Ikiru (Akira Kurosawa)

To live.

"This stomach belongs to the protagonist of our story," says a narrator, who's pertaining to an x-ray image of a stomach obviously ripe with cancerous complications. And so begins "Ikiru", a meditative film of quiet power that tackles mortality and life's purpose yet also dips its fingers on issues concerning the cons of bureaucracy. The film's protagonist is Kanji Watanabe, an old man who seems to be no more alive than a dysfunctional machine.

     

In many ways, films like "Scent of a Woman" and "About Schmidt" derive from "Ikiru's" main emotional drive, which is as timeless as it is life-affirming. As what the film suggests, maybe it is only in the face of death and mortal desperation will we muster change and find true significance; indeed, life is brief. In the words of the narrator in "Fight Club": "This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time".

     

Takashi Shimura, who has previously played the woodcutter in "Rashomon" and who will later play, after this film, the noble Kambei in "Seven Samurai", plays Watanabe, a bureaucrat who, for the longest time, has led an uneventful life drained of all meaning or worth. Making his living by stamping insignificant papers for approval, he is as mechanized and emotionless as he can be. But in one ill-fated day, he is diagnosed with stomach cancer. According to the doctor, he has around six months to live. 

     

Devastated, Watanabe has never felt more strangely detached from the land of the living. His already hunched posture even becoming more contorted and his already fragmented articulation of words becoming even more so, Watanabe, as maybe what Kurosawa has intended, is the defining image of a modern man who has nothing to say about his life other than the painful fact that he has merely 'lived'. 

     

Going home, Watanabe then pitifully tries to tell his son about his terminal illness but is discouraged by the latter's coldness. Finding no sense of belongingness either in his own home (with his son being mainly concerned not with his father's well-being but with his pension) or in his work, he suddenly had this craving to just lash out. Guided by a struggling novelist, Watanabe then tries to navigate the busy, booze-laden nightlife of '50s Japan to find out whether or not it can make up for his final days. As it turns out, it does not. 

    

After his bar-hopping misfire, he then gets closer to a young woman named Toyo, an office subordinate of his who has recently tendered her resignation in Watanabe's office in favor of working in a toy factory, and whose exuberant and pure love for life leaves Watanabe in utter awe and in disgruntled fascination.

     

Miki Odagiri, who plays Toyo, has this distinct kind of energy that finely balances out Takashi Shimura's seemingly stagnant and doomed presence. By often framing Shimura's Watanabe, hunched, blank-eyed and ever-brooding, in the foreground and Odagiri's Toyo in the not-so-distant background, Kurosawa was constantly able to highlight the two characters' contrasting traits, behaviors and overall existence within the spatial landscapes of the film.     

     

"…In other words, why are you so incredibly alive?" Watanabe blurts out to Toyo, who innocently mistakes his desperate need to understand his own existence as romantic advances. Toyo answered him that all she does is work and eat. She then gets a toy rabbit from her bag, one of the many products being made in the toy factory where she's employed; "Making them (the toy rabbits), I feel like I'm playing with every baby in Japan," Kimura then said. 

     

Seemingly refreshed from Toyo's all-too-naïve yet honest response, Watanabe then sets out to do something that may hopefully make him matter. In a stunning turn of events, Watanabe transforms from an old nobody to a defiant spirit reminiscent of Jimmy Stewart's Mr. Smith determined to will through the lethargic incompetency of the city hall officials so that he can convince them to turn a mosquito-laden cesspool into a children's park.     

     

Much like "Rashomon", we then get to see another epistemological discourse on Kurosawa's part, this time not about the truth (or the lack thereof) behind a mysterious murder but about the legacy of a man who everybody never expected to have left one. And by piecing together some fragmentary moments in Watanabe's life as witnessed by his co-workers, from his brave persistence to stand up for the children's park to his starry-eyed admiration of the sunset, we then finally arrive at what Watanabe is looking for all his life: meaning and self-worth. 

     

"Ikiru", which literally means "To Live", is a an affecting film that explores man's search for existential meaning not through philosophically sophisticated means that may alienate viewers but realistically through an old man's eyes who just want to be at peace with those around him and, more importantly, with himself. Despite of "Ikiru's" apparent and sometimes much too overwhelming commentary on political bureaucracy, I'd rather remember it as an honest and reflective film about mortality and the often undermined beauty of life; simple as that. This then reminds me of a quote by Monty Python's Michael Palin: "Don't talk about living, just live".

FINAL RATING

Monty Python's The Meaning of Life (Terry Jones, Terry Gilliam)

The Python troupe.

4 years after "Life of Brian", the Monty Python troupe, composed of John Cleese, Eric Idle, Michael Palin, Graham Chapman, Terry Jones and Terry Gilliam, is back and as insightful and profound as ever in "The Meaning of Life", a surrealistic comic masterpiece that is quite possibly their most ambitious film ever. Hell, I wouldn't even bother to label it as their best. 

     

Unlike the previous two Python features, namely "Holy Grail" and "Life of Brian", both of which have modicums of a narrative, "The Meaning of Life" is infinitely more lose, non-cohesive and random. It is, for me, their most 'stream of consciousness' creation of the three. Opening with an awe-inspiring short involving geriatric employees and their very pirate-like attempt to take over the world's whole economic landscape, it is quite easy to see how bigger in scope "The Meaning of Life" is compared to the comic troupe's previous creations. And as the film progresses, it's also quite wondrous to sense and feel that Monty Python has since fully grown not just as an assemblage of comic geniuses but also as a thought-provoking lot. 

     

Ranging from sex to the very idea of heaven, hell and death, "The Meaning of Life" tackles almost everything under the sun (alas, even the very creation of sun itself and its brotherly stars), over the war-time trenches and inside the uterus. Split into various chapters, "The Meaning of Life" is comprised of sketches that are overwhelmingly funny yet also poignant with the truths that each of them speaks. And although the film's main intent is to leave you in stitches, it will also make you laughingly question yourself as to how relevant your minuscule place in this universe really is. But do not worry; Eric Idle will treat you with an affirming song of how miraculous your birth really is. And no, there's not a hint of sarcasm both in the tune and the lyrics. Despite of the film's bizarrely mocking tone, the film is embedded with an indelible humanity that actually means what it wants to say. Suddenly, here is Monty Python, the most humanly offensive and irreverent comic group that has ever graced the screens both small and big, traversing their most vulnerably human side. 

     

For me, what eagerly exemplifies this side is the scene when Eric Idle's French waiter character leads the camera (presumably representing us, the viewers) in a relatively long walk towards his humble home. He then explains, in a very non-philosophical, layman's manner, the meaning, for him, of life. "You see that house? That is where I was born. My mother said to me, "Garcon. The world is a beautiful place, and you must spread joy and contentment everywhere you go."" That was what Idle's waiter character has stated. Although it's a random, seemingly out of left field scene that's truly in contrast with the rest of the film's tone, it nonetheless strikes me as very life-affirming and, to a certain extent, even worthy of tears. 

     

Yes, "Life of Brian" is arguably their greatest work, but I will always reserve a special place both in my heart and mind for "The Meaning of Life". Not only is it a proof of how Monty Python is and will always be the best in terms of avant-garde comedy, it has also solidified the fact that the Python troupe indeed never lacks the silent sensitivity needed to tackle the very nuance of human existence itself. They have just made God quite irate, is all. 

     

Personally, I find "The Meaning of Life" to be more than just a comedy. Fittingly, I have watched it at around three o'clock in the morning. Waking up, I felt as if I haven't had a dream. Well, maybe the Sandman have had quite a hard time replicating or even surpassing the things I have just seen. The Pythons may have given the Dreamer a run for his money.

FINAL RATING 

 

L'Avventura (Michelangelo Antonioni)

Claudia.

Before anything else, let me first, for the record, state that I love Michelangelo Antonioni's films. Be it the psychological enigma that is "Blowup", the mysterious identity thriller that is "The Passenger" or the marital woe-laden "La Notte", he has always been a hit to me. Without exaggeration, I consider him as one of the greatest auteurs of all time, and I'm not even halfway through his sterling filmography yet. So with that in mind, I went on to watch "L'Avventura", the first film in his informal 'Incommunicability Trilogy', with an expectation of being blown away once more. But alas, it has not happened. 

     

Hailed as a cinematic work that has revolutionized the way films are structured and executed, "L'Avventura" is quite a disappointment for me as far as Michelangelo Antonioni and his films are concerned. But then again, maybe that is the film's point. After all, the film is a prolonged observation of emotional detachment, which is the same thing that I have felt while watching the film. 

     

Though I understand where the characters are coming from, the film has still alienated me to high heavens. If perhaps that is Mr. Antonioni's ultimate intent, then I am impressed once more. If it's not, then maybe I deserve to be sentenced to an eternal cinematic damnation for not liking a film that everyone seems to love. But kidding aside, I think that "L'Avventura" is really that kind of film that is quite difficult to like but is easy to admire.

     

Antonioni, being the existentialist filmmaker that he is, is more concerned not with the film's literal mystery (the sudden disappearance of one of the characters) but with the emotional enigma that pervades throughout. The primary premise is simple enough: After the shocking disappearance of her friend Anna (Lea Massari) during a yacht trip, Claudia (Monica Vitt) suddenly finds herself trying to resist the urge of falling in love with Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), the man that's no less than Anna's current lover. But still, fell she did. 

     

All throughout the film, Michelangelo Antonioni finely questions the validity of the romance between Claudia and Sandro and invites us to witness the subtle awkwardness of it all. We see them kiss and hug in hotel rooms and on discreet street corners. We can sense that, somehow, they look fine together, but what about Anna? 

     

As the film progresses, Antonioni lays down the question of whether or not we should take Anna's disappearance literally or symbolically. Whatever our personal answers regarding it may be, it is quite evident that Antonioni has used Anna's sudden absence as a device to further explore the emotional uncertainties of the kind of love that mushrooms from such situation rather than as a shallow means to compel and excite. 

     

Despite of its slow pacing, bloated running time and alienating characters, "L'Avventura" is still a seminal film that is worthy of great veneration mainly because of how it has changed the way how cinema can communicate such things as love, existence and the feeling of being lost. I may not have liked the film that much compared to Michelangelo Antonioni's other works, but I sure do respect it for what it has contributed to the artistic progression of cinema as a whole. By creating this film, Antonioni has proven that cinema has no limitations, that it is not necessarily all about the plot and the payoff, and that cinema can exist outside the four corners of a tightly-structured narrative; the shackles are no more.

FINAL RATING

 

Biutiful (Alejandro González Iñárritu)

Uxbal.

After his emotionally powerful "Death Trilogy", Alejandro González Iñárritu has since left us to wonder what will be his next step. Enter "Biutful", an emotionally devastating and painful film that has, at least, shown what Iñárritu can do by relying purely on his own emotions as a filmmaker. 

With this film sorely missing Guillermo Arriaga's powerhouse screenplays which have made his three previous films infinitely more special than they already are, Alejandro González Iñárritu, impressively, has never faltered in handling the film's dramatic eloquence as he guides it seamlessly both in how its story will unfold and how its emotional investments will pay off. What's also very commendable is how Iñárritu was able to tell an encompassing tale even when the very film itself is only limited through an almost singular (which is Javier Bardem's Uxbal) point of view. 

If the films in the "Death Trilogy" were able to intimately portray mosaics of happenstance character interactions through multiple and overlapping subplots, "Biutiful's" approach is more simple but one that's still with a similar feel, with a lesser chance of having contrivances in its execution due to its more plain narrative structure. And by far, this may also be his most personal film. 

Being dedicated to his father, "Biutiful" is not just a film that merely tells a thoroughly fictional tale made special by the abundance of gritty realism. Behind every emotions, actions, and decisions, those of which determine the fate of everyone in the film, Iñárritu is seemingly backing all of them up piece by piece with a love poem, fully manifested in the film's numerous scenes of poignancy, for his father and to the very beauty of redemption and personal peace. So touching and emotionally provoking this figurative love poem really is that in the end of the film, what one may feel is both sadness and transcendence; two aspects that we surely can find in an Alejandro González Iñárritu film. 

The film tells the story of Uxbal (Javier Bardem), a weary man who, after being informed by a doctor that he is terminally ill, tries to fulfill his paternal role to his children to the fullest that he can, mend the emotional distance between him and his bipolar wife Maramba (Maricel Alvarez), and make his every actions matter as much as possible within the two-month time frame that he has left. What makes him even more on the edge, aside from the fact that he is dying, is his involvement in illegal dealings with two Chinese businessmen and his unusual gift of being able to talk to dead people. 

In a sense, "Biutiful" might be what Clint Eastwood's "Hereafter" wants to be in the sense of how the former has successfully injected the tender yet tormented nuance of the afterlife. And also, maybe, "Biutiful" is the perfect antidote to Rob Reiner's extremely romanticized and sweetened take on terminal illness in the form of "The Bucket List". But then, none of this would have been that possible if not because of the actors involved. 

With tour de force performances by Javier Bardem, who has never looked so emotionally vulnerable and physically weak on film, and Maricel Alvarez as his wife, scenes flow easier and more naturally that it has heightened the film's sense of brutal honesty regarding the usually painful fact of life of having so much to do with so short a time. But aside from this vibrantly existential vibe, "Biutiful" also tackles the more alarming issues of abusive blue-collar exploitation and illegal settlements on foreign lands, but not in the form of a subdued social commentary. Instead, they have been turned into subplots which make up not just the very soul of the story and of Uxbal himself but also a very potent and pungent portrayal of life's numerous social truths. 

Playing a playboy painter who leads a bohemian life in Woody Allen's "Vicky Cristina Barcelona", here in "Biutiful", Javier Bardem now portrays a man living on the, I'm clinging on a cliche here, edge of society desperately trying to be the best father, husband and person that he can be amid the surrounding poverty. Through these dichotomous performances in both films, Javier Bardem has exposed the extremes of Barcelona in terms of human existence, with the latter one shining forth within Iñárritu's masterful directorial hands. 

To be a bit personal, my affinity towards Alejandro González Iñárritu's films started with my initially perplexed reaction to his film "Babel" (the last film in his "Death Trilogy" but is, ironically, his first film that I have seen), with that slow pacing, raw performances and ethereal musical scoring by Gustavo Santaolalla. Then followed up by "Amores Perros", "21 Grams", and a further "Babel" rewatch, I think it's just apt to say that his films are the ones that have truly introduced me to the emotional complexity of cinema. And after seeing "Biutiful", a film with an intensely beating heart, I reminisce the trilogy, and again, I'm hearing the guitars.

FINAL RATING

Three Colors: Blue (Krzysztof Kieslowski)

Calm waters.

Even though I am clueless regarding Krzysztof Kieslowski's other works before I even laid my eyes on "Three Colors: Blue", and even though how frustratingly misleading the little summary on the back of the DVD really is, I still immensely liked the film. But not in a way how I may like a straightforwardly well-written film.

Deviating from filmic conventions, although it is in fact a very linear film, "Three Colors: Blue" manages to convey the deepest of emotions not much through storytelling but more through calculated camera movements and stunning cinematography (by Slawomir Idziak). And with that, the film has managed to make me appreciate its wholeness in much the same way how a beautifully experimental musical piece may capture a music lover's heart.

With a title that suggests immediate melancholy and visuals that further this emotional atmosphere even more, "Three Colors: Blue" is more of a mood piece than it is an immediate narrative. It is, as it flexes its finely-toned existential muscles, an emotional spectrum subjectively seen through the eyes of a middle-aged woman named Julie, played by Oscar winner Juliette Binoche, who, after being involved in a car accident which claimed the lives of both her husband and child, decided to completely remove herself from the life that she has always cherished and loved.

Starting her aimless goal by selling their house, all the other things in it, and burning the difficult concert piece that her composer husband has written to commemorate the unification of Europe but sadly hasn't finished, Julie rented an apartment in a not-so-affluent part of Paris and started to live her life in utter isolation, save for some slight interactions with other people here and there (with a young prostitute being the most notable).

But even though she wants solitude, there's Olivier (Benoit Regent), a colleague of Julie's husband, who constantly shows his love for Julie but is seemingly contented by the quite sad fact that he can only show it in futile admiration. But despite of that, he is always ready to support her in the midst of her emotional plight and is also eager to finish her late husband's concert piece. For a film (again, back on the DVD's summary fiasco) that has promised utmost 'mystery' and 'seduction', "Blue" is surprisingly warm and affectionate in its romantic notions and never, even for once, stooped down to an extremely sensationalist, 'sex for the sake of it' level.

The film is also quite rich in its visual interpretation of emotional alienation and frustration. With Kieslowski uniquely using sudden fades into black in scenes whenever Julie is met with the difficulty of answering questions that may unveil what she's really feeling at moments, and ingeniously injecting blue-colored objects to enforce the film's recurring color motif, "Three Colors: Blue", as it progresses, patiently develops into a purer form of art house cinema that criss-crosses between realistic human emotions and esoteric overtones.

Form and content, message and execution, these are the most basic requirements for a film to be considered as an artistic whole. For this film, Kieslowski balances both on a very thin wire as if a cerebral circus performer, seemingly experimenting as he paces along, even with one outweighing the other, but nonetheless, a walk that is not without a clear finish.

"Three Colors: Blue", as a whole, surely is a fine piece of foreign cinema that seeks to inform its audience that there's no such thing as a generalized emotional milieu for a certain societal stream. 'Existence is isolation', Kieslowski, in part, may have had in mind as he works with this film, but it can never be denied that he has created the film with a concrete glimmer of hope and a beautiful melody somewhere in his mind.

"Blue", the first chapter of Kieslowski's "Three Colors" trilogy, is a very effective drama film about tragedy and artistry. But more evidently, it is an ideal example of how brilliant the art of cinematographic composition, partnered with some achingly beautiful music, can really be when skillfully pushed to absolute perfection.

FINAL RATING

Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn)

The driver with no name.

Humanity and brutality. Director Nicolas Winding Refn, who deservedly won the Best Director Prize at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival, has beautifully tackled both in a stark existential light, that which echoes the likes of "Taxi Driver", and ultimately weighed both in a blurring contrast which highlights the compromises of poor choices. "Drive", with its violent nature and perverse tone, could have easily been a disposable Grindhouse-like feature. Its exaggerated depiction of nerve-wracking gore, an aspect that is a most common reason for audience polarization, complements the whole film but still suggests a heightened feel of sensationalism for the sake of shock.

Yes, these violent scenes are truly unnerving, but looking at the main character, a skilled driver who works in the movies and also for night heists, played with great control but also with unflinching rage by Ryan Gosling, his mysterious transformation from a passive loner to an involved, blood-drenched avenger is the one that's much more disturbing. Forget the violence first, it is this protagonist's motives and questionable decisions that is the film's center. With him lacking enough character background, it makes his actions all the more intriguing, but his surprising notion towards love and connection without much words to back it up, on the other hand, makes him all the more affecting.

Director Nicolas Winding Refn and screenwriter Hossein Amini (basing his screenplay on the novel of the same name by James Sallis), exposes two primal human impulses, to kill and to love, and brilliantly incorporated it into the film's stylized, almost poetic take on noir. What resulted is a perfect amalgamation of both substance and form, with a fair amount of adrenaline rush to sweeten it all up.

In its very immediate surface that echoes some action film formulas, It is expected for "Drive" to contain one-dimensional characters, particularly the villains, played by Albert Brooks and Ron Perlman. But these displays of intended shallowness is overwhelmed by the film's pitch-perfect rendition of tender love. Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan sure has never worked before. Ryan Gosling sure is already initiated with love stories. But Carey Mulligan has been memorable via her turn as a naive young woman in "An Education", so jumping from innocence to maturity, performance-wise, is really quite challenging on her part.

It's almost a thing of miracle, but their chemistry here in "Drive" flowed smoothly despite of some initial constraints. Carey Mulligan, although very young, has portrayed Irene, the main reason for the driver's daring decisions, with this sense of desensitization towards life. It's as if she has gone through so much that she simply wants someone to hold. And him, the driver, on the other hand, being lonely and a complete nobody all his life (albeit him being a stunt driver for the movies), only wants someone's life to touch. With the use of great lighting, cinematography and music (with the elevator scene being the best example), "Drive" has successfully established these two characters' link with an almost melodious feel but also is effective in breaking it.

Narrative-wise, the film is tight in its execution, holds on firmly with what it is all about, and never went on for something else. This particular focus for what's immediate rather than to experimentally delve more on something that is marked with pretense only highlights the film's material strength in its consistent ability to tell a story and also to seamlessly state why it has been told in the first place. It roots out, of course, as what I've said earlier, from the characters' flawed choices.

Nicolas Winding Refn has stated that "Drive" is a tribute to surrealistic director Alejandro Jodorowsky, whose cinematic deviance is a thing both of beauty and disgust. That is particularly limiting because "Drive" is, above all, a general tribute to what great, uninhibited filmmaking is all about.

FINAL RATING

Annie Hall (Woody Allen)

Annie and Alvy, Diane and Woody; it's either way.

A second viewing.

Looking at the gallery of the previous Oscar winners for best picture, "Annie Hall" is definitely one of the most unorthodox and unglazed of all the films that have won the coveted prize. No majestic scope, no larger-than-life characters and no unreachable emotional core, but only an accessibly psychoanalytical and pop-intellectual presence of Woody Allen and his one-liners. Oh, and there's also the impeccable Diane Keaton as the titular character (whose real name is, well you've guessed it: Diane 'Annie' Hall) whose unassumingly fluctuating romance with Allen's character Alvy Singer founds the film's distinct postmodernist approach to the uber-complicated thing we all call 'love'.

Opening scenes meter what we can expect from a particular film's wholeness, be it an initial action scene or a non-linear middle scene pushed right into the beginning. We are introduced into "Annie Hall" with a monologue by Woody Allen, to which I'm not sure if he's uttering his entry comic speech as him being Alvy Singer, the other way around or a random combination of both. Either way, it's a subtle delivery that may not give the immediate feel of the film but definitely serves unto us the fragile wholeness of our neurotic main character. Why is he even talking to us in the first place? Is he really that lonely in his own reality of 'death' and isolated 'mental masturbation' that he wills himself to break the fourth wall?

Unlike other 'love' stories that preceded "Annie Hall" which starts with impossible chance encounters and ends with reconciliations, this film started somewhere where Alvy and Annie's romantic complications are at an all-time high but their emotional excitement for each other at an all-time low. Then like an unsure blend of fantasy and reality, the film then traces the pieces of how this 'nervous romance' came to be, or at least something like that. But with the tone of the film, which I believe can go on for days and days (the movie itself) even without an audience (this Woody Allen fellow really talks a lot), it's apt to say that the film really couldn't care less.

The ability to enact both a pessimistic existential viewpoint (according to Alvy, the 'horrible' and the 'miserable' are the only dividends of life) and an indifferent humor throughout yet hints on an underlying warmth beneath its 'foreskin'. This is one of the unique aspects of the film which certainly gave it the prestigious Oscar award. Right now, the said award is nothing but history, and although I think that "Annie Hall" hasn't aged that well, its portrayal of the distorted nuances of 'love' and 'contemporary existence' never did.

Written and directed by Woody Allen himself, I know that it's not quite right, chronologically and qualitatively speaking, that I was introduced into Allen's works (not counting "Vicky Cristina Barcelona") via "Annie Hall", a film that is widely considered to be the artistic zenith of his film career.

Now on the other hand, although I loved every moment of how Woody Allen and Diane Keaton's effortless chemistry pervades the screen through and through, their dialogue exchanges that seem like trivial conversations between two not-so-special souls and their consummate embraces and kisses amidst a backdrop of a surprisingly subdued New York City (photography by Gordon Willis), I really can't see myself as Alvy Singer.

Reckon how other 'love story' heroes mirror us one way or another? This is Woody Allen's difference. He can look as plain, thin and 'balding' as he is, but at least, his Alvy Singer is never completely us. A character that is molded more out of clumsy ubiquity (based on his sometimes alienating but seemingly all-knowing one-bit opinions and whatnot) than crazy human simplicity.

Granted, "Annie Hall" is a complex film of romantic proportions, but its heart lies within two key jokes uttered by Alvy himself: the humorous 'elderly women' analogy and the 'chicken brother' joke. Unnoticed as it may seem, these jokes weren't just meant to give a start and end transition for the whole film but a perceptive change for Alvy Singer himself. And like the autobiographical stage play that he has created near the end of the film, after all his musings about the futility of life and the importance of death, he simply wants his romance warm and eternalized, just like everyone else.

FINAL RATING

Lost in Translation (Sofia Coppola)

The long goodbye.

A second viewing.

Time and time again, it has been proven that a mark of a great film is the fact that no matter which place and what timeline you bring the core of the main story and its themes, the impact will always be the same. That claim is valid, of course, not strictly limited merely for films, but in every medium of artistic narratives as a whole, so to speak. Shakespeare's works, for example, right? Set "Hamlet" in Ancient Greece, "Macbeth" in Imperial China and "Romeo and Juliet" in Monarchical India, but the essence of their tales won't even be affected. 'Timeless', as they say.

But then there comes Sofia Coppola, armed with a little film called "Lost in Translation", a very picturesque 'Japan' to render fresh and some emotions to transcend. The aforementioned claim to greatness of films, as what was stated above, appeared to be not the case for "Lost in Translation" that made it rightfully so. Its theme of alienation and a subsequent connection in a haze of culture shock and language barrier (although were treated by Coppola's script with witty naivety that does not poke fun in the wrong places) was tackled perfectly by specifically setting the film in 'Japan'.

Putting it in China will get the same effect of misunderstanding and cultural difference, but the ideal Japanese bluish grayness wouldn't be there. Setting it somewhere in Europe may look too elegant, while locating the film somewhere exotic and infinitely tropical will be too adventurous and lively. The film needed stagnation, but at the same time, it asks for some unpredictable quirks and eccentricities. Japan is, after all, the definitive country there is. Tokyo's technologically advanced, contemporary metropolis, to be exact.

So, now that the alienating location was established, where would the film extract its romance? With the help of Scarlett Johansson's knowing yet discreet performance as newlywed twenty-something Charlotte and Bill Murray's naturally comic performance (that is one of the best performances of his career) as midlife crisis-inflicted actor Bob Harris, the film (along with its emotionally observant screenplay that won Sofia an Oscar) has further elevated the film from being a potentially lackluster travelogue-cum-romantic comedy film into a whole new height.

Granted, there were scenes that may look like cinematographic clichés for films set in foreign countries (the much used editing where a character is looking out from a car or a train's window, while images of landmarks are juxtaposing along with their wondrous stares and awestruck faces), but it was part of their characters. Beyond their situations, one tagging along with her husband (played by Giovanni Ribisi) for a job (Charlotte), and the other in there to shoot a whiskey commercial (Bob), although debilitated by cultures and places immensely different from their own, they still strive to appreciate Japan as it is, and to understand.

In some scenes, it was quite obvious that Bill Murray were ad-libbing lines mostly for comic effect, but it makes his character's bond with Charlotte much more genuine with all its tender spontaneity. To be precise, it is in a scene where they are eating in a typical Japanese restaurant of some sorts. Scripted or not, Bill Murray delivered his lines so irrevocably funny in a certain conversationally mundane way that Scarlett Johansson's laughs looked more authentic and very 'by-the-moment'. These sequences have helped to uphold their already very involving chemistry, and through that, they have achieved to inhabit the sensibilities of real people that for once, although how admittedly beautiful Scarlett Johansson is, by way of her portrayal of Charlotte, I wouldn't even be surprised if I bump into her character in a crowd of tourists all dazed and confused. Yes, she was that convincing.

There were many unforgettable scenes in the film mostly enhanced by Bill Murray's everyman-type slapstick and Scarlett Johansson's combination of ennui and starry-eyed cultural wonder. But it has got to be the final, evocative scene that easily takes the cake as the film's defining moment that exposes the silent power of love.

We see them say goodbye in the hotel lobby, but we all know that it was merely for formality's sake. After the brief farewell, Bob rides a car. Then in a busy corner, Bob Harris asked for his driver to stop. She saw a blond-haired woman that seems like Charlotte. It was her indeed. He went into her and they embraced. He then whispered to her something inaudible to us, but what Bob has said were just meager in importance. We have followed their connection, their relationship and their love close enough for the film's entirety that in that final whisper, we accepted their privacy and we gave it to them.

And as Bob returns to the backseat of his car that will bring him into the airport and then back into America, he alternately looks out the window and around him. The buildings and the highway. The cars and the skyline. At first, when he arrived in Tokyo, he looked upon them with questions in his mind, but after he has professed his love to an acquaintance in a foreign land that has unconsciously taught him to understand, he looked upon the metropolis with cathartic eyes. This time, it's with clarity, and with a hint of a smile.

FINAL RATING

The Truman Show (Peter Weir)

A touch.

Our protagonist's name is Truman. Of course it's a play on the words 'true' and 'man', implying that he is the only person in his make-believe reality that is, well, living a genuine existence. But from that simple wordplay materializes a fascinating exploration of an individual's awakening consciousness in the midst of a soap opera-like artificiality. If ever you find out that the perceived life around you is nothing but a novel-length script and the people that surround you nothing but a mass collection of actors and bit players, would you lash out? If yes, won't you consider the utopia of a perfect life that it has got to offer? An existence where everyone is your friend and vice versa? A life without any blemishes save for the occasional ones of your own? This is what "The Truman Show" has raised with emotional wonder and revelatory humor, while adding up an unforgettably absurdist, over-the-top view of the advantageous inner core of media's wholeness. From that combination, the film, directed by Peter Weir and written by Andrew Niccol, which could have also been directed by Frank Capra and penned by Paddy Chayefsky (of "Network") in their heydays, is an optimistic, sometimes dramatic, at times laughably satiric contemporary classic whose spirit-soaring vibes only Hollywood can pull off. With enough visionary intent, that is.

"Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" proved that Jim Carrey is infinitely better in non-comedic roles and "The Truman Show" only furthered the fact. He plays Truman Burbank, the unknowing reality TV show personality, with perfect humor and pathos that combine to inspire empathy. And through his portrayal, he also ignites in the process the hidden paranoiac within us all. What if my whole family is unreal? What if they bring home groceries merely because of advertising commitments? You may say it's far-fetched, but it's a valid psychological condition, and it has a name ("The Truman Show Delusion", or simply, "The Truman Syndrome"). Now back to Jim Carrey's acting, his antics, exaggerated and all, is littered everywhere but were never the focus of the film. The laughs, although not as loud and boisterous as how a common comedy film would have evoked it, are much more rewarding.

It's never Jim Carrey all the time. No, it was not just him that produces the focal comedy, but the idea of his character's place and situation. Consider the scene where he's (as Truman) driving his car when suddenly the car radio goes out of frequency and unexpectedly feeds off a stoic, trained narration/instruction of his present place and the street he is currently driving through. He then reacts with sublime surprise far from his usual face-distorting persona that made him a household name. But nevertheless, we laughed. I laughed. The crew's technical glitches, Truman's ever-smiling, by-the-book wife Meryl (impressively played by Laura Linney), even the countless advertisements in between Truman's life. Sure, there is Jim Carrey and his embodiment of a modern cinematic funnyman in the center, but "The Truman Show", with its knock-out visual splendor, energy and existentialist views, extracts its comedy from endless sources other than its central actor. That is one of the instances where the richness of a material really shows. It's got a scene-stealing actor headlining, but the film never delved to fully capitalize on him. Its foundations are indeed strong enough and the film preferred it for Carrey to purely act and embrace Truman Burbank and not the other way around. The latter would have been too distracting.

But I have to admit, I have raised an eyebrow on some of the technologies used in the film, notably the water and wind-controlling system that simulates a storm and the artificial moon that serves as the night light of Truman's town and also harbors the ubiquitous Christof (the ever-reliable Ed Harris), the puppet master of it all, and his crew. The concept of that particular control room is too visually excessive that they look more like megalomaniacal Bond villains than TV show staffs. But looking at both sides, that brief complain of mine can also be counterpointed by the fact that "The Truman Show" IS a satire, and also, maybe because the film is consciously set in a not so distant future with an ambiguous time frame so creation of things bordering implausibility are completely acceptable.

"The Truman Show" is and always will be a perennial feel-good movie, with Jim Carrey showing his competence on playing a transcendent character that reminds a lot of Jimmy Stewart's unique everyman appeal. But beyond the laughter and tears, the film is also a fascinatingly original depiction of what mainstream media has ultimately become, from its initial innocence to its present condition almost completely akin to gratuitous voyeurism. It shows the bastardization of entertainment and its toll on its unaware and unwilling participants. And with that, "The Truman Show", made in 1998 some years before the true boom of reality shows, is indeed quite prophetic. Ed Harris' Christof a mirror of TV's "Big Brother"? Who would have known?

FINAL RATING

I Heart Huckabees (David O. Russell)

Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin: Existential Detectives

Absurdist film filled with deep existential concepts relentlessly displayed through comic articulacy. I've read many dissenting reviews regarding the film even before I have seen it so I'm quite weary that this will be one of those pseudo-intellectual, nonsensical pretense disguised as a comedy film. But even though the alienating opening sequence (I have no idea what Jason Schwartzman's character is blabbering about) is a cautious foreboding that this won't be a usual film, I do believe that with enough patience, "I Heart Huckabees" can easily be appreciated and absorbed even by the most unenthusiastic of viewers.

It stars distinguished actors such as Dustin Hoffman, Jude Law, Mark Wahlberg, and Naomi Watts (with 'The Birds'' Tippi Hedren in a minor role), and the plot concerns depression, divisive philosophies about the universe and identity and it never stops there. This film is fueled with enough intellectual discourse to inspire debates and disgust. Even the idea of producing a brief philosophy book out of it would not be an overstatement.

Director David O. Russell, known for his eccentric temperament, seems to have found his ideal film: a film where characters populate sequences armed with enough angst, questions and disoriented energy that fully complement the nature of the situations.

Concerning machismo, 'Three Kings' may be Russell's definitive creation, but considering the sheer downpour of endless thoughts that may have bugged his psyche firsthand, this is possibly 'it'. The visual accompaniment for his supposedly erratic behavior on-sets. The exalted characters. The endlessly restless cerebral and 'physical' activities. Yes, this can be 'him'.

Amidst its tireless interior that contains stupendous amount of grounds deep inquiries that can easily be answered with practicality ('isn't coincidence just, well, a coincidence all on itself?'), "I Heart Huckabees" unfolded its true, simplistic nature via a question repeatedly uttered throughout and even included at the very end of the credits: "How am I not myself?"

Same existential question can be raised in 'Values Education' classes and within that context, it might be the film's ultimate intent: To align our inner thoughts to who we really are. I'm quite sure that I've already mentioned that line in my "Three Kings" review. Redundancy perhaps, but It can be a sign of a thematic trend.

"I Heart Huckabees" wasn't an energy-sucking 'infernal' machine as what Roger Ebert stated in his review of this film. It truly is a well-made commentary (as if it resembles one) about every person's hidden acumen that can solve inner dilemmas not through the exploration of an abyss infested with far-fetched ideas but through the fondness to expose the true, cathartic nature of ourselves.

We have already seen many films dealing with human comedy and the folly of decisions. "I Heart Huckabees", on the other hand, is the comedy of philosophy and the folly of its perceived precision.

FINAL RATING

The American (Anton Corbijn)

George Clooney as the enigmatic 'American'.

"The American", in some ways, shares the same conflict and premises of "In Bruges" but minus the dry wit and dark humor. It's about an assassin retreating into a peaceful Italian village after a hit has gone grimmer than it should have been. George Clooney plays the eponymous role in what may be one of his most serious and subtlest roles to date. He strolls the brick-floored countryside, he forms a bond with a priest, he finds love in the form of a loving prostitute (yes, you may say 'not again!'), and he is able to enjoy the peace and quiet that could have easily been ennui for some.

Now let us not pretend that George Clooney's character Jack's life as a contract killer won't catch up with him even in the most obscure of places. He's an assassin, and as what cinematic hitmen has been trying to prove ever since, it's quite comfortable to resolve conflicts in a slick European setting. But as cliche-bound as the film may be, it's quite rich in its characters and effective in its overall execution. The film looks upon Jack not as an almost super-human hitman with constant tingling senses, but as a weary and directionless middle-aged man embracing the temporal comforts of the tranquil Italian landscapes.

There's even a scene that shows his almost paranoiac nerve response even to the slightest sound of a motor vehicle. Then, finding out that it's not what he thought it will be, not a man with a gun or femme fatale with a knife, he carefully shrugs and walks away. He never even bothered for a second look. He's tired.

"The American", in accord with its intriguingly simplistic yet paradoxical poster (entitled as "The American" yet looking like a European film in its lay-out), is a considerably compelling little thriller torn between two identities: The existentialist idea of a lone protagonist in an unfamiliar environment and the penetrating manifestation of a tragic love between two social misfits; either way, "The American" is still a rewarding watch that works both as an observing drama about mistakes and a solid commentary about regret. For the action skeptics, on the other hand, do not worry, George Clooney do have a fairly intense chase scene here.

Foot Note: Paolo Bonacelli, known for playing the sadistic fascist in "Salo", portraying a priest? Did he ever had any disturbing thoughts while he cooked that stew? Right now, I surely do.

FINAL RATING

Saturday Night Fever (John Badham)

Living in a world of fools.

Film Review Archive (date seen: October 12, 2010)

A 70's phenom that stormed the whole being of a culture with its ecstatic music and dance moves. Today, watching it is a cheesy, melodramatic experience filled with heavy nostalgia, but still strangely compelling. One of the main purposes of the dances are of course to highlight the raging trend of the 70's, but to be more exact, it's also powerfully used to convey and exorcise painful emotions from its protagonist, Tony Manero (played by John Travolta).

As I watch "Saturday Night Fever", I can see a lot of "Mean Streets"-type touches, which I thought perfectly captures, with wild carelessness, the random and cyclic existence of adolescents in Brooklyn; complete nobodies hiding their anguish about life's disappointments and misgivings through sex, booze, and the imaginary glamor offered as always by the colorful disco floor. "Saturday Night Fever", contrary to the immediate thought time and history has given it, is more than just a "dance" film, it's more about human connections, depicted in the film both in its failure and success, and how it is, above all the cheap trophies and appraisals, the best reward there is.

Today, when one hears "Saturday Night Fever", the first thing that would enter one's mind is the image of John Travolta dancing his brains out; only few would even think of it as a painful study of existentialism, which it actually is.

FINAL RATING