Look Closer: Dogtooth (Giorgos Lanthimos, 2009)

Hristos Passalis, Aggeliki Papoulia and Mary Tsoni in Dogtooth (2009)

Following my first viewing of Dogtooth yesterday I was left with dozens of unanswered questions, and certainly as many emotions. In my closing paragraph I stated that this is a film which demands to be re-visited often, in order to become familiar with its world, explore its themes and pick up on finer, subtler details. So that's exactly what I've done, and here are some of the more definite conclusions I've made...

The first thing that occurred to me was the chain guard which barricades the house off from the outside. It seems to be located in a remote region, considering how far Father has to drive to work each day, and the one exterior shot of the car - speeding along a barren hillside path - makes it clear that the family demand privacy. But the barricade signifies something bigger. It is made quite clear that Mother and Father don't want the children to escape, but there would be no need for a chain guard that far on the outside, as anyone walking - or running - away from the house could easily maneuver it. A car coming in from the outside, however, would have more difficulty. It seems that Mother and Father also want to keep people from coming in, and considering the few scenes with side-characters (the dog trainer, for example) we could conclude that outside life is, in our sense of the word, normal. Certainly the family lie about who they are. Why? It seems a stretch, and an unfounded one, but are the children perhaps some kind of experiment? There is certainly a strict regime that needs to be followed. For example, nobody must be awake past 11pm.

This led me to speculating about Father's job, as his unspecific workplace is only visualized by towering blocks of warehouses on what looks like an abandoned industrial estate. There are a lot of exterior shots of the factory but very few from inside, and the product being manufactured looks (from what I can tell) like pipe and stone. This could be further confirmed by a discovery I made while playing the film in slow-motion. When Father is talking with his colleague (who seems to be using a Windows XP system) we can glimpse the man holding a black pamphlet, with a purple pyramid on the front and the word KEOPE. One Google search later and I find a website for KEOPE, with the matching symbol. Some of the site seems to be unfinished, but it looks to have something to do with construction and land development. They have lots of affiliates, some of them green environmental companies. The sites do look decidedly amateur, however, and reveal little information... or do they? Given we now know what Father does for a living, and we have seen very little else of where the family live, could it be safe to assume that the town itself is under construction? It's a quiet, desolate place, and as I stated in my previous review, Godless. I was very careful to look out for religious imagery or conversation on my second watch but the film is totally void of it. The only creators are the parents - they are changing the rules of evolution and falsely re-establishing language. The metaphor here still exists with the dog trainer, who says to Father: "Dogs are like clay. And our job here is to mold them... every dog is waiting for us to show them how to behave... do we want a guard who will respect us as his masters and do unhesitatingly whatever we ask of him?"

Then there is the idea that violence begets violence; that the mental torture exercised by the parents is the direct cause for the children's physical violence - for example, the youngest son hitting his knee with a hammer and blaming it on a cat. The parent's lies and manipulation give the kids a scapegoat, and something to hide the result of their impulses behind. This ultimately demonstrates that their closeted system of protection doesn't work, and hiding the outside world doesn't make the inside any safer, or healthier. The film's political allegory is probably an extension of this idea, but for me the film is far more engaging when experimenting within its own hermetic world. I enjoyed Dogtooth much more this time, although I'm not sure I'll ever feel comfortable with it. Actually, I'm not sure I'm supposed to...

The Shortlist: Top 10 Trailers

Full feature can be found at MultiMediaMouth: http://www.multimediamouth.com/2011/02/11/the-shortlist-top-10-trailers/

The Fighter (David O. Russell, 2010) Review

Christian Bale and Mark Wahlberg in the Oscar nominated The Fighter (2010)

Riding on a wave of critical plaudits from US critics The Fighter arrives on UK shores with two Golden Globe wins, 3 BAFTA and 7 Academy Award nominations. Wahlberg had been prepping the film as a producer and training as a boxer for four years before unlikely director David O. Russell (Spanking The Monkey, 1994) came onboard, and in the shadow of boxing movies such as Rocky (John G. Avildsen, 1976) and Raging Bull (Martin Scorsese, 1980), it's only right to expect the absolute best from this biopic. Unfortunately, as was perhaps inevitable, it fails to deliver on the promised level, combining over-familiar dysfunctional family drama with an unsuccessful sports movie, landing on an uncomfortable middle ground that never finds quite the right momentum. It is, however, held together by impressive direction and some truly stunning performances...

The films biggest plus is also its flaw. Wahlberg had been pushing this project as producer for four years before O. Russell came onboard to direct - it was his dream to tell the story of Micky Ward, the boxer who struggled to go pro in the mid 1980s. Ironic then that he is the least interesting aspect of the movie and actually plays second fiddle to the story of step-brother Dicky Eklund (Christian Bale). There's a line in The Fighter where barmaid Charlene (Amy Adams) calls Micky a "stepping stone." In the context of the movie she's wrong, as Micky is a born fighter with natural talent and heart. But in the context of the movie she's spot-on. Micky's story is the narrative drive, it's his arc that we follow to the end, but he's frequently stepped on by Dicky who overpowers the screen and provides the more interesting redemption story; this is the small-town self destruction movie, and in that sense it works brilliantly. Which isn't to say that Whalberg is bad, or that his storyline doesn't work. Indeed, Wahlberg is terrific (where's his Oscar nom?) and without him the story of Dicky couldn't be told, because it's the dynamic between the brothers and how they keep failing for each other, living in a cycle of regret, that forms the core of what The Fighter is about. Scenes of Micky on his own beaten and bruised are affecting, but those punches are never really felt in the ring because where The Fighter ultimately fails is as a sports movie. There are only three main fights in the film, shot on genuine HBO cameras and using the real commentary tapes from Micky's fights. This lends them an ultra-realism unlike any boxing movie I've seen before, but it also means they're quite distinctly un-cinematic and lack any true tension. O. Russell shoots them in a remarkably controlled fashion but they lack the violent energy really need. The biopic The Fighter kept reminding me of was The Hurricane (Norman Jewison, 1999), which had some kinetic boxing scenes, and was also a moving prison drama - of course that was also a period movie, and dealt heavily with the justice system and racial politics. But it hit the balance being strived for here.

So lets flip the coin. Christian Bale is absolutely astonishing here and it's his performance that makes the film a must-see. He's always been a great actor, from American Psycho (Mary Harron, 2000) to Rescue Dawn (Werner Herzog, 2006), but he's really on fire here. Of course the first thing you notice is the weight loss, but he's done that before. It's really the psychological link he's made with his character that's key. He's so completely in the character that you sometimes forget you're watching an actor. He owns the screen, from his early energetic scenes on the streets to his stretch in prison and ultimate redemption by bringing Micky victory. For the first half of the film a HBO documentary crew are filming Dicky for a show about crack addiction, but he thinks they're making a show about his comeback. He's been living on a pipe-dream for so long that when he finally accepts his past it's incredibly moving. When Micky is in his final fight, half dead, Dicky just stares him down. "This is your chance. I had mine and I blew it. You don't have to. You're Micky Ward." Clichéd? Probably, but it actually tugged my heartstrings just typing that sentence. Unfortunately Dicky is let down in scenes with his mother and sisters. The big selling point for O. Russell has been the fact that Micky has these seven sisters, and they provide a dynamic he hadn't seen in a boxing biopic before. The problem is that none of them are rounded characters, they perhaps have one line each and mostly just row and act like rowdy caricatures. Melissa Leo isn't much better in her broad performance of a dominant mother and the films worst scene comes when she leads her daughters to the house of Charlene to give Micky an ultimatum, ending in a cringe-inducing catfight. It's a horrible scene and the dynamic falls flat because it's A) not developed, and B) given minimal screen-time. In fact the film would have been much better without them.

The two real stars of the film are Amy Adams and David O. Russell. Adams is great in everything she does and here holds her own against two very strong lead performances. She has the most conventional role but injects it with humanity and a grounded strength, making her sympathetic and likable. She saves every scene she's in just by being there. Then there's O. Russell, who has really matured as a filmmaker and developed his eye with DoP Hoyte Van Hoytema. The film looks impressively downbeat and broken, like the town it represents - shot in greys and browns, it's a murky back-street of crack-houses and tired ambitions, filled with souls who try so desperately to keep each other together, but just go the wrong way about it. If the film has heart, it's because of the sense of tightly-knit community and camaraderie Russell creates with his smooth direction, which is more adventurous than his norm - not show-offy, but controlled at every turn. I've always liked him, but I never knew he was this good.

There's no score to speak of, just an unfocused rock soundtrack - and the closest the film comes to musical montage feels pretty stale. I feel like I'm painting The Fighter as a bad film, but that's not the case. It's got huge flaws even outside of being overlong and predictable - namely its uneven balancing of story and the portrayal of the rowdy sisters, who threaten to derail the whole thing at every turn. But the direction and photography are top-notch (as is the editing, in fact), and the three central performances - Bale, Wahlberg, Adams - are terrific. It could have been so much more, but it is what it is - a solid been-there-done-that fight flick with ambition and heart, that falls just a little short of greatness. A stepping stone then.

Cinema Strange #6. Dogtooth (Giorgos Lanthimos, 2009)

Aggeliki Papoulia in Dogtooth (2009)

Dogtooth is a tough film to review. Its plot is so bizarre as to actively dissuade interest, and none of those whom it draws in will agree on its point, if indeed it even has one. As it stands, I'm undecided. On the one hand Lanthimos' Kinetta (2007) follow-up is a boldly imaginative work, compelling for its abstraction and originality. But on the other, it could just be a deceptively shallow exposé of nothing in particular, determined to craft talking points rather than characters, or build scenarios I can care about. I don't even know if I enjoyed it. I was fascinated and repulsed, and perhaps a little disappointed. And yet all I want to do is go back and re-watch it...

Dogtooth certainly features the most interestingly dislocated variant on the English language since A Clockwork Orange (Kubrick, 1971), and while some might call this a quick-fix to obscurity, I actually found it the most compelling and resonant aspect of the movie: a frequent reminder of just how cut-off these kids really are. Language is our most basic tool of expression, next to walking it's the first thing we learn, and with it we can share knowledge and feeling. Finding your own voice is the most important and difficult part of growing up, but the kids in Dogtooth are part of a hermetic system of misinformation, who have falsely absorbed language and think that the word "pussy" refers to a great light (this is what they're told by their Mother, played by Michele Valley). Father (Christos Stergioglou) tells them that cats are the fiercest killers in the natural world, and that they tore apart the sibling's exiled brother, who lives on the other side of the closed-off fence. Is there a brother on the other side? If so, what happened to him? It matters little, as what follows the scene of the Son's (Hristos Passalis) first encounter with a cat (a darkly hilarious sequence involving garden shears) is a practical lesson in how to defend yourself against them - drop down on all fours and bark. But this scene, while also uncomfortably funny, serves a greater thematic purpose...

The most literal interpretation of events (there's political allegory here, but I'm not qualified to expound on it) is to read the film as an essay on the way parents abuse their children through love, demanding submission while issuing unreachable goals. Roger Ebert, who approached the film similarly, ends his review with a provocative statement; "God help children whose parents insanely demand unquestioning obedience to their deranged standards." As far as the film's ethics are concerned I think he's spot-on, but that sentence raises some further ideas about its world. It's questionable whether events are even taking place on this planet, but if they are I propose this: the universe of Dogtooth is a Godless one. Consider the scene where Mother tells her children she is expecting twins and a dog, but that she could postpone the birth depending on their behavior. What does this mean? She's clearly not pregnant, so where do the children come from? Where do these children come from? Are they adopted or, worse, manufactured? Of course she can't really give birth to a dog either - she refers to the animal that Father is having trained up to a Level 5 standard. What that means is never made totally clear, but the trainer talks about moulding the mind of the dog, and (this statement is never explicitly used) creating it in the image of its owner. That's what the parents are doing. They're building life by their standards, re-teaching evolution, teaching of sin through practical experience and rewarding obedience with choices of evening entertainment. Language doesn't exist in any recognizable form, nor do moral or ethic principles. This is a Godless universe because the parents have made themselves God - and at what cost?

The more I write about Dogtooth, the more I like it. This is a film that needs to be revisited often, as everyone will have a different interpretation of events and that judgement will be constantly challenged. I noticed a similarity between this film and the Mexican drama (based on true events) El castillo de la pureza (Ripstein, 1973), and those who have seen it will likely approach Dogtooth from a peculiar point of familiarity, which is sure to subconsciously affect the viewing experience. I still remain positively baffled by Lanthimos' vision, which is best described as uneven. It made my skin crawl. It made me laugh. It made me angry and confused and thrilled and bored. There is no narrative drive, just a series of scenes that escalate in their strangeness. I know I'll be re-watching it very, very soon...

Kenji Mizoguchi #2. Musashino fujin (The Lady Of Musashino) (1951)

A typical scene from Musashino fujin (1951)

Although his other 1951 picture Oyû-sama is famed for its relatively frank portrayal of sexuality and perverse desires (untouched and unspoken subjects at the time), Mizoguchi's underrated melodrama Musashino fujin actually deals with bigger, more controversial issues such as incest, adultery and suicide... albeit in a sweepingly soft blow that features characteristically ripe dialogue and theatrical performances from Masayuki Mori and Akihiko Katayama, who paint their säkē-swelling womanizers with such broadly antagonistic strokes that it's sometimes hard to understand how Michiko (Kinuyo Tanaka) is torn between two such loose cannons. Although it can also be read as a propaganda piece (which Japan was producing at this point) about loyalty and obedience, it's probably best seen as a straightforward drama, because in that sense it has some highlights - and we can sidestep the questionable moral ethics presented by the finale which I would need to know A) more about Mizoguchi's oeuvre, and B) more about Japanese cultural history to fairly assess in a context that would be fair to the film. That said the ending is almost laughable in its extremes and I find it peculiar form for a feminist filmmaker whose previous and subsequent features presented such strong female characters with solid ideals and rounded character arcs.

The film opens at the end of war with Tokyo (an expanding and sprawling utopia) being bombed, and Akiyama (Mori) and Michiko walking down a long country path, away from the (beautifully shot) smoking rubble in the distance, towards Musashino - a stunningly pastoral area surrounded by grass and trees. Akiyama is a teacher prone to infidelity and Michiko is his long suffering wife, who stands by him to honour her position in society and keep her fathers promise of keeping the family together and creating a new generation. After a few years Michiko's younger cousin Tsutomu (Katayama) returns from war, most of which he spent in a POW camp, and starts to stir trouble with Akiyama, who has fallen in love with his neighbor Tomiko (Yukiko Todoroki), wife of Ono (Sô Yamamura). Tsutomu and Michiko fall in love, but betray their desire to keep face in their small gossipy community. Even when Akiyama runs away with Tomiko, Michiko suffers in solace, before she eventually learns of a way to procure happiness for Tsutomu and deny her husband unlawful access to her fathers land...

The story is contrived and needs a controlling hand to keep the emotions on an even kilter, and although he seems more impassioned by this material than Oyû-sama, Mizoguchi still isn't on his most commanding form in regards to the direction. Many of his long-takes are actually cut short with unsatisfying edits that seem too safe in terms of composition, and the film lacks a definite rhythm. That said it does boast great momentum; the pace of this 84 minute film is faster than most pictures of the period I can recall. There are very few tracking shots and the tableaus that do exist are rather bland in comparison with, say, The Life Of Oharu (1952). But there are still plenty of aspects to admire in the film, namely the way in which Mizoguchi shoots and juxtaposes the country and city lifestyles. The way he shoots nature and the forest is incredibly absorbing - dense and vast, the images have such depth and are beautifully photographed. The angles he chooses capture a light through the trees that is at clear odds with the darkness of city life, often shot in cloud or at night from high-rise buildings that are only lit by the neon-signs that are slowly re-building the city. The films most honest moment comes in its surprisingly depressing denouement (the reading of a letter; not the tacky suicide). In voiceover Michiko informs Tsutomu "Your beloved, beautiful Musashino only exists in your dreams. It is a sentimental idea." She goes on to tell him that the land he always dreamed of - of schools and opportunity - is fast becoming city life, which is observed in a perhaps overly promotional but still stunningly evocative overhead shot of Tokyo. It's a rising economic and technological landscape that holds the reality of a Tsutomu's nostalgic Musashino.

The central performance by Tanaka is extremely assured here, with subtler shades and a more natural self-reflection than displayed in Oyû-sama. Although the dialogue is still beneath her talents ("I must go on living a loneliness worse than death") and rather undersells the nobility her character could have had, she stands out in a film with many more positive aspects than it is currently attributed. For example, although I have previously noted on Mizoguchi's direction in a negative sense it is still understandingly observational and more in-tune with the artistry of the piece, which is perhaps fitting for such exaggerated material. The film has a lovely overall aesthetic and is one of his most pleasing works on a visual level. Also the score - a more nuanced and shaded work than expected - is perfectly edited into the film, only appearing at vital moments and never manipulating. It's by no means a perfect work, but it's an enjoyable one when watched on the level of pure drama. Accept the silliness, the histrionics and questionable ethics (which, I grant you, is a lot) and you'll find a much more satisfying work than Mizoguchi's current critics would have you believe.

Never Let Me Go (Mark Romanek, 2010) Review

Full review at essentialwriters.com: http://essentialwriters.com/film-review-never-let-me-go-9076.htm

Kenji Mizoguchi #1. Oyû-sama (1951)

Kinuyo Tanaka as Oyû Kayukawa in Oyû-sama (1951)

Based on Jun'ichirō Tanizaki's 1932 novel The Reed Cutter (Ashikari), Kenji Mizoguchi's period melodrama was not one of his proudest works, but set within his confidently formalist frame what could have been a sappy studio picture becomes a semi-accomplished tone piece, beautifully photographed and economically shot in a series of long-take static tableaus and vital tracking shots. Even though it's melodrama the film is still painted in relatively small strokes. It's a film in which people fall in love upon first sight of each other, and emotions are not disclosed or explored, they are impulsive and declared. But actress Kinuyo Tanaka (Oyû), despite being terribly miscast, is on remarkably restrained form here. As an actress she is best known for her expressive emotion and the ability to consume a frame, especially in Mizoguchi's own Yoru no onnatachi (1948), which critic and commentator Tony Rayns describes as a performance of "animal like ferocity." Although there are moments of showboating (Shizu collapsing at her sisters feet begging her not to marry a sake salesman) Mizoguchi generally keeps the tone calm and collected, successfully creating mood in confined areas. Cast members Nobuko Otowa and Yuji Hori also do a good job of treating the melodrama with gravitas, but this creates some distance between us and the characters plight...

Mizoguchi had been making 'women's pictures' (an emerging trend for a popular market) for the Shôchiku Studio during WWII, where he established himself as a talented feminist filmmaker - although compromises had to be made as Japan had its eye on propaganda pictures. He soon moved to the Daiei Studio, which had undergone a turbulent couple of years when its head was accused of war crimes, for which he was absolved in 1948. Mizoguchi had a keen eye on the project he wanted to make (the superb Life Of Oharu, 1952, review coming soon) but was forced to compromise for some time as the studio found the picture over-expensive and troublesome in terms of foreign relations and political neutrality with the US. It's obvious that Oyû-sama is a compromised work, and one without Mizoguchi's heart completely in it. Of course, that's not to say the film isn't totally without merit. The screenplay by Yoshikata Yoda may be unfaithful to the source material (told in flashback with much more depth and nuance) but it is loaded with expressive feeling, best summed up by Shizu's line to Oyû, "for you I am willing to live my whole life in the shadows." If it sounds like unrealistic or clichéd then try to remember that the film is melodrama, and is dealing with quite profoundly untouched matters of a sexual nature, set in Japan's Meiji Period (1868-1912). Some of the dialogue may ring false, but the heightened sense of emotion is handled with care by the performers and director, and serves to mask a controversial and unfamiliar subject with a style audiences would recognise and could relate to. The ending is powerfully ambiguous, with Shinnosuke (Hori), after leaving his child to Oyû, wandering into the marsh - perhaps to live as a hermit, or perhaps to commit suicide. But on the way, in a stunning shot that sees the sun (its first appearance) shine directly over him, he sings "it was never destined to be this way." Surely destiny, as a device, was built for melodrama?

It's questionable whether the film A) addresses its themes correctly, or B) effectively employs melodramatic convention in softening the blow of said themes. Personally I was never fully attached to the characters, who seemed to exist in a limbo between melodrama and realism, a fine line that Mizoguchi would address perfectly later in his career, but with not enough compassion here. I wish the themes were deeper, but perhaps any sort of cerebral digging would be to misunderstand the formal point of Mizoguchi's cinema. It's an interesting feminist text, but still pales in comparison to the strength shown in later characters such as Oharu. It could easily be read as a piece on sisterly loyalty, and the films most heartbreaking moment comes when Shizu dies in Oyû's kimono, after giving birth to the child which is rightfully her sisters. But even then it's not totally accomplished. Mizoguchi's words on the film in 1952 were that it was a "job that didn't turn out well... I suppose the problem with the film is that I was trying to be fashionable." I don't think it's as bad as he thinks it is - indeed, the film is cleverly composed, almost theatrical in places, and has moments of visual beauty that can only be matched in this period by Kurosawa. The biggest problems lie in the director simply not caring enough for his material to give it the backbone such a complex novel deserves rendition of, and the fact that his address to both subject and melodrama are uneven. The cast do their best, turning in admirable performances, but ultimately the film suffers. Sporadically engaging but always technically proficient, it has moments of greatness but patches of a filmmaker treading water in hope of his dream project, which would turn into his feminist masterpiece.