Walnut is a surprisingly beautiful and ridiculously touching tale about how a family deals with having to put down their dog. Minimalistic in nature and with few words of real dialogue, Walnut is a study on the polarized reactions of human beings when it comes to dealing with tragedy. “Coming of Age” films aren’t usually my bag of chips, but in small doses, such as in Walnut, they can actually be kind of sweet.

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Director:
Amy Gebhardt

One of the best shorts I’ve ever seen, Rewind is a complete mind fuck that is confusing at first and genius upon completion. Set wholly in a dingy room, the entire short is played backwards, with no dialogue between the characters. The only words are the description of a narrator, who is not describing the scene, but the events leading up to the scene.

Yet, somehow, the entire short meets together at a common point and makes perfect sense. Rewind is absolutely captivating in its nonlinear storytelling, and the way the visuals sync up with the narration is brilliant in its inventiveness.

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Director:
Atul Taishete

Cool graphic design doesn’t even make this film interesting.

An extremely minimalist take on the lives of four deeply unhappy people. Well-shot if you are fine with a drab color palette. Largely pointless. I mean, one can stretch potential meaning if one really wants to, but this film certainly didn’t make me want to. I’m only giving it minor consideration now that I am sitting here writing this review. Continental, despite its entertaining and clever title, is nothing more than somber entertainment that fails to make any memorable or long-lasting impressions.

Director:
Stéphane Lafleur

Producer:
Luc Déry, Kim McCraw

Editor:
Sophie Leblond

Screenwriter:
Stéphane Lafleur

Cinematographer:
Sara Mishara

Music:
Stéphane Lafleur, Hugo Lavoie

Principal Cast:
Marie-Ginette Guay, Gilbert Sicotte, Fanny Mallette, Réal Bossé

Language:
French

Mother and son.
Savage Grace is a tale about the incestuous relationship of a mother and her homosexual son. The entire film is an ever-deepening downwards spiral that is disturbing to watch. Yet, like a car accident, the viewer cannot help but be interested by the dysfunction; it’s twisted to watch, but it’s interesting.

Savage Grace is a drab-colored, slow-paced film that is beautifully shot and well-acted. Unfortunately for the film, however, it is based off of a true story and there is much more motive to the true story than there is to the movie. In Savage Grace, the incestuous relationship between the mother and son comes about from seemingly nothing more than simple perversion. In reality, the story is much more complicated. The film family was dysfunctional, but the film barely got to the roots of WHY they were. Despite good acting and what could have been an interesting tale if told correctly, this film is largely significant only for its shock value.

Director:
Tom Kalin

Producer:
Iker Monfort, Katie Roumel, Pamela Koffler, Christine Vachon

Editor:
Tom Kalin, John F. Lyons, Enara Goicoetxea

Screenwriter:
Howard A. Rodman

Cinematographer:
Juanmi Azpiroz

Principal Cast:
Julianne Moore, Stephen Dillane, Hugh Dancy, Eddie Redmayne

Language:
English

A cute, happy, dysfunctional cast!
I’ve come to take quite a liking to black comedies that come out of the Nordic countries. They often focus on untraditional subject matters and have underlying social commentaries; in the case of The Art of Negative Thinking, the focus is on disabled people — a demographic that is usually never made light of in American culture, which regards disabled individuals as practically helpless.

Those who have personal experience with disabled people or are particularly sensitive to the subject might find this movie to be callous and cruel. But that would be a simplified view on the subject. The movie does not set out to make fun of the disabled. The characters in the movie are unique individuals, each with their own mental and physical dysfunctions. Despite whatever quirks they have, they react to crisis in ways that any human being off the street might. The scenes that are hilarious are not hilarious because they contain disabled people; they are hilarious because they are studies on human emotion that take unexpected turns.

It seems at times like the characters are acting irrationally or intensely, making it easy to generalize that the movie is making a mockery of the disabled. But what’s important to note is that the three non-disabled characters in the movie act just as irrationally as the disabled ones do. If anything, the movie almost sets out to prove that the playing field is level, and that everyone has a little bit of crazy in them.

Director:
Bård Breien

Producer:
Dag Alveberg

Editor:
Zaklinka Stojevska

Screenwriter:
Bård Breien

Cinematographer:
Gaute Gunnari

Music:
Stein Berge Svendsen

Principal Cast:
Fridtjov Såheim, Kirsti Eline Torhaug, Henrik Mestad, Marian Saastad Ottesen, Kari Simonsen, Per Schaaning, Kjersti Holmen

Language:
Norweigan

The boys line up for their morning exercises.

Alone in Four Walls is a beautifully-shot look at youths who spend their time in reformatory facilities for youngsters between the ages up to the age of the fourteen. Husband and wife duo Alexandra Westmeier and Inigo Westmeier have managed to capture the stories of a population largely unknown to the world. Most of the boys in the film are from rural areas of Russia, and most of them are in the reformatory prison due to theft; a couple are murderers and rapists (although the rapists largely declined to participate in the film).

The facility the boys are at is practically a school. They are given hot meals, classes to take, and books to read. For some, the facility is a luxury that offers regular meals and a more stable life; Despite being forced to do occasional chores and missing their families, the boys enjoy comraderie with those their age and have no real worries. There seem to be no huge disciplinary problems, and almost everyone seems more content than discontent.

About eight boys are featured closely in the film, with each of them revealing varying degrees of information about their lives in the prison and prior to the prison. However, the film primarily focuses on Tolya, a good-looking and seemingly very intelligent fourteen year old who was put in the prison at the age of thirteen for murder. His counterpart to the murder, who was sixteen, was given twice the sentence, at an adult facility.

There is no denying that this film is powerful, but there were many things that the film only loosely touched on. As powerful as it was already, it could have been more powerful.

During the Q&A after the film, the audience raised many questions with regards to where the boys were from, how they fared afterwards, what the areas they came like were from, etc. Although the filmmakers did visit the families and neighborhoods of some of the boys, causation was a factor that was largely ignored. It was somewhat implied, but not enough. There were a few statements by boys who said they had to steal to buy clothes or food for themselves, but for the large part, the film left you wondering why those boys were in there in the first place. For those of us who are not as familiar with Russia as the filmmakers are, many questions seemed unanswered (although to a Russian, the answers would surely be obvious).

In some ways, it is hurtful of the film to place so much emphasis on Tolya. Tolya seems to stand out as a logical, peaceful kid, despite his history of murder. The fact that he has a tense relationship with his father who will not return his letters — and who later kicked Tolya out of the house, according to Westmeier — makes it all the more obvious just how little we know about the boys.

The last statistic of the film revealed that 91% of the boys who went to those reformatory facilities would not reform and would later find themselves in adult facilities, where they would face harsher conditions and harsher sentences. This disturbing statistic was yet another reminder that this film gives us a view inside the lives of these boys, but fails to answer why the boys would keep committing crimes, especially when they seem generally well-adjusted.

Director:
Alexandra Westmeier

Producer:
Alexandra Westmeier, Inigo Westmeier

Editor:
Alexandra Westmeier

Screenwriter:
Titus Maderlechner

Cinematographer:
Inigo Westmeier

The soldier from the second clip contemplates suicide!

Collections like Fantastic Parasuicides, which combine three shorts by different directors under one title, always manage to peak my interest. In this case, all of the three shorts explore the idea of “suicide,” and due to my preference for black comedies, I thought this collection would be right up my alley. What I discovered was that only one of the pieces really held my attention; the other two were interesting, but hardly memorable or really even worth watching.

The first piece, by Park SoYeong, explores a girl’s suicide after failing an exam. It’s wacky, off-the-wall, and complete with poorly shot action sequences and sound effects along the lines of what you’d find in Pac Man. All definitely on purpose, and all intolerable if you do not find juvenile, nonsensical humor funny. In my case, I found it slightly amusing, but it definitely kind of turned me off to watching the other two, even though the other two are nothing like this one.The second piece, by Jo ChangHo, is almost dialogue-free and explores one soldier’s hesitations about committing suicide. He rents a hotel room in which to do the deed, but things take a turn for the unexpected. I’m not quite sure what the point to this story is, asides from the fact that there is obviously some kind of parallel between the life of a chicken and the life of the soldier. Definitely slow-moving, and, in retrospect, my least favorite of the three.

The third piece, by Kim SeongHo, is the least amateur offering by a long shot. A 70 year old man has suicidal plans for his birthday when he realizes that no one has remembered his birthday; from there, he stumbles upon a suicidal youngster and saves him. The film ends with not one, but TWO unexpected twists. Beautifully shot and effective in telling a story that the viewer will care about for longer than the duration of the story itself — something that the other two shorts failed to do miserably.

Directors:
Chang-ho Jo, Seong-ho Kim, Soo-yeong Park

Producer:
Stanley Kwak

Screenwriter:
Seong-ho Kim, Soo-yeong Park, Chang-ho Jo

Cinematographer:
Hee-seok Na, Young-min Kim

Music:
Jae-hwan Jeong, Hyeon-suk Choi, Myeong-jong Kim

Principal Cast:
Yeo-reum Han, Tablo, Ga-yeon Kim, Hwi-soon Park, Jae-jin Jeong

Language:
Korean

Glass Lips (English translation), or Blood Of A Poet (literal translation), is Lech Majewski’s latest offering for the year 2007. Perhaps it is because I watched Glass Lips back to back with another Majewski film, Roe’s Room, but I found the entire viewing of Glass Lips to be quite painful. I’d been torn in a way that I have never been torn with a movie — the subject matter was interesting enough to make me want to continue watching, but every scene began painfully, with lots of slow panning and shots that seemed to hold no value. Visually, the film provides some well-shot scenes that make watching it at least somewhat entertaining, but the scenes more so slowly that they’d might as well be photographs.

Surprisingly, however, the fact that the film has no dialogue whatsoever is not actually a pitfall. Majewski succeeds in that you can understand emotions and some thoughts of the characters without a word being spoken. On the flip side, however, the characters are? one-dimensional. This is not due to the fact that they don’t speak, however; it is due tot he fact that they are all mostly somber and rather twisted. They don’t really have a ‘normal’ bone in their bodies.

Glass Lips is comprised of a series of shots that tell three separate storylines that are somewhat interwoven. The two main characters are a father and his son, and the mother plays a cursory role. In the beginning of the film, we see the son — who later becomes admitted in a mental institution — being tortured by his parents for misbehaving. Instead of getting a whipping after spilling liquid at the dinner table, he has a belt tied around his neck and is forced to drink his soup like a dog. We later see that the dad is dysfunctional himself, and tortures himself in the same ways that he had once tortured his son. It seems that he is conflicted and feels responsible about the way his son turns out. In the mental institution, the son is actually the most misbehaved of all, and one underlying focus of the movie is on the sexual perversion of each of the characters.

I wish that a focus on strange behaviors alone would be able to save this movie from being a bit tiresome, but simply throwing in a slew of characters who are in a mental institution does not propel this movie to new proportions. In some ways, however, the film is worth watching; it is clear that Majewski has a keen eye for art direction.

“3:10 to Yuma,” a remake of the1957 film of the same name, is the first of a few western themed movies to hit screens this fall. Its premise is simple: Christian Bale, playing downtrodden war veteran turned rancher Dan Evans, volunteers to help escort the devious outlaw Ben Wade, played by Russell Crowe. The group’s task is to get Crowe to the train departing for Yuma prison, where he is to be tried and punished for his crimes of robbery and murder. The train station isn’t far, but Crowe’s loyal thugs are determined to save their leader at any cost.

The film is a western geek’s dream, a whirling dervish of shoot-outs and stare-downs, filmed in the mustiest of locales, featuring two actors that would top anyone’s “most fitting for a Western” list. Crowe and Bale are a pleasure to watch, their interplay is spot on as they grunt and growl through every line like it’s never been done before. No one alive could play Ben Wade better than Crowe, whose mad dog visage and cunning grimace imply a devious intellect much more dangerous than any pistol. Christian Bale is equally flawless, with every cold gaze harboring a sense of deep desperation, one that has been smothered for far too long. Director James Mangold, whose resume includes Copland (yay!) and Walk the Line (boo!), is obviously also a big fan of the genre, giving in fully to all the indulgences associated with this era in film. Because of all this, including an exceptional Ben Foster as Crowe’s second-in-command, “3:10 to Yuma” feels more like a labor of love than anything.

And it’s this love that makes it easy to forgive the films numerous shortcomings. The story, never solid to begin with (the original short story was drafted out on a bar napkin), is full of large holes, making it difficult to suspend disbelief at times. The mercenary band’s holding of the legendary outlaw Ben Wade amounts to no more than a set of cuffs, which Mr. Crowe exploits again and again to agitate, harass and attack his captors. You’d think after he brutally kills one of them, the rest of them would wizen up and perhaps tie his arms behind his back or something. But no! He’s allowed to twiddle his thumbs and think of a new way to deal with his unwelcome escorts.

A more problematic issue in “3:10” is how it handles the central idea of the film. “3:10 to Yuma,” both the original and the remake, is lauded for its interesting character study of the archetypical hero and villain. Through the dialogue between Evans and Wade, the motivations of heroes and villains are both brought into question, as the protagonist is to the brink time and time again by Ben Wade’s incessant needling. However, this thread isn’t brought to a satisfying conclusion, rather it develops awkwardly, with Bale and Crowe shuffling their feet as they move back and forth (verbally at least) from good to evil. Ben Wade’s motivation is particularly difficult to understand, but it does make for a classy ending.

“3:10 to Yuma” is what “the Twilight Samurai” is to samurai films or what “Death Proof” is to the B-movie sex kitten vehicular homicide romp. Mangold delivers an excellent homage to an underappreciated genre (it’s not all about misogynistic cockfighting). Westerns are the purest of American mythos, where the dream of prosperity, freedom, and a better life is pitted against the harsh realities of the unforgiving world. Men are boiled down to their purest elements, foregoing trivialities like pomp and circumstance to create characters that, even with their larger than life personalities, feel like the every-man. And even if Westerns aren’t your thing, its worth it just to see these two leading men (especially Russell Crowe) turn in their best performances in a long while.

At first glance, Paprika is a stylish sci-fi detective thriller that uses dreams as a reason to explore the limits of animation. The visuals are exhilarating and titillating based on any level of criteria. But while many would be quick to write this film off as another “beautiful but brainless” offering from Japan, underneath all the sheen lies a fascinating and incredibly honest exploration of the joys and troubles of filmmaking. Paprika is an incredibly joyous film, multi-faceted and brimming with ideas, and it might be the best animated feature of the year.

Satoshi Kon has always been one of the brightest stars in anime, leaving his mark with works such as the almost flawless Perfect Blue and the heartwarming Tokyo Godfathers. His character designs are a sophisticated blend of classic caricatures and modern sleekness, rounded out with a sardonic edge that hints at something beneath the surface of every character. His films tackle subject matter not typically seen in Japanese animation, such as the deification of pop culture and the disease of social isolationism. But, as accomplished as they may be, his movies all have common flaws. They tend to lose their focus: sometimes exploring ideas too freely and not finding a clean path out, other times wrapping up too quickly and leaving loose ends behind. It’s as if he’s fighting against the clock (or perhaps the budget) – playing freely with the ideas for a while, but then suddenly rushing to a premature finale at the expense of cohesion and clarity. To some, his struggles might be a sign of stubbornness and a man unwilling to develop as a filmmaker at the expense of his imagination. But, as Paprika illustrates, this may not necessarily be the case.

The director’s latest film tells the story of a researcher, ice queen Dr. Atsuko Chiba, her device, the DC mini, and her alter-ego, the bubbly Paprika. Dr. Chiba uses the DC mini to lucidly traverse the dreams of her patients, helping them understand their own subconscious minds and the fears that dwell within them. However, the DC mini is far from complete and even further from government approval, which means she must adopt an alternate persona to accomplish her work. After one of a number of successful treatments, she returns to the lab the following day to find that someone has stolen the DC mini, using it for mass subconscious terrorism and altering the psyches of the people whose dreams he touches. It’s up to Atsuko (and Paprika) to track down the terrorist and restore order to both the dream world and the real world.

The centerpiece of the film, a large, noisy parade of souvenir shop trinkets and household appliances, marches aimlessly through the minds of people affected by the corrupted DC Mini. But this cacophonous celebration is not the terrorist’s desired result. It is the grotesque side effect of multiple streams of thought becoming a river of confusion – a Frankenstein’s monster of dreams. The parade, in a sense, is a Satoshi Kon film in itself. It represents Kon’s own creative instinct – a lush, innocent spectacle that gradually becomes something unmanageable and devoid of context or meaning. By personifying his own filmmaking process in this film, he effectively exposes his own artistic flaws for his characters, and the audience, to see. Even on first impressions, Dr. Chiba shudders at the nightmarish mass, speculating that it exists only to march towards the end of existence. Paprika and her cohorts are in constant battle with the parade throughout the film, struggling against it for control of their own consciousnesses and trying to contain it for the good of humanity. Kon battles in the same way with his own imaginative impulses of trying to wrangle in a rogue creation. In Japan, where animated film is definitely not a niche market, there are expectations that come with being recognized as one of the best in the business. While Satoshi Kon is well-respected, he has always desired the sense of commercial success that has evaded him time and time again. In an interview with the Washington Post, Kon states that he enjoys movies that are mostly understood, but still interpretable. It’s obvious from viewing any of his past works that there is a delicate balance between making disposable eye candy and making a meaningful film. Though he has yet to master that balance, it’s a conscious and fruitful struggle.

Detective Konakawa’s subplot provides another interesting angle to the story. As the film’s primary “patient,” Konakawa has his dreams visited by Dr. Chiba on more than one occasion. In his consciousness lies the history of film itself, comprised of scenes from Tarzan movies, film noir, romance films and more. It’s very reminiscent of what Satoshi Kon did in Millennium Actress, a sentimental tribute to the rich history of cinema. What’s interesting here is that Mr. Kon takes this side character, typically the cool and collected yet otherwise unremarkable cop, and injects him with some of his own blood and soul. As he discusses with Paprika in his dreams, Konakawa’s restlessness stems from a conflict between his love for cinema and his past failure as a creator. Sound familiar? In the end, Konakawa abandons his film aspirations, betraying his old friend and collaborator (who may or may not be Konakawa himself). This proves to be so painful that he can’t bear to watch movies he once loved. While Kon’s reaction to his own shortcomings may not be as extreme, they’re rooted in similar feelings.

Another fascinating moment of self-criticism appears later in the film. During an argument with Dr. Tokita, the morbidly obese genius who designed the DC Mini, Dr. Chiba exclaims that Tokita is exactly like the psychotic Himuro, Tokita’s former research partner and the main suspect in this mess. Both are unable to relate to the real world, Tokita because of his physical state and his child-like mind, and Himuro because of his repressed homosexuality. To compensate, both drown themselves in their hobbies, oblivious to the results of their actions and the responsibilities that follow. Mr. Kon has tackled themes of geek obsession before, damning it in his television series, Paranoia Agent. But in this instance, his tone seems more empathetic than cautionary. The same way the Japanese youth are obsessed with toys, games and cartoons, Satoshi Kon is obsessed with film. Time and time again, Kon has had troubles balancing what he wants to do (create fantastic dreamscapes and explore the modern human condition) with what he has to do (make a movie with a flowing progression).

Paprika doesn’t quite succeed in this respect; the ending does seem somewhat thin, and the audience is asked to blindly follow what is being laid out for them. Kon lays the sentimental flavor on a bit too thick, possibly hoping that the viewers might forget that some of the dangling ends were left untied. Nonetheless, Paprika is Satoshi Kon’s strongest effort. It stretches the boundaries of the genre while celebrating life, film, and the joy of innocence. The honesty and the transparency of the movie make it a fascinating window into the filmmaker’s mind – kind of a subtle, real-time commentary on his approach to the film as it plays. While his past films have left a residue of dread or perhaps uncertainty, Paprika is a celebration and leaves you with a feeling of pure joy. Paprika successfully delivers its message: dreams are important and shouldn’t be suppressed, and while life is full of responsibility, a little spice is always a good thing.