young da Silva’s life. Still, this only scratches the surface of the subplots layered atop subplots in Ruiz’s decade and continent spanning, classically tragic and unexpectedly redemptive opus.

Though reliance on coincidence is often derided as contrivance, such pedantry would preclude one from appreciating a truly rich, hugely ambitious film. While Lisbon’s period look is finely rendered, Ruiz brings a post-modern sensibility to the picture, but never undermines its dramatic integrity. Instead, the unreliability of narrators and the slipperiness of identities deepen the film’s intrigue, while the stylized transitions of young da Silva’s proscenium arch playhouse simply add visual flair.

Ostensibly da Silva’s story, it is often hijacked by Ruiz’s large cast of characters, perhaps most profoundly by Adriano Luz as Father Dinis (and his two or three prior personas). It is a wonderfully humane and quietly assured performance that really gives the film its soul. In an effective contrast, Ricardo Peirera is an appropriately dynamic presence as the raffish Alberto de Magalhães, as he is now known. With several luckless heroines to pick from, Lisbon’s strongest is easily the striking Maria João Bastos, who personifies dignified grace as da Silva’s mother. However, the largely passive da Silva, both in the adult and child incarnations, comes across rather blandly.

There is so much cross-referencing to catch in Lisbon, it would obviously reward multiple viewings. Of course, at its current four hour plus running time that would constitute quite an investment. It really is that good, though. While an even longer version is set to debut on Portuguese television, Ruiz’s festival cut feels wholly complete as is. A gorgeous looking film featuring at least a dozen first class screen performances, Lisbon is arguably the highlight of the 2010 NYFF. It screens this Sunday (10/12) at Alice Tully Hall.

30 for 30: Once Brothers

In 1990, the Yugoslavian national basketball team probably could have given the 1992 American “Dream Team” a run for their money. Tragically, the 1991 splintering of Yugoslavia prevented the team from fulfilling its destiny. It also irreparably ruptured the friendship of teammates Vlade Divac and Dražen Petrović. Adding further tragedy to misfortune, the Croatian Petrović was killed in a traffic accident before reconciling with the Serbian Divac. Years later, Divac pays tribute to his late estranged friend in Once Brothers (trailer here), an NBA Entertainment documentary (written and directed by Michael Tolajian) produced for ESPN’s 30 for 30 series, which premieres on the network this coming Tuesday.

Yugoslavian teammates Divac, Petrović, and Toni Kukoč were all talented players, but shooting guard Petrović was clearly considered the first among equals. The 1990 World Champion title holders, they were schooling their European rivals so decisively, they could not help draw the attention of NBA scouts. Coming to America at the same time, Divac won the basketball lottery, getting drafted by the “Showtime” era Los Angeles Lakers. Petrović was not so fortunate, finding himself the fifth, bench-riding guard on the contending Portland Trailblazers.

Though Divac, the starting big man and goofy media darling, took off in LA, his friendship deepened with Petrović, as he frequently counseled his frustrated former teammate. They soon reunited with the national team during the off-season, but Divac’s infamous flag stomping incident forever poisoned their relationship. Describing himself as a patriotic Yugoslavian, Divac claims his actions were provoked by the disrespectful comments of a nationalistic Croatian fan, who bum-rushed the floor after the team’s victory, brandishing the fateful flag. Regardless of his intentions at the time, it is clear Divac deeply regrets his actions in retrospect.

Once is definitely a well-intentioned film. Divac, the central figure and narrator, deals with his mistakes rather forthrightly. However, the historical context provided by talking head expert Gordon N. Bardos is pretty shallow stuff, recycling talking points about Communism holding Yugoslavia together, while ignoring the active role Communists like Slobodan Milošević played in the subsequent Civil War.

Be that as it may, Brothers is truly a personal story that captures some telling moments. We see the still hulking Divac lumber good naturedly through the streets of his Serbian hometown and rather sheepishly on his return to Croatia. Yet, the opening footage of Petrović’s final interview, with the World Trade Center and Statue of Liberty clearly visible in the background, is frankly eerie.

Brothers is one of those welcome sports documentaries that reminds viewers there are many things more significant in life than sports. (This is a particularly appropriate message for fellow Knicks faithful that might be laboring under the misapprehension that a prolonged labor work-stoppage has shut down the NBA since the 2001 season.) Still, hoops fans will certainly be interested in interview segments featuring the likes of Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Clyde Drexler, and Danny Ainge. Well edited and surprisingly heartfelt, Brothers is definitely rewarding television. It screens this Sunday (10/10) and Monday (10/11) at the Hamptons International Film Festival in advance of its Tuesday (10/12) broadcast debut on ESPN.

ContemporAsian: Make Yourself at Home

Since the 1950’s, Christianity has grown rapidly throughout South Korea. Of course, there are still those who hold to traditional Confucian, Buddhist, and Shamanistic practices. This clash of cultures transports itself to suburban America in Soopum Sohn’s psychological thriller-drama Make Yourself at Home (trailer here), now screening at MoMA as part of their continuing ContemporAsian film series.

Sookhy comes from a long line of mystical shaman, which she has broken by accepting an arranged marriage to Peter Kim, a nearly fully assimilated Korean living in America with his domineering mother. Yes, they are most definitely Christians. Still, he might not be so bad when he is away from Deaconess Kim’s watchful eye. Yet, it is Julie Waits, the privileged wife of Kim’s next door neighbor, who seems to make the greatest impression on Sookhy. In fact, she even adopts Julie as her Americanized name. As tragedy, perhaps of a vaguely supernatural nature, strikes the Kim family, Julie 2 draws closer to Julie 1. Then things get strange.

Home (previously known as Fetish) somewhat follows in the tradition of Kim Ki-young’s classic 1960 film The Housemaid, suggesting one should be careful who you let into your home, because you might not be able to get them out. Yet, Sohn pulls an interesting jujitsu move with audience sympathies, clearly leading viewers to identify with the innocent newlywed bride, before throwing them a battery of curve balls. Though his pacing can be rather deliberate, his psychosexual gamesmanship holds more than a few jolts, while never feeling lurid.

Arguably Home’s greatest credibility issue of Julie Kim’s strange preoccupation with Julie Waits’ ivory blonde looks. Not too disparage actress Athena Curry, but it is Korean superstar Song Hye-kyo (notable as the lead in the North-South costume drama co-production Hwang Jin-yi) who really lights up the screen. She deftly handles Sookhy/Julie’s strange evolution, without ever completely losing the audience’s sympathies. While she is tremendous, Curry and Austrian actor Arno Frisch (with constantly modulating accent) frequently look more than a bit awkward as the Waitses. However, June Kyoko Lu’s nuanced performance delivers unexpectedly human dimensions to the problematic Mother Kim.

Though the endgame plays out a bit longer than it perhaps should, Sohn and co-writer Maragaret Monaghan devise enough attention-grabbers along the way to keep audiences fully engaged. Recommended for its strangely compelling story and Song’s mesmeric presence, Home screens at MoMA through Monday (10/11).

Finnish Faith: Letters to Father Jacob

To be fair, the evangelical film industry is still in its infancy, but it would behoove the Christian filmmakers to look to Finland for inspiration. Submitted last year as the Scandinavian country’s official foreign language Oscar contender, themes of Christian faith and redemption are indeed front and center in Klaus Hӓrö’s Letters to Father Jacob (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

As Letters begins, one might think it will be a film noir. About to be released on a pardon she never requested, the hardboiled Leila Sten does not want anyone’s help. Yet as the dramatically lit prison official explains, a compassionate retired priest has offered her a job helping with his correspondence. Blind but profoundly devout, Father Jacob receives letters asking for his prayers from spiritually ailing people around the country. At least he did until Leila arrived.

Naturally, his simple piety and do-gooder mentality irk the callous woman, even though the depth of his faith and commitment are unimpeachable. Yes, it builds towards a redemptive crescendo of reconciliation, but Hӓrö never engages in cheap theatrics along the way. Instead, Leila’s gradual change of heart culminates in a relatively quiet, but truly honest pay-off.

As the title Father, Heikki Nousiainen truly transcends the shopworn kindly old country priest stereotypes in a performance of genuine pathos and humanity. Though it is a less showy role, Kaarina Hazard is quite remarkable as the surly Sten, deftly delivering the film’s emotional knockout punch. Indeed, they both have the look of real flesh-and-blood people who have seen a lot of life’s pain and struggles.

Like recent evangelical films, Letters is a deeply religious work, yet as cinema, it is fundamentally character driven. It is also not afraid to look into the darkness and doubts lingering in its characters’ souls. Hӓrö helms with a sensitive touch throughout, exhibiting tremendous sympathy for the polar opposites. A handsome production, Tuomo Hutri’s warm cinematography strikingly captures the verdant environment while Kaisa Mӓkinen’s sets look appropriately dank yet sheltering.

Deceptively simple, Letters is a surprisingly powerful film. Elegantly crafted and legitimately moving, it is definitely recommended to all art-house cinema patrons not already too cynical to appreciate its sincerity. It opens this Friday (10/8) at the Cinema Village.

As Good As Dead

In the movies, New York can be a dangerous place for a photojournalist. It is not the terrorism or the street crime he has to worry about, but the rural southern white supremacists hell-bent on revenge. While the actuarial tables might disagree, at least the execution, so to speak, is fairly tight in Jonathan Mossek’s As Good As Dead (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Ethan Belfrage is the sort of scruffy, endearingly immature divorced father Mel Gibson or Tom Hanks might have played fifteen years ago. His daughter rolls her eyes at him when visiting, while his greedy landlord gnashes his teeth at Belfrage defiance of his eviction notice. This is New York, good luck with that. However, Belfrage quickly drops the happy-go-lucky act when three redneck home invaders tie him up and start tooling on him.

Ten years ago, the not-so-right Reverend Kalahan was gunned down in West Virginnie in an apparent act of retribution for a racist mass murder committed by one of his flock. Belfrage’s home invaders, Kalahan’s somewhat younger wife Helen, her son Jake, and her new man Aaron, are convinced he was in on it. They want a confession and the names of his accomplices, which they intend to beat out of him. Naturally, Belfrage professes his innocence as best he can. Thus starts the cat and mouse game.

Though billed as a conflict of ideologies, Erez Mossek and Eve Pomerance’s screenplay wisely concentrates on the hostage-captor drama rather than tiresome red-blue polemics. Of course, there is no denying its white supremacist premise, considering the SS tattoo emblazoned on Aaron’s neck. Yet, it ultimately takes some twists and turns that might make smug New Yorkers a bit uneasy. (That’s a good thing.)

Dead definitely has one thing going for it—a strong villain. Frank Whaley might seem slightly under-sized for the role, but he is all kinds of creepy as the ruthless Aaron. Though never his on-screen match, Cary Elwes is reasonably credible as the hapless Belfrage, nicely handling the late inning curve balls. However, Andie MacDowell seems a bit too genteel as Helen Kalahan, while Brian Cox comes across about as West Virginia as the Royal Family when seen in flashbacks as the late Reverend.

Though not perfect, Dead is an effectively focused little thriller boasting quite a memorable villain. A better film than one might expect, it opens this Friday (10/8) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

NYFF ’10: We Are What We Are

Call them sullen and sullener. It is not surprising brothers Alfredo and Julián have issues, considering their extreme family environment. Their father has a taste for prostitutes. As a result, they have probably consumed quite a few themselves in Jorge Michel Grau’s grisly social commentary We Are What We Are, which screens during the 48th New York Film Festival.

The sensitive Alfredo is the eldest son of a family of Mexico City cannibals. His father is a reprobate who wastes whatever money he earns fixing watches on prostitutes. At least he has always brought home fresh victims for their cannibalistic “rituals.” Unfortunately, that reckless lifestyle catches up to dear old dad, as he fatally coughs up his guts in the film’s disconcerting early scenes. This leaves a power vacuum within the family. However, they have a more pressing need: fresh meat for the next ritual. (Evidently, simply buying some raw hamburger at the store is out of the question.)

In truth, the warped family dynamics of WAWWA are nearly as harrowing as the cannibalism. The shrewish mother has made everyone miserable with her jealousy and resentments. Brother Julián has major anger management issues. By contrast, Alfredo is a classic case of an under-developed personality, who may or may not be a closeted homosexual. Keep your eye on sister Sabina though. She is a master manipulator.

The graphic WAWWA seems like a better fit for Tribeca’s midnight screening track than the up-town, up-scale New York Film Festival. Of course, that is neither here nor there when taking stock of the film’s merits, which are considerable. Grau viscerally conveys the abject meanness of the family’s circumstances as well as the predatory corruption of contemporary Mexico, without ameliorating the horror of what they do. Indeed, Grau’s angry depiction of lazy, venal cops feels a bit tacked on compared to the deeply disturbed and disturbing family drama.

Paulina Gaitán is scary good as Sabina. As Alfredo, Francisco Barreiro’s slow burn is quite slow indeed, but he still has some effective moments, whereas Alan Chávez brings a real “angry young cannibal” presence to the screen as Julián.

While Grau starts WAWWA at a deliberate art-house pace, he subtly cranks up the tension, steadily pulling viewers into this dark and remorseless world. Grungy and twisted, is one of the creepier indie genre films of the year. Most definitely not to all tastes, it never shies away from its subject matter. It screens this Thursday (10/7) at Alice Tully Hall and this Friday (10/8) at the Walter Reade, as the 2010 NYFF continues.

Robert Jay Lifton on Nazi Doctors

It is always considered more egregious when those charged with upholding the public trust (police, judges) break the law. Likewise when doctors, healers by calling, commit or abet murder, it deeply disturbs our notions of a morally ordered universe. Yet, doctors have often been amongst the vanguard of horrific mass movements, particularly that of the German National Socialists. Medically trained psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton (recognizable from the History Channel’s Decoding the Past) explains his research on such German doctors who committed countless acts of mass murder and barbaric human experimentation when stationed at concentration camps in Hannes Karnick and Wolfgang Richter’s Robert Jay Lifton: Nazi Doctors (trailer here), which opens this Wednesday in New York at Film Forum.

Guaranteeing confidentiality and stressing his previous work on Viet Nam and Hiroshima, Lifton secured the confidence of many former Nazi physicians. Though Lifton is undeniably a man of the left, he emerges as no moral relativist in Karnick & Richter’s film, frankly expressing anger at the apparent affluence of many of his subjects. Yet, he was evidently able to get them to open up, at least to an extent. Confessions of personal culpability were not exactly forthcoming. Though, as Lifton sketches out his interview process, it is clear he gave them sufficient opportunity.

Still, Lifton gleaned some considerable insight from his interviews, including their commitment to the cruel and dubious human experiments as a means of preserving their self-image as practicing medical professionals. Perhaps most intriguingly, Lifton frequently observed the works of evolutionary biologist Konrad Lorenz on their bookshelves. A former Nazi whose early writings suggested the need to proactively help Darwinian selection along, Lorenz became a Nobel Prize winning environmentalist. It is easy to speculate how his life and work would be significant to the former National Socialist physicians, in a myriad of ways.

Throughout Doctors, Lifton comes across as an authoritative and engaging interlocutor, largely refraining from expressing his own politics. Indeed, this is fortunate, since he is essentially all Karnick & Richter offer viewers. Granted, it makes sense to largely rely on Lifton’s interview segments, because even his own understanding appears to deepen through the process of discussing his research. However, there is no archival footage, graphics, or visual aids of any sort pictured, aside from a handful of Lifton’s bird cartoons (a recreational past-time for the psychohistory scholar). Instead, the filmmakers simply focus their cameras on Lifton in his study, only periodically breaking away for brief transitional nature scenes that look like they might have been lifted from a late Ozu film.

Regardless of how many Holocaust documentaries are released this year, it remains an import subject. Karnick & Richter certainly present Lifton’s findings in a respectful setting, but most people are visual learners, and they simply do not provide a lot of memory hooks in Doctors. Yet for audiences with sufficient attention spans, there is a lot to absorb from the film. It opens this Wednesday (10/6) in New York at Film Forum.

NYFF ’10: The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceaușescu

There was a time when Nicolae Ceaușescu got all the Iron Curtain’s favorable press. Many in the foreign policy establishment considered him reasonable, even reform-minded based on some shrewd public relations moves, like his measured criticism of the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. However, the 1989 Revolution ripped down the façade, revealing to the world the monster that had long oppressed Romania. Of course, every dictator sees themselves as an enlightened Caesar and has the state-produced propaganda to prove it. Culling 180 minutes from over 1,000 hours of archival footage, Romanian director Andrei Ujică assembled a video-collage of Ceaușescu’s life as it was perceived by the dictator and recorded by his state cameras in The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceaușescu (trailer here), which screens this Saturday during the 2010 New York Film Festival.

Defiant to the end, Nicolae Ceaușescu refuses to cooperate in the hastily assembled trial, following the Revolution (he would say coup) that removed him from office. Indeed, his has been a life of destiny as we watch his storied career in flashbacks, courtesy of the state propaganda ministry.

From his meteoric rise following the death of his Stalinist mentor Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej, Ceaușescu might have displayed a bit of independence in foreign policy, but aside from his support for Prague Spring, this usually manifested itself in uncharacteristically warm relations with the Warsaw Pact’s Eastern rivals, the Chinese and Vietnamese (here was a man who could appreciate a personality cult). Still, he certainly seemed to enjoy entertaining western heads of state, including President Nixon (who also appears to relish his photo ops with one of the few world leaders he physically towered over). We watch as Ceaușescu celebrates birthdays, receives dignitaries, and opens party conferences. He briefly condemns a spot of hooliganism in Timişoara and then suddenly he is facing an ad-hoc inquest. Of course, the real story is much more dramatic and far bloodier.

More or less billed as an object lesson in film as a propaganda tool, Ujică did not set out to create a revisionist history or to humanize the permanently deposed dictator. However, the film might have that unintended effect on audiences not privy to Ujică’s underlying concept or his past work documenting the 1989 uprising in Videograms of a Revolution. This is a particular risk here in New York, where art-house patrons consider themselves politically sophisticated but are easily manipulated by propagandistic images exactly like those in Autobiography.

Running a full three hours, Autobiography is a hugely ambitious work, but frankly it is a grueling viewing experience. One scene of Ceaușescu fondling the bread of a well-stocked Potemkin market during a photo op makes the point. The second constitutes overkill. In fact, there is constant and deliberate repetition throughout Ujică’s film, as each Party conference and state visit blends into the next. Obviously, this is an attempt to convey the rigidly homogenous nature of Ceaușescu’s artificially constructed reality, but is wearying for viewers looking for a lifeline to grasp onto.

As the highly problematic Autobiography currently stands, there is no footage that even mildly criticizes Ceaușescu’s twenty-five year misrule. How could there be? Any employees of the propaganda ministry not properly lionizing their master would have faced severe (probably fatal) reprisals. As a result, the entire film is much like Kim Il-sung’s massive welcoming ceremony, a hyper-real but static spectacle, ironic in its conspicuous lack of irony. Ujică proves himself a daring filmmaker, but to what end? Autobiography is ultimately a film for those who have an affinity the vintage aesthetics of the Soviet era, regardless of the messy history involved, essentially unreconstructed leftists and ironic hipsters. It screens this Saturday (10/9) at the Walter Reade Theater as a special presentation of the 48th NYFF.

NYFF ’10: Samurai Spy

When their lords died in battle, surviving ronin (masterless samurai) did not have a lot of career options. Fortunately, in early Seventeenth Century Edo Japan there was considerable demand for spies and assassins, jobs certainly compatible with their skill-sets. One still noble samurai finds himself drawn into the clash of shadowy agents working on behalf of two rival clans in Masahiro Shinoda’s Cold War action allegory Samurai Spy, which screens during the 48th New York Film Festival as part of their Masterworks retrospective tribute to the director.

Sasuke Sarutobi is one cool customer. He is a member of the Sanada Clan. Though officially “unaligned,” they are suspected to the support the recently defeated Toyotomi Clan rather than the Tokugawa Shogunate. Despite his “plague on both your houses” protestations, Mitsuaki, a Toyotomi spy tries to recruit him into a rather nefarious scheme he has cooked up. A top Tokugawa spy-master plans to defect to the Toyotomi Clan with Mitsuaki’s aid, but the treacherous spy plans to betray him to their current masters in a manner that would allow him to collect from both sides.

When karma catches up with Mitsuaki, everyone assumes Sarutobi can deliver mystery man Tatewaki Koriyama, the elusive Harry Lyme of Samurai Spy. As a result, the honorable but jaded samurai becomes the focus of intrigue for a host of agents from the rival clans, whom he has no trouble keeping straight, unlike the rest of us mere mortals. Still, if you follow Sarutobi’s lead, you won’t go far wrong, unless you count the unfortunate Okiwa. A beautiful pawn in the game, she is brutally murdered after launching a brief but intense affair with Sarutobi. For his part, Sarutobi is determined to make the guilty party pay, good and hard.

Like Pale Flower, Spy is stylistically dazzling, yet it still tells a darkly compelling morality tale. At times the hack-and-slash action is surprisingly gory, complete with severed limbs and gushing blood. Yet there are moments when it approaches the unreal, as clashing combatants seem to hang in the air Crouching Tiger-like. Yet despite employing liberal elements from the martial arts and spy movie genres, Shinoda has really crafted another film noir in the tradition of Flower. Sarutobi is definitely a hard-boiled lone wolf, instinctively cynical towards authority. Again, Shinoda and cinematographer Masao Kosugi’s striking use of fog and shadows feel like pure noir.

Koji Takahashi is all kinds of bad as Sarutobi. Though not quite as jaundiced as Ryô Ikebe’s Muraki in Flower, he still projects quite a cool presence. Yet, when another woman in his orbit is kidnapped, his righteous seething is downright fearsome. Jitsuko Yoshimura brings a touch of humanity to the film as Omiyo, the woman Sarutobi must save, while Misako Watanabe adds quite a bit of heat as the woman he must avenge. Indeed, it is a great ensemble cast, even though viewers might need a cheat sheet to track their characters’ allegiances.

According to conventional wisdom, Sarutobi’s Sanada Clan represents Japan, while the Toyotomi and Tokugawa factions are stand-ins for the United States and Soviet Union, respectively. Intriguingly, Spy seems to suggest neutrals must ultimately align themselves, with Sarutobi eventually siding with the Toyotomi Clan, the supposed Americans. It also explicitly addresses the persecution of Christianity in Edo-era Japan—not exactly a fashionable topic in Japanese (or western) pop culture, then or now. Highly entertaining as well as historically significant, Spy is another masterful film from the Japanese auteur. It screens this Tuesday (10/5) and Wednesday (10/6) at the Walter Reade Theater as part of the 2010 NYFF’s Masterworks tribute to Masahiro Shinoda.

The Agonizing Detective: Wallander Season II

Kurt Wallander is the anti-Dirty Harry. He can have an existential crisis filling out paperwork. The highly intuitive Ystad police detective has cracked many disturbing cases, but it has taken an emotional toll on him. Returning to his first role for television, Kenneth Branagh cranks the psychological turmoil up another notch in Wallander season two, beginning this Sunday on PBS’s Masterpiece Mystery.

Angst is definitely Wallander’s schtick, but it frankly somewhat misplaced in the second season. The divorced Wallander’s relationship with his daughter Linda is already strained. Watching his father slowly succumb to Alzheimer’s has only exacerbated tensions. Unfortunately, Wallander is about to poison his work environment as well in Faceless Killers, which kicks off season two.

Responding to a call, he finds an elderly couple savagely tortured in their country home. With her dying breath, the wife tries to tell Wallander something that starts with “fo.” Whatever it might be, it can’t possibly be “foreigner,” the copper insists. Naturally, his less enlightened colleagues think this might be a legitimate area of inquiry, as does the local hate group, to Wallander’s exponentially mounting regret. However, Richard Cottan’s adaptation of the Henning Mankell novel takes a bit of an ironic turn, somewhat undercutting Wallander’s political correctness.

Always a fragile psyche, Wallander is a complete basket case as The Man Who Smiled opens. While pursuing his quarry in Faceless, he killed in the line of duty. Of course, Wallander is taking this rather badly, despite the fact the perp “needed killing,” as any Texas lawman would tell him. Further compounding his guilt, an old friend turns up dead shortly after Wallander rebuffs his request for his investigative assistance. Unfortunately, the villain is a rather obvious Hollywood cliché, made all the more transparent by the lack of competing suspects. Still, Smiled features a memorable guest turn from the under-appreciated Vincent Regan (AMC’s The Prisoner and Invasion: Earth) as Anders Ekman, a disgraced former policeman seeking redemption—a very Wallanderesque subplot.

The Fifth Woman is the best and final installment of season two. Wallander now has legitimate reason to be depressed. He also faces a mounting body count, as a possible serial killer dispatches apparently unrelated victims in a spectacularly slow and painful fashion. More a procedural than a mystery, director Aisling Walsh keeps the pace brisk, despite the especially painful nature of Wallander’s family drama. Indeed, it concludes the second season with a high note, on par with the first season.

In a departure from his showier roles in the past, Branagh expresses more with silence than bombast as the baggy-eyed, neurotic title character. Still, there are plenty of opportunities for him to cut loose and rage. Ultimately though, he seems to have a strong fix on Wallander’s wounded humanity. It is a good character, definitely still worth spending time with, particularly in the nearly feature film quality Fifth.

Like the Swedish television counterpart, Branagh’s Wallander comes to the BBC and PBS via Yellow Bird, the production company also behind the Lisbeth Salander Millennium films. Indeed, they are quality productions, capitalizing on Sweden’s austere landscapes, with Emily Barker’s BAFTA award winning theme song “Nostalgia” setting to the moody vibe right from the opening titles. Though season two might fall a bit short of the initial series, it remains one of the more distinctive shows on television. The second season of Wallander starts tomorrow night on PBS’s Masterpiece Mystery, continuing through October 17th.

Credit: Courtesy of ©Left Bank Pictures/ Yellow Bird for MASTERPIECE

NYFF ’10: The Tempest

It was neither a political statement nor a cheap gimmick. Director Julie Taymor and the accomplished Helen Mirren wanted to work together on a Shakespeare project, but the Bard just did not write a lot of great parts for women over the age of thirty-five or so. Yet, both independently considered the role of Prospero a possibility. After an early reading confirmed their hopes, the role of Prospero became Prospera in their resulting collaboration, The Tempest, the centerpiece selection of the 48th New York Film Festival, which screens tomorrow night at Alice Tully Hall.

When the Duke of Milan dies, his wife Prospera succeeds him, but not for long. Usurped by her unscrupulous brother Antonio, with the backing of King Alonso of Naples, Prospera and her daughter Miranda are cast adrift, presumably to die at sea. However, the loyal court counselor Gonzalo secretly stocked the slip with food, water, and Prospera’s magic books. Twelve years later, Prospera uses her command of the elements to shipwreck the vessel carrying Antonio, Alonso, his son Ferdinand, the good Gonzalo, and various ne’er do well retainers. Prospera and her indentured servant, Ariel the air spirit, toy with the treacherous royals, while encouraging romance to blossom between Ferdinand and Miranda. Further complicating matters, the fools Trinculo and Stephano conspire with Prospera’s resentful slave Caliban in an ill-conceived revolt.

Despite the changes necessitated by Taymor’s gender switch, her adaptation follows the original Shakespeare quite closely. She also earns points for not flinching in politically correct horror from depicting Caliban as Shakespeare described him: a black slave driven by rage for his master. Still, she works with actor Djimon Hounsou to humanize him as best they can, within the confines of the text.

Make no mistake though, The Tempest is Mirren’s film, pure and simple. She truly digs into the role, finding fresh humanistic insights, irrespective of Prospero/a’s gender. Perhaps her deepest work comes with Ben Whishaw’s androgynous Ariel, cutting to the core of the play’s themes of forgiveness and empathy. In truth, the rest of the ensemble just cannot keep pace with her. Surprisingly, Chris Cooper and David Strathairn are indistinguishably bland as the royal co-conspirators Antonio and Alonso, respectively. A genuine case of gimmicky casting, Russell Brand’s same old profane goofball schtick becomes an embarrassing distraction as the jester Trinculo (frankly, it was already getting tired). At least Felicity Jones and Reeve Carney exhibit some appealing chemistry as the young lovers.

Taymor’s Tempest is a good Shakespeare adaptation that picks up steam as it goes along, but never quite takes flight. The Hawaiian locales, particularly the black volcanic beaches, dramatically evoke the play’s otherworldliness and Mirren gives a powerhouse performance. There just seems to be an X-factor missing. Certainly entertaining, The Tempest screens tomorrow as the centerpiece of the 2010 New York Film Festival.

Ozu at IFC: Equinox Flower

As great as so many of Yasujiro Ozu’s films were, most would have been nearly impossible to remake in an American context. Though their settings were contemporary, the sociological details, such as the frequent drama arising from attempts to arrange marriages, would have been nearly impossible to transpose to 1950’s America. Yet, because and despite of their quintessential Japaneseness, Ozu’s film are justly recognized as masterworks of world cinema. Marriage arrangements again play a central role in Equinox Flower, Ozu’s first color film, which screens today at the IFC Center as part of their ongoing Ozu weekend series.

The prosperous Wataru Hirayama is widely respected as a pillar of his community. As a result, his old classmate Mikami trusts him to check up on his daughter Fumiko, who has left home to pursue a relationship he did not sanction. She has fallen for a musician—no further explanation needed there. He also counsels Yukiko, a young friend of the family, who resents her mother’s constant attempts to arrange her marriage. In both cases, he largely sides with the young women, agreeing they should follow their hearts. Of course, that advice is for other people. When his daughter Setsuko chooses her own prospective husband without the benefit of his guidance, he takes it rather badly.

Perhaps no filmmaker made black-and-white film feel as warm and intimate as Ozu. Conversely, in Flower’s early scenes, Ozu’s use of color looks rather pedestrian. However, as the film progresses, the master filmmaker makes evocative use of the bright neon lights of the Ginza district and the lush greens of the golf course (Hirayama’s sanctuary).

Again, the themes might be familiar Ozu territory, but he nimbly navigates the variations, even in color. Perhaps what most distinguishes Flower is the vaguely flirtatious but never inappropriate friendship that develops between Hirayama and Yukiko. It is the kind of sweetly chaste relationship that is so rarely found in film. As Yukiko, Fujiko Yamamoto is indeed a vivacious screen presence, infusing charm and energy in all her scenes. Whereas Sin Saburi is nearly pitch perfect as the grouchy father torn between progress and tradition. It is a deeply humane portrait—the sort of stuff Ozu’s films are made of.

A transitional movie for Ozu (switching to color) about social transition, Flower has an elegant power that transcends cultural boundaries. A masterful film, Flower is an excellent example of Ozu’s sensitive artistry. Warmly recommended, it screens this weekend (10/1-10/3) at the IFC Center.