Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Tomas Alfredson, 2011)

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Something that has always been of great interest to me is the handling of, and interaction with, secret and clandestine materials. Espionage films, therefore, are a perfect fit for me! People who are willing to subvert and corrupt their own selves, often at great personal or material risk, for what they believe to be a greater cause, or the well-being of place or ideal, suggest a conviction that, while not always ideal, is certainly interesting to see the motivation behind it. Of course, when these convictions are turned upon the institutions that foster them, such as in this film, the integrity, the true value, of those ideals are really put to the test – is it worth attacking the very institutions that are designed to foster your ideals in pursuit of those ideals? Sometimes, however, in order to save the ideals, the institution needs the attack. And so, throughout the course of this film, the forces of British intelligence go to war over what represents the best way to save Britain, and how far one must go to save an ideal, which in this case, just so happens to be a nation. Continue reading →

Re-Encounter (Min Yong-geun, 2011)

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How do you deal with the pain of abandonment? When those you consider closest have left you, and you are completely and totally alone, is there any possibility of return to a normal, social, life? Well, of course there is, and even though Re-Encounter (Korean title: 혜화,동 / Hyehwa, Dong) does, at times, suggest the lack of any possibility, even this film knows that it’s possible to re-establish social bonds, and form something resembling family. Those “familial” social bonds may be created out of whatever is available at the moment, patched together and tenuous, but they are real nonetheless. The film does become strained in its seriousness at times, as the director (Min Yong-geun) reaches to really emphasize those moments of hopelessness; these become a drag on what is otherwise an extremely well-shot and beautiful look at the strength one can find in abandonment. Continue reading →

Popular Democracy in Japan: How Gender and Community are Changing Modern Electoral Politics (Sherry Martin, 2011)

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Sherry Martin’s Popular Democracy in Japan attempts to explain the changing relationship between national & local politicians, and the general public, focusing specifically on female voters, ones who typically are not affiliated with interest groups or traditional voting blocs. The book touches on what national politicians since 2000 have done to attempt to court these unaffiliated voters, but the primary focus remains on politically independent women, and how their becoming involved with policy and political debates changes the behavior of politicians, and on the electoral culture itself.

Martin does focus on policy goals of women. Instead, Martin’s focus is on how women engage in politics, and the methods of their organization. Martin also focuses on the widening split between national and local politics, finding local systems as the entry point for many previously unengaged women. The book does not tackle why women are engaging in politics as more organized groups compared to previous generations, but how these groups have formed. In explaining the formation of these groups, and the recent engagement in politics, Martin does look at the policy goals of women’s groups; she does not, however, start with the goals, and only sees them as the ends. Her focus in this book, rather is on the means that lead to them. Continue reading →

Never Let Me Go (Mark Romanek, 2010)

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The film is strange in its basic premise: that those who are obviously human might be classified as “not human.” It builds up a story about three youths, with all the complications of puberty and entering adulthood, and then pulls out the rug from underneath them with the world in which this story is told, taking away their right to humanity. “You’re in love? Tough! You’re not here to be in love, you’re not here to even be human!” It’s a daring premise, to be sure, and it leaves you reaching for the tissue box (at least, it’s supposed to). As the film’s characters search for “true love,” some find it and others do not; the film suggests that not everyone can even find it, and even those that do will unfortunately not get the chance to fulfill it. What is different in this film is the suggestion that “true love,” when found, will be denied by external pressures on the relationship from society, rather than something from within the relationship itself.

Something I find rather interesting is the age politics at play; unless I’m mistaken, I think that clones in the film are exclusively portrayed as young people, while everyone else (the “normal people”) are older. I wonder if this is intentional, since when I see it, I can only think of the current issues at play regarding my generation, who will be paying for my parents’ generation’s greatest excesses. I can’t help but think that this film predicts the current social issues at play in America and abroad.

What makes the film, then, so difficult to watch is the inevitability of the clones’ destruction. They cannot save themselves; nobody ever even suggests trying to break out of the system which defines them as clones, and the one “out” is built on rumors and false pretenses. Funny how human that kind of rumor-making is, even as society denies these humans their right to existence. These youth are forced to sacrifice their own futures so that those who came before them can live longer, past 100. A selfish societal basis, to be sure.

Mark Romanek presents this world with grace and class; the science fiction element is present only enough to make it believable, and no more. Granted, he presents the material as Very Serious Business; sometimes, it gets a bit too serious and “Oscar-baity,” straining the believability of his film’s world. Most of the time, however, the seriousness of the tone feels appropriate; while the film is in many ways just a children’s love story, the weight of their purpose in life as organ farms demands a certain level of respect. And if the film knows anything, it is how to produce high quality Very Serious Business. Two of the strongest aspects of the film, its cinematography and music, emphasize the emotional pain the characters feel, and make you feel it as well – sometimes too strongly, as the “Oscar bait” moments attest to. Complementing the camerawork is (mostly) great acting by all three leads; if a lesser actress than Carey Mulligan were in the lead, I do not know if the film itself would hold together. Andrew Garfield does at times strain his credibility, most notably with one scene of screaming and crying, but is otherwise very good at what he does, as is Kiera Knightely, whose character appears far less than the others but just long enough to really leave an impression.

An issue I have with the film one that is actually more common in romantic comedies: the separation of sex from true love. The act is portrayed as a false act of love, one that those who are actually in love won’t have to do, since they’re already in love, or something like that. It’s a silly suggestion to make, but it’s also minor within the greater context of the film and does not really hold the movie back.

Ultimately, the Very Serious nature of the film works; Mulligan’s character comes out of the film in the “best” situation but only because her life ends in the least bad manner, compared to her friends. She ends her life happy for whatever little she was able to enjoy, as those who continue to live into their 100s do so thanks to her forced sacrifice. That, in the end, is the ultimate pain of the film: those who sacrifice their youth, and their lives, against their own will, for the pleasure of the previous generation.

Late Spring (Yasujiro Ozu, 1949)

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The lead of Late Spring, Noriko, is a woman terrified about moving forward in her life. She cannot imagine herself outside of her current situation, and thus clings onto it with increasingly desperate grasp. She sees threats to her lifestyle and attacks them mercilessly, declaring them scummy and not worth her family’s time. She cannot, however, escape the forward march of her own life, and thus allows her passage through life to continue. She cannot remain frozen in her position, as without change to her being, she will not be able to even live, nor will those in her life be able to live, either.

Noriko lives with her father, and cares for him above all others. She relishes this existence, as she knows nothing else, and spends the majority of the film refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of any other path. She is alone in this feeling; every other character in the film, including her own father, works tirelessly to convince her that she must move on and get married.

What is most interesting about her character’s rejection of marriage is the suggestion that she could have accepted it, if her suggested lover hadn’t already gotten married. Noriko is very close to her father’s assistant, Hattori, and scenes of them relaxing on the beach suggest their relationship is, or should be, more than one of just close friends. Of course, he is married, and so they cannot be together. Maybe those beach scenes are a suggestion that they have an illicit relationship, but I cannot fully commit to that suggestion, and have seen little to suggest this interpretation is legitimate.

What is clear from Noriko’s worldview, however, is that she is hopelessly outdated and naive, and any persistance on her part in remaining her father’s caretaker is screwing up her life and his. The majority of the film, focused on her stubborn insistence on this worldview, is Ozu at his slowest and most difficult. Her worldview, once it changes, allows the film to speed up a bit, as she can begin the transition into a life with direction and movement (even if that movement is solely into marriage).

There are two sequences in the film that best exemplify her transition into a being with direction. The first of these is an example of the conflict evident in Noriko’s position, and her resistance to the forward expression of time and being. This sequence takes place in the Noh theater, where her gaze is locked on her father’s new fiancée. She cannot stand this woman, and the camera lingers on her staring at her; the camera also, however, cuts back and forth between Noriko and the Noh play. The chanting of the play emphasizes the passage of time, and Noriko’s inability to change her father’s decision. Noriko’s refusal to accept her passage through time, and pass into marriage, is directly refuted by the slow pace of this scene.

The second sequence is the most famous of the film, where images of a vase in an empty room are inserted between shots of Noriko. The image of the vase, as an expression of basic time, provides a transitional piece for Noriko’s realization and acceptance of her own marriage, and the well-being of her father. He will be okay without her, she realizes, and although she doesn’t like it, she will accept it. After this sequence, she can move into her own marriage, sad for losing her father, but knowing that the both of them will be okay in life.

The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick, 2011)

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One might expect a film containing low-budget CG dinosaurs to have its low point at said dinosaurs. Oh, if only. Instead, it appears that what must have been the easiest scenes to shoot – Sean Penn looking sad and confused in a modern office tower, and more confused in a rocky desert landscape – are the film’s lowest point, the most unnecessary segments of what is otherwise a beautiful look at the complications in family life, and the connection they share with all of existence.

One of the key factors holding the film together is Sean Penn’s father, Brad Pitt. He is seen entirely from the perspective of Penn, as a young boy, and is excellent in portraying his complexities, his failures, and his successes, both as a man and as a father. The father is complicated, an intelligent man dissatisfied with his professional life even as he pours himself into (his vision of) his kids. Of course, when his advice to his kids is, “don’t be like me,” what can he expect of them? And so, the kids don’t always react as he expects, particularly the young Sean Penn, and throw his idea of a good family, a good household, into turmoil. With this turmoil, Brad Pitt and his wife, Jessica Chastain, lose themselves as a couple. Or, more accurately, Brad Pitt’s idea of a tough father brings on both problems, and he begins to lose himself as a father, and as a husband. When Brad Pitt’s kids are forced to choose, they gravitates to their mother, who protects him and nurtures them. Unfortunately, this gravitation, extremely Oedipal in appearance, overwhelms the film, and Malick’s emphasis on it adds maybe fifteen unnecessary minutes to the film. Their devotion to their mother is obvious, and slows the movie down considerably near the end.

These fissures in the family, however, are not permanent; one of the strengths of the rather odd ending is that it allows the family to be reunited, even if only in spirit. They have had their differences, and they solve them in one way or another. This spiritual sense of healing is what ultimately guides the film through even its weakest moments. The abstract sequence of the history of the solar system, from its formation to the creation of Sean Penn’s family, is magnificent in its portrayal of the history of, well, existence as we know it. Even the silly CG dinosaurs are not completely worthy of mockery; their presence in the film is limited, and they move through it gracefully, highlighting the complicated nature of existence which will be emphasized throughout the scenes of Sean Penn’s childhood.

The dinosaur sequence is also notable for how graceful it appears throughout the montage of existence. It is one piece of a greater whole, emphasizing the complicated and constantly-changing nature of our world. What could be scary and disturbing is instead rendered rather delicately, as if one is watching a dream – or, more derisively, a computer screensaver. I think I fall more towards the former, as I think the dreamlike sensation of this sequence is necessary to establish the random and sometimes scary nature of existence as a force of wonder, rather than fear.

This sensation of wonder is particularly necessary, as it is the driving force behind Sean Penn’s childhood; the film’s greatest strength is the portrayal of childhood as a time of discovery, never in “good” or “bad” terms but with the notion of seeing a whole new world (fitting with the prior sequences of the world’s very creation). The sequence of Sean Penn as a baby, filmed as though he is experiencing the world rather than seeing it, is one of the most spectacular pieces of cinema and should be kept as a case study on film composition and editing. This montage captures the subjective experience of infancy better than any other, where the individual shots disappear into the sequence, where the actual images are subordinated into the meaning of the montage itself: the energy and unknown quality of infancy, where everything is new and little can be understood, even if those little things are amazing to behold. I would imagine any adult will see this sequence and immediately recognize their own image of infancy.

Ultimately, the film is notable for its beautiful depiction of human existence, as a part of the ever-changing yet consistent nature of the world’s own existence, one that dates back to, well, the dinosaurs. The way in which it is filmed, focusing on the reality of existence as subjective experience rather than objective image, has few peers in cinema, and is extremely well executed. If only Sean Penn weren’t so emo about his family! He has his own redemption at the end of the film, but it is too little, too late. At the very least, we get to see his infancy, and his early childhood, and all the history leading up to it, and we see enough of it to experience the wonder of childhood, and of life, with all its flaws and glory.

Norwegian Wood (Tran Ahn-hung, 2010)

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The film is primarily about Watanabe’s relationships with two women. One, Naoko, is a close friend from childhood who was with his best friend, Kizuki, until he killed himself; Naoko has never fully recovered from his suicide, and spends most of the film attempting to cope. The other woman, Midori, is another student at Watanabe’s school in Tokyo, and is much more sure of herself; she does not appear to regret or dwell in her past. Watanabe, desperate to connect with Naoko, is able to sleep with her on her birthday; she admits to never having done so with Kizuki, and appears to regret this fact as well. Kizuki consumes her mind and life, and she cannot connect to Watanabe for that reason. I cannot help but wonder if her lack of sexual experience with Kizuki informs her intense desire for him, as the scene between her and Watanabe, while not exploding with passion, is certainly well-made scene, suggesting any attraction between the two holds some legitimacy.

Watanabe’s situation, in this sense, is the same trap as Naoko’s; he is clinging to his past, in the form of Naoko, despite the fact that it has “died.” Naoko’s past, her love for Kizuki, has literally died, and she is unable to move past this fact. I think she realizes the situation she is in; her running through the field and screaming seems to suggest an anger at herself that cannot be adequately understood.  She can see this gap in her understanding, even as she is ultimately unable to control it.

Watanabe, on the other hand, can see Midori. Her demeanor and general behavior suggest a more forward-looking outlook. She, in this sense, represents a possible “future” for Watanabe, one that is actually focused on the future rather than dwelling in the past. Fortunately for him, Watanabe is able to ditch Naoko for Midori and move on with his life. Naoko, lost in a psycho ward in the woods outside Kyoto, seems lost forever.

And so, Watanabe represents the ideal: he sees love, a healthy love, and can grasp onto it.  He can also move on from his lost love, and change with age.  Rather than Naoko, who is consumed by the sight of love she cannot handle, Watanabe can handle it, and operate within and around it; when he has to move on from said love, he can do so without destroying himself.

The biggest issue with this setup is how the women are cast aside; one prominent side-story involving Watanabe’s friend and roommate, Nagasawa, involves him leaving his girlfriend to travel abroad. She, unable to cope, eventually kills herself. His nonchalance, combined with his previous infidelities, suggests that he can just walk away from a love without issue. Different from Watanabe’s own decisions in the film, but not completely. Both men shift through different kinds love with varying levels of ease, while the women’s own desires almost always end in heartbreak and self-destruction. Even Kizuki’s own suicide is an inexplicable act, one having nothing to do with Naoko.

25th Hour (Spike Lee, 2002)

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What does 9/11 mean now? There are probably as many responses as there are people alive. Interpreting the meaning of the day, as an American, or as a New Yorker, is extremely difficult, and very few have been able to express themselves successfully in response to it (notable failure: the Bush administration).

Maybe it should come as no surprise, then, that one of the most expressive New Yorkers, Spike Lee, should be able to create an image of the city after the attack, and express the anger and frustration present in everyone’s minds at the time. His film, so heavily laid in the pathos of the city, makes me wonder if anyone who hadn’t lived there would even be able to understand it. Holding the film together is the notion of imperfect, unjust, yet relatively human, people, who have made mistakes and need to, on some level, pay for them.

Nothing makes this idea clearer than the first monologue, Monty’s “fuck you” speech. He lays it all out, all the flaws of every group of New Yorkers; referencing each borough in some fashion makes clear he’s damning the entire city as a whole. Of course, to damn the city as whole means he must damn himself as well, which he does. At this point, he realizes he must atone for his own sins, and nothing he can do can fix the problems of the city. They must atone themselves; the sins of New York are not on his shoulders.

This is why Monty appears surrounded by trouble, even though he is in the greatest amount of it. His friends and girlfriend bicker and argue over minor aspects of his life, and criticize each other for their flaws. They criticize Monty for his own mistakes, and hate themselves for not doing more. But what can they do? Not much. Even Jacob has to watch his own mistakes unfold, as he denies his own attraction to his student, Mary. Once he does break down, he can only retreat; his regret plays out in the trademark Spike Lee “floating” shot that follows.

Jacob receives no penance for his mistake, but Frank gets the opportunity, when he is forced by Monty to “make him ugly.” A painful moment, to be sure, since the last thing anyone wants to do is beat up their best friend, but Frank has to do it, and does. He’s left in tears, as the enormity of his failure (in his eyes) as a friend comes crashing down upon him. All he is left with afterward is the park bench Monty used to sell drugs at as a reminder of his friend; Jacob, tasked with taking care of Monty’s dog, Doyle, has a bit more to look forward to.

Ultimately, the realization of failure, and the search for penance, is what leads to the final speech, the other great monologue of the film, given by Monty’s father, James. This speech is the ultimate fantasy, presented in total Hollywood glamour. It is supposed to be “imperfect,” as Monty does have to give up his city and his home. The speech, however, also suggests the “going west” meme, an integral part of the American fantasy, as a glorious way out of the troubles Monty has brought upon himself. Go west, remake yourself, and don’t own up to your mistakes. Very American. The fantasy is Monty’s chance to escape his reckoning; as Frank and Jacob have had to face theirs, however, Monty will face his own, and so he chooses to go to prison.

I think the demand to face reckoning for one’s mistakes, whether through penance or through pain, is what the film seeks; even though we are all imperfect, there are times when we’ll have to face up to the mistakes we’ve made. Monty blames the Bush administration for failing to either prevent 9/11 or stop the Wall Street executives; in this part of the speech, Spike Lee is oddly prescient in his depiction of how the rest of the decade will turn out. Monty faces his reckoning in prison; when will those responsible for the worst excesses of the post-9/11 world face theirs?

seven eleven

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As Takeru sat in the back of the freezer, stacking the soda cans, he stared through the glass, across the store, at Hanako.

Hanako.  She was so pretty.

The cans never ended.  When one row filled up, the next one was right there, waiting, like a pit with no end.

Hanako.  Only three years his junior.

When Takeru finished the soda, he would get the sports drinks and stack those.  More rows of cans, no different from each other.

Hanako.  She had graduated college!  A good one – Waseda.

Takeru always had to stack the fucking cans.  The freezer was freezing!  He hated going in there, especially because  nobody else ever did.  He did all the fucking work around here!

Hanako.  Back to her.  Why did she have to work in a Seven-Eleven? Continue reading →