Off-Frame

A Serious Lack of Civil War Films

2008-09-02T12:30:00.003+09:00

Lately, I've been reading up on the Civil War. There was a time during High School when I became interested in the Civil War on my own accord (this was an anomaly, as anything unrelated to video games or film never caught my fancy), The Killer Angels being my first real exposure to the subject. I recently finished Battle Cry of Freedom, and am currently reading Ulysses S. Grant's Autobiography and Grant Moves South. So I've developed some sort of foundation to build upon.

My Brother-in-law knows a fair deal about the Civil War, and during a conversation, he brought up the fact that there are few narrative features that deal with the Civil War, let alone any good ones. Glory, I believe, is arguably one of the better films on the subject. Gettysburg has some great performances, but, strangely, completely omits the gritty realism that its story necessitates. A lack of realism (i.e. blood) results in immediate actions without immediate consequences.

Searching for "Why aren't there more Civil War Films?" in Google results in no satisfying explanations, so I guess I'll have to - reluctantly - draw some of my own conclusions. One reason is that the war still lies deep within American consciousness. As much as people like to argue, "The Civil War wasn't really about slavery," this was the single biggest influence that caused the first cannon to fire on Fort Sumter and the wars bloody, drawn out duration. We can all agree that slavery is - and continues to be - one of the worst institutions that humanity conceived. The Emancipation Proclamation swept slavery away, but did not dissolve racial divides between African Americans and Whites. Lincoln and Frederick Douglas recognized this and did what they could to expedite this process as quickly as they could (giving freed blacks free land to cultivate after the war, attempt to bring them suffrage, etc.). Obviously, their actions alone would not cut it, and deep racial divides still exist today. In short, to make a film about the Civil War is to make a film about slavery and thus contemporary racial divides.

There still lies an enormous economic divide between North and South. I'm sure I could find statistics on this, but this is unnecessary - the divide is clear. This was the other big reason that the South decided to secede from the Union. History and time have substantiated this claim. Although this subject is not as difficult to approach as the former, this divide brings up more bad blood that still runs deep on the Mason-Dixon Line.

I remember visiting Gettysburg with my dad and brother as a high school student. I was fascinated with Little Round Top during that time - The Union was the Underdog in that fight, defeating the South in one of the most important confrontations of the war. Without this victory, the Union would have likely dissolved.

I stood in front of the memorial for Joshua Chamberlain, who commanded the victorious regiment, with interested eyes. While wondering how many skin cells were left from the men who fell in this fight under my feet, I happened to look to my right and saw a family - mom, dad, and two children around 9 or 10 - fully clad in Confederate gear: bandannas, t-shirts, shorts, socks, the works. They approached my flank across the ridge and I was left surprised and off guard. I looked at my commanding officer, Dad, who couldn't have cared less. Left with few options, my eyes retreated to the ground. The enemy was at my doorstep, and I refused to even hear their knocks.

And then there were a lack of films on The Civil War.

Let's All Have A Good Cry

2008-07-10T12:39:00.004+09:00

Imagine this:

You have untold millions of dollars. You have a massive base of fanboys and fangirls- also ranging in the millions. You have the ability and connections to hire a staff of niche experts (gaffer, cinematographer, offline / onlinie editor, producer, electrics, PA's for miles), and distribution up the god damn ying yang.

You work as a contracter with Political Campaign Ads

Never have I seen one that I like. Not from Clniton, Bush, Gore, Dole, Obama, McCain, not even Nader (who I'm partial towards). Every ad I see feels like a forced lie: pandering to just the right demographic at just the right time. They are all hyperbolically present and dramatic like plastic candy. They lie to your face, and when one realizes this, retorting is like screaming into a black hole. Everytime I bear witness to these pathetic excuses for politicin', I find myself so angry I find it hard to contain myself. I often will speak in a somewhat restrained yet completely irritated voice to the screen, "Sometimes I want to punch myself in the stupid goddamn face with my stupid fists," with my kid in the room.

For all the anger these provoke in me, there is one draw to them I can't resist: Shameless, Ridicuous Propaganda. It's traditional, and I love tradition. "Vote for me! I won't fuck you!" And then they fuck you anyways because that's what they're supposed to do. One day - and soon - they will penetrate us for too long and Mother Nature will destroy us without batting an eye.

The End

Now, let's all have a good cry.

A Vicious Circle

2008-05-13T12:49:00.006+09:00

“Hide the ideas, but so that people will find them. The most important will be the most hidden”

-Robert Bresson, Notes on the Cinematographer

Everyone I know who owns a Roomba absolutely loves them.

“Roomba Cleans Routinely So You Don’t Have To”.

And that’s great. More importantly, one can claim they own a robot. Apparently they’re programmed with scientific diamonds that tell them exactly where to go, and if you’re nice, they’ll actually give you a high-five.

Folks like Ayn Rand and Ron Paul tend to believe that Capitalism is A.) a robot and B.) programmed with scientific diamonds, which demand participants to progress indefinitely and without end until death – moreover, no one needs to make any rules!

A Vicious Circle (dir. Charles Tashiro) whimsically tackles Capitalism, and not only addresses robots, but the violence (both mental and physical) that inherently accompanies an unfair economic system. This criticism lies within Tashiro’s signature style: distant, suggestive, and always challenging.

Past films by Tashiro often barrage the viewer with so many visuals and sounds that we’re forced to submit and simply let the experience wash over us. Post completion, we’re left to our own devices to explore the details of the film and decipher a deeper meaning. Tashiro’s mise-en-scene fills the screen with thematic information, glowing with color and intimacy. 1-2-3-4-5 actually breaks down each of the perceptive senses and translates them to the screen with a certain amount of success. In The Smell Of Gasoline, Tashiro recombines all these senses, resulting in an inundating and meditative car ride that commands his viewers to relax – while simultaneously seducing them to read deeper into it’s themes.

A Vicious Circle departs from these past films on a stylistic level. The visuals continue to stun and the sound remains complex, but that intimacy seems to evaporate. Although the film has a “plot”, it’s certainly not regarded with much importance, as the film jumps from scene to scene without letting the characters explain the scenario suitably. This creates a certain effect where we’re left to ask ourselves, “What were the characters talking about, exactly, and why?” To some extent, this allows the viewer to draw his or her own conclusions, but as this happens in every scene, we’re often left playing catch-up with the plot. These short scenes with abrupt cuts feel almost standoff-ish – like Tashiro is intentionally keeping us at arms length for reasons we’re not allowed to know.

That said, the only reason I think a narrative even exists in A Vicious Circle is to destroy it. The film almost laughs at itself at times. The Businessman, who commissions The Killer to do his dirty work, speaks almost exclusively in clichés. “The world is yours, if you have the balls to take it,” he says hinting at Scarface, followed by a whole string of laughable business lingo. Not only is the film mocking it’s own plot, it’s pointing to the downfalls of Capitalism, and also poking fun at Hollywood clichés. This, my friends, is economy of dialogue at it’s best.

The film is located in Big City, USA – never named but omnipresent. Tashiro often uses the city as a convenient segue between scenes, framing the killer walking through the night, or buildings against the sky. City lights float atop the thick, black night, crisp reflections highlight the films décor, and pale colored lights cast their mood across the cityscape. All of this is reminiscent of Alphaville – relying on the camera to create a futuristic feel, rather than changing the environment. When I asked Tashiro about this, though, he replied:

"The science fiction feel… came about almost by accident. Ironically, I think it results from my desire to create a vaguely period feel that evokes (without literally recreating) late 50s and early 60s LA. Since one of the popular styles of that period was a kind of comic book Futurism (what I refer to as "Jetson Moderne," but which is also known as "Populuxe") that "science fiction" feel comes through."

So the sci-fi feel is, strangely, based in the past. This may be a sort of unintentional oxymoron Tashiro created, which only expands the theoretical swimming pool that the viewer can dive into. At the same time, this idea forms the foundation of Tashiro’s seductive and original images, blending the past, present, and future into the timeless.

To pin a genre on A Vicious Circle would be an unnecessary chore, but let’s try it anyhow. Experimental: too easy. Drama, Crime, Comedy, Dramedy: not exactly. All of these are pulled together into a pastiche –at one time Dramatic, at another Comic, both interchanging constantly throughout scenes and even within sentences. For instance, in one scene The Businessman sweats with nervousness next to the stoic Killer. They exchange words, playing psychiatrist to one another. The Businessman leans over and gives him a white envelope – filled with Monopoly money, which he calmly stuffs back inside. These little gems are scattered throughout the film, repeatedly destroying our expectations and providing much needed chuckles.

(*Spoilers*)
Towards the end of the film, The Businessman pleads with The Killer to not bludgeon him to death with a club. The mood is instantly tense. The Businessman anxiously rubs his knees, while the killer rolls the tip of his golf club across the floor, contemplating murder. “What do I have to do?” the businessman begs. “Maybe you should start singing that little song I taught you,” suggests the killer. Cue Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He sings it like the robot he is – out of pitch, tone, cadence. However poorly, he does sing it, and this provokes a sort of sympathy within the viewer. The addition of the children’s song – which recurs throughout the film – is reminiscent of Winston and his paperweight from 1984. The past is easily whittled down into a simplified memory, so childhood often remains pure. When the Businessman sings even the most rudimentary song, he sings it like a lifeless, ultra-dead zombie-robot. Thus, his ruthless murder by the existentialist Killer.

The title of the film points to the obvious – plot, greed, violence – which are all poignant observations. The most interesting aspects of the film, though, lie outside these directed themes. The dialogue and its delivery, the set design, and the editing all hold a massive amount of meaning – enough to mull over for days. To interpret A Vicious Circle properly is to make the experience itself cyclical – there’s a compulsion to watch it over and over again.

Reviewers and My Hypocrisy

2007-11-12T12:47:00.000+09:00

Emanuel Levy

Film review culture remains - and will continue to remain - one of the sluttiest cultures in the Continental United States of America. There are few other areas of review where at junkets - a time for critics to jerk each other off - they are occasionally given cards with a variety of statements on it (probably to the tune of "One of the best family films of the year!" and "An edge-of-the-seat thriller you won't forget!"), where they then proceed to check one of the boxes, sign their name, and put it into print. These quotes are then translated into advertisements, where - at the sight of their own name - critics arouse limp dicks into about three boners, essentially selling themselves for a free vacation, some food, and an intense erection.

The following are some of my most despised film reviewers / critics: the titular Roeper of 'Ebert and Roeper", Emanuel Levy, anyone writing for E! Online and Filmmaker Magazine, most of the people at The Stranger in Seattle or The Chronicle in Austin, and many many more.

Generally, my hate does not stem from their writing style; quite the contrary actually, as pretty much everyone working in the review field is well versed in the English language (I, on the other hand, am still working on this). Their language is typically flamboyant and extravagant, resulting in an entertaining read, but entertainment should not be their only aim. Reviewers and critics should provide justified opinions, because direct opinions are worthless. The most important and didactic part of reviewing lies in the justification. Sure, they'll tell anyone what they think, "A film for philistines from up-state New York," or they'll claim many times a year that this particular film is "The Best Film of the Year!" and get paid spectacularly for that.

The type of review that infuriates me refuses to provide context for their opinion - to go outside the film further than just using similar titles as descriptors ("…like The Godfather series with a dash of Donnie Darko and a splash of Johnny Depp's Captain Sparrow - slap Sally a couple of times and you've got a winner of a film!"). The following excerpt of a review by Emanuel Levy articulates the former statements perfectly:

(Review of Hard Eight)
"Hall, who has become Anderson's quintessential actor (he'll appear in ‘Boogie Nights’ and ‘Magnolia’), gives Sydney a touch of grave dignity and sad melancholy. As John, a dim but decent fellow, Reilly is sympathetic. Paltrow looks beautiful, but has hard time [sic] conveying Clementine's sudden mood swings and self-destructiveness. Jackson's flamboyance as a small hood with big ambitions recalls his turn in "Pulp Fiction" and other films."

Maybe Mr. Levy really does know his stuff, but if he doesn't have the balls to truly express himself on his webpage, then his soul is done for. Either that or he's just been such a gigantic toolbox for so long, that anything of the slightest importance he had to say was widdled down long ago. The above quote says nothing. It might as well be piss-smeared poop. And, to boot, it has grammatical errors and is ultra sexist: "Paltrow is beautiful, but has hard time [sic] conveying Clementine's sudden mood swings and self-destructiveness." So, in other words, "The make-up artist make Paltrow look like great big slut. Me like that. That kind of makes up for shitty performance. Whatevs."

There is a simple tactic employed by a majority of reviewers: 1/4 opinion - 1/2 summation - 1/4 opinionated description. Opinon is a device honed to suck readers in by the opening paragraph, which involves a reasonable amount of skill. Summation, 1/2 of their talent, relies solely on the translation of the films content, thus requiring the intelligence of an 8th grader. Opinionated description - such as the example above - is a mix requiring varied levels of writing skillz ranging from God-awful to enlightening. This formula is used with surprisingly large numbers, leaving most readership bored.

The New York Times Arts section has its faults, for sure, but generally overcomes this monotony with the touch of A.O. Scott. His reviews are sharp and backed with reasoning, and his insights reveal more about the world and cinema at large, rather than a particular film. A.O. Scott is at a point, though, where he can probably choose what films he wants to review or spotlight, where as other outlets don’t have the same freedom.

One such is TheReeler.com, where S.T. VanAirsdale and his co-editors are forced to review everything from the shittiest summer Hollywood films to foreign art house flick, because they need to appeal to as wide an audience as possible. For this reason, they continue to destroy most films that come their way, as a majority of popular films nowadays are trash.

The antithesis of TheReeler.com would be Jonathan Rosenbaum: an impatient heavyweight who hurls honesty with brutal intent and is threateningly knowledgeable. The day after Ingmar Bergman died he wrote a piece in The New York Times that pretty much said, “He’s not all that great. Here’s why.” Very few people can get away with this type of bluntness, yet somehow he does. It probably has to do with the fact that he’s been writing about films critically for 30+ years, writes for The Chicago Reader, and has published several books in academia. But the latter is also a fault: he often gets too pompous and wordy, to the point of pushing away his readers, which is self-defeating, unless he enjoys appealing to aristocratic jerk-offs.

And, in my opinion, herein lies the void: a middleman between academia and the general public. Translators, so to speak. Someone who can look at contemporary popular film from around the world, evaluate it, judge it, back it up, and write about it in a clear way, therein educating and entertaining people simultaneously. Where light meets dark. A place where king and peasant can shake hands. Where X-Men meet city council.

It’s depressing how much trash is out there. The few critics writing thoughtful reviews provide some comfort: as I mentioned, Jonathan Rosenbaum, TheReeler.com and A.O. Scott, Roger Ebert, everyone from Cineaste, CineAction (notably Robin Wood), occasionally Sight and Sound, and a few others. These people are trying there hardest to deconstruct film criticism and reconstruct it, but this is a daunting task. There are many reviewers, production and distribution companies, and editors who defy them daily in order to keep their effortless monopoly on top. And they do this with regular success.

They do this, in my opinion, by writing too directly towards their audience. Definitley, differences should exist between reviews from different magazines and journals, but everyone’s goal should be the same: To use entertainment as a vehicle for education. Style and substance should be of equal importance. Like advertisements, though, more often than not, style prevails.

The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner and Dirty Kitchen Sinks

2007-10-06T01:49:00.000+09:00

“I’m telling you straight: they’re cunning, and I’m cunning. If only ‘them’ and ‘us’ had the same ideas we’d get on like a house on fire, but they don’t see eye to eye with us and we don’t see eye to eye with them, so that’s how it stands and how it will always stand. The fact is that all of us are cunning, and because of this there’s no love lost between us.”
- The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (short story)

The short story of THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RUNNER identifies its “hidden” themes a bit more bluntly than the film adaptation. Told from a first person reflective standpoint, Collin Smith looks back on his days as a younger man in a Borstal (juvenile detention center), resisting authority and making mischief. The governor of the school, a fair and practical man, sees potential in Colin as a cross country runner, and so pushes him to take first place at an upcoming meet. Author Alan Sillitoe writes this in the same stylistic vein as Catcher In The Rye – using grammar as musical notation and occasionally taking advantage of phonetic spelling. Sillitoe’s own translation to the screen obviously required a lot of restraint, relying much more on the filmic qualities of mise-en-scene (everything inside the film frame) and editing to reiterate these ideas through subtleties. The short story renders the reader as a participant in the story, Collin occasionally speaking directly to the reader, “…In-law blokes like you and them, all on the watch for Out-law blokes like me and us – and waiting to ‘phone for the coppers as soon as we make a false move.” Smith assumes that you’re guilty until proven innocent, and will not hasten to speak it to your face. He’s lost faith in society, and yearns to escape it.

Tony Richardson took on the project as director, having spearheaded the “British Kitchen Sink Realism” (Also referred to as British New Wave and British Realism) movement alongside Karel Reisz (SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY MORNING) and Lindsay Anderson (THE SPORTING LIFE). Sillitoe’s story lent itself perfectly to their cause: an angry young man seeking a self-indulgent, almost masochistic, sort of vengeance for the various injustices put upon him by the Borstal and society at large; the only problem being that he is part of that system which pushes him down time and time again, and thus the repression is nearly impossible to escape. The core problems lie in the heavily engrained classicism that Britain was built upon, and the social and economic inequalities that this inevitably leads to.

As an Oxford-educated director, who owned a village of 10 houses and eventually moved to LA to live a life of lush glamour, Tony Richardson doesn’t sound like the most ideal candidate to have founded such a movement. But Richardson possessed a calm yet demanding demeanor, and had reputable ambition. He formed The English Stage Company at The Royal Court Theater, where his theatrical productions, in collaboration with writer John Osborne, (notably LOOK BACK IN ANGER) became the foundation from which “British Kitchen Sink Realism” was built.

For all of the privileges in Richardson’s life, most of his childhood was spent living atop his father’s pharmacy, cooped up in a small room with his father, brother, two grandmothers, and his mother who had the duty of “incessant preparation for the next meal and the next and the next – work day in, day out, without respite and without end.” His aristocratic roots lie in one of his grandmother’s who came more from the northeast where his extended family “had tennis courts and Labrador retrievers and guns.” Richardson visited them every Sunday, “but not too often – as that might be ‘taking advantage.’” Richardson grew up with a taste of both worlds - the exploited and exploiters – but those of the latter would be his ticket to Oxford, The Royal Court Theater, and eventually his friends and collaborators.

In an essay by Tony Richardson entitled, “The Two Worlds of Cinema,” Richardson also acknowledges the two different realms in which films are made: Independent and Hollywood pictures. These two worlds are not so different from the two worlds Richardson grew up in. Woodfall Productions, which Tony Richardson also founded with his first film LOOK BACK IN ANGER, worked well outside the bounds of any Hollywood-like environment. Richardson used fresh actors with little experience, real locations when feasible, and small crews. After the success of SATURDAY NIGHT…, he went on to direct a film in Hollywood based on a William Faulkner novel entitled SANCTUARY. Richardson reflects on his experiences.

"I’m thrilled I went there because I know that I never want to make a film in Hollywood again… When one enters the Hollywood setup, one is always promised the earth, and you think that you can beat them at their own game and that you can handle these people. But you can’t, because the underlining is not big and dramatic. It is not as though there are great issues in which one refuses in a black and white way not to compromise, it’s in every tiny detail that the whole quality of the picture is eroded away leaving nothing."

This passage is, interestingly, a perfect insight into LONELINESS, as Richardson and Colin Smith face very similar problems. When Smith enters the Borstal, he thinks he can “beat them at their own game,” and although he succeeds in creating an impression on his keepers, nothing lasting is achieved. Smith compromises no “great issues” in his thoughts or the way he thinks about the world, but in his plans to escape the system that holds him prisoner, he fails to recognize the little details, and ultimately sinks to the bottom of the Borstal’s world at the conclusion of the film. The only things that keep him going are his ideals, arrogance, and that he’ll one day be released. Richardson, as well, would be released from the clutches of Hollywood, and return to Britain to direct A TASTE OF HONEY, followed by LONELINESS, both directed within the true vein of independent filmmaking.

Italian Neo-Realism, its predecessor from the mid-1940’s, also worked outside of the mainstream, using the same minimalist techniques that Kitchen Sink Dramas used, in an attempt to give voice to the lower-classes. Since these movements hold much in common, Italian Neo-Realism is considered more significant since it was the originator of the form. In addition, The French New Wave was just getting off the ground at the same time as British New Wave. The highly acclaimed films of Truffaut, Godard, and Resnais, tended to overshadow the importance of Kitchen Sink Dramas during that time, and continue to do so today. For these reasons, British Kitchen Sink Realism continues to be a specialized subject, left mainly to academics who lack the critics to translate their texts into readable English for typical moviegoers.

The back story of LONELINESS is told through flashbacks, providing the story of how Colin got pent up in the Borstal, which is rooted in his dysfunctional home life and lower class background. More importantly, the flashbacks give Colin the opportunity to escape and free himself of his present reality. Much of LONELINESS revolves around the idea of freedom, and how one can possibly be - or become - “free” in a society that constantly cannibalizes each other for their capitalist ends. Colin’s mother uses the insurance money from the accidental death of his father to go on a four month shopping spree. The Borstal’s governor uses Colin to win a race against a respected school. Colin even thinks about playing it straight and conforming properly to the Borstal, just so he can be released early. The catch-22s and contradictions of British society (and many other societies) leaves very few possibilities for escape. There are a few liberating moments in the film when this seems possible, notably when Colin and his lover go to the beach for an isolated weekend where debauchery is overlooked and there is plenty of room to run around. For the most part, though, all one can do is run. Run away from various problems, for very long distances over an extended period of time.

It is while Smith is running that he has the opportunity to think clearly. He’s so busy thinking that by the time the race is almost over, he has all the energy to blow in the world, because he’s barely realized he’s been running at all. Smith says at the beginning of the film that, “Running’s always been big in my family. Especially from the cops.” But this is the beauty of running in an organized event: it gives each player equal chance in a game with rigid rules. This is not true of, say, Smith’s education, as he can’t learn without the money to buy books, intelligent professors, and the like. But when Smith says that, “The winning post is no end,” this clearly indicates that he has very little interest in sports. In an exchange between The Governer of the school and the new psychologist, the true nature of the school’s sports program surfaces.

Psychologist: “How do we tackle the basic aggression, which these lads obviously feel?”
Governor: “By channeling it in the right direction.”
Psychologist: “I was just wondering if life isn’t more complicated than a football match.”

The fact that The Governor exploits his students for a personal goal is exactly what makes Colin detest not only him, but most of the world. What makes this worse, is that The Governor is, in effect, doing nothing to help them emotionally or psychologically as he is only “channeling” their energy, rather than understanding where their anger comes from.

Tom Courtenay, on the otherhand, knows exactly where this anger derives from. Deep down, the Smith on screen holds those same subversive thoughts and fiery hatred as the literary one, but as film can’t express internal thoughts directly in the same way writing can, this has to be expressed through other means. Voice over is one technique, and is utilized to some extent, but it can only be used so much without overshadowing the unique qualities of film. Courtenay’s facial features alone have the ability to express exactly what the short story aimed for and more, with a smirk that hints strongly at contempt and a gaze that penetrates with obviously subdued arrogance, Courtenay transforms the typical “angry young man” into an even more sympathetic antihero. Richard Burton of THE ANGRY SILENCE was the archetypal angry young man, Alan Bates came along in SATURDAY NIGHT… adding a whimsical innocence to the character, and Tom Courtenay just builds upon this character once again with his restraint.

When considering how long this movement was in the making, The Kitchen Sink Dramas seem restrained. The young, the angry, and the impoverished waited impatiently for a voice to popularize their injustices, and British New Wave delivered this lavishly. The tradition of giving a voice to those who need one most has been carried along cinema since the Lumiere Brothers, each generation represented by one movement or another.

For all the jabbering that I’ve written about thus far, Iron Maiden summarizes all of these thoughts and more into their succinct song “The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner.” This is, surprisingly, homage to the film LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RUNNER.

Iron Maiden is the new Tony Richardson.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner
By Iron Maiden

The tough of the track
With the wind
And the rain that’s beating down on your back
Your hearts beating loud
And goes on getting louder
And goes on even more til the
Sound is ringing in your head
With every step you tread
And every breath you take
Determination
Makes you run never stop
Got to win got to run til you drop
Keep the pace hold the race
Your mind is getting clearer
You’re over half way there
But the miles they never seem to end
As if you’re in a dream
Not getting anywhere
It seems so futile

Run on and on
Run on and on
The loneliness of the long distance runner

I’ve got to keep running the course
I’ve got to keep running and win at all costs
I’ve got to keep going be strong

Must be so determined and push myself on

Run over stiles across fields
Turn to look at who’s on your heels
Way ahead of the field
The line is getting nearer but do
You want the glory that goes
You reach the final stretch
Ideals are just a trace
You feel like throwing the race
It’s all so futile

Sources

Claydon, Anna. The Representation of Masculinity in British Cinema of the 1960’s. Edwin Mellen Press Ltd. Lewiston, NY. 2005

Richardson, Tony. Long Distance Runner.
Woodfall America inc. London. 1993.

Sillitoe, Alan. The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner.
Signet Classics. New York, New York. 1959

Geduld, Harry. Film Makers on Film Making.
Indiana Unviersity Press. Indiana. 1967.

www.wikipedia.org

www.imdb.com

*Soon to be published at www.austinfilm.org

On The Air, Slightly Off

2007-08-22T13:56:00.000+09:00

"I'm talking about little details, little abstractions. God is in the details."
-David Lynch on Twin Peaks

In 1992, riding the wave of the pseudo-success of Twin Peaks, David Lynch tried his hand at TV for the second time with On The Air. Lynch recycles many of the same actors he used in the past – Ian Buchanan and Miguel Ferrer – as well as collaborating with Robert Engels and Mark Frost with writing and direction. The result feels very much like Twin Peaks, but with less constraint and guidance by the story, making a more immediately satisfying experience, but without the feeling – as a viewer – of accomplishing something.

There are no through-lines to speak of. On The Air follows the cast and crew of ZBC's production of "The Lester Guy Show," a live variety show broadcasting the nation over in the year 1957. Lester Guy (Ian Buchanan), a fallen screen actor, is raised again, as a risk investment, by the hands of Bud Budwaller (Miguel Ferrer). Like clockwork, the show fails time and time again, but succeeds for this very reason. Their audience thinks this incompetence is hilarious. Although Lester Guy is the titular character of the show, Betty tends to steal his glory each and every time with her beauty, innocence, and hyperbolically liberating stupidity.

All of these characters give brilliant performances, as one can only expect from Lynch. And even though the characters of Ferreer and Buchanan are suspiciously reminiscent of Twin Peaks, this does not detract from their endearing qualities. Ferrer is only viscious and unrelentingly blunt because of his passion for his profession, and his need to create quality work. Buchanaon is a dramatist, and even though his true intents lie beyond the desire for drama, his ambition and talent alone leave the viewer with a sense of sympathy, if not soiled in a puddle of distrust.

It's easy to compare On The Air with Twin Peaks, but it's difficult not to: their succession in Lynch's timeline, same actors playing similar roles, and – at times – a similar overall tone. The most significant difference lies in the fact that the story does not make a large, unending arch, but rather it rushes from beginning to end many times from episode to episode. The characters and their conflicts, rather than plot, create a string from which to hang each episode. Also, it’s important to note that On The Air is a comedy, not a melodrama. Saturated in physical and slapstick comedy, with splashes of nostalgia for Chaplin and the silent era, Lynch renews this generic form with his own style. He is only predictable so much as he’s unpredictable, which is why his work is so interesting, and worthy of study.

Lynch is often considered more or less modernist in his approach to self expression, and this is true, I think, for the most part. There seems to be a way to "crack" each one of his films and scoop up some sort of absolute truth. On The Air, on the other hand, is ridiculous silliness – plain and simple. Postmodern one might say. The director of the TV show, Mr. Zoblotnick (Sydney Lassick), inexplicably speaks with an indecipherable accent that mixes Irish, Russian, Italian, French, and Extraterrestrial English simultaneously, and without explanation. Globalization? Lynch also pokes fun at a variety of genres throughout the show, for instance, when a the TV troupe attempts to remake a death-row scene from a film, and completely butchers it – Bud reading from last week's script, people forgetting lines, ducks going in and out of the frame. Parody? Pastiche? Of course, there are also the surrealist elements mixed up in there, as well.

Ironically, the main piece that seems to be missing from On The Air is that modernist touch. That reassuring pat on the back that seems to say, "Don't worry, there's at least something at the end of the tunnel." There are moments in On The Air that have such great potential for genuine beauty, and Lynch comes within a hairs width of achieving this at times – setting the stage for a character's performance to really shine through – but he simply cuts it too short. All these pieces needed was another 45 seconds and beauty would have been attained.

To do this, though, would be to break away from what the show is really about: criticizing the world of television coldly and ruthlessly without exception, audience, writer, director, producer, crew all included. There's a good possibility this stems from Lynch's discontent working with ABC on Twin Peaks, and, indeed, they did fuck him. Royally so. But, as anger and retaliation so often is, the result is unsatisfying. Twin Peaks felt more wholesome, always working towards something with the concrete and allowing for space with the abstract. On The Air leaves only the abstract in a space where viewers typically expect the concrete – the TV series. It was a healthy, sound idea, and it only adds to the history and experience of television, but it's reasons for flopping are obvious and abundant. Those little details aren’t there. And, as Lynch puts it himself, “God is in the details.”

Cyclo and Loving Movies That Hate Me

2007-08-08T03:04:00.000+09:00

As a former member of the upper-middle class, sporting a suburban background as a white male, most movies I love don't reciprocate. I guess I wouldn't have it any other way, because - and I think this is true of a lot of people - I kind of hate myself. I don't possess masochistic tendencies and I'd like to think I'm a pretty stable guy, but it gets pretty exhausting being constantly assaulted by every film I watch - because any film worth a damn is going to be rooted in it's present social context to some extent, and most likely criticize it. It’s only natural that films take dead aim at me. That said, there are infinitely worse things than this.

For instance, Cyclo (1995) made me feel like a real big piece of shit - that is, of course, within a whole myriad of other emotions and reactions. And feeling like a piece of shit isn’t a reflection of a soiled cinematic experience, but rather proof of its effectiveness. Anh Hung Tran, Cyclo's director, is a top secret up-and-comer in the international film scene, having only directed five films to date - three of which come dangerously close to achieving brilliance (The Scent of Green Papaya [1993], Cyclo, and Vertical Ray of Sun [2000]). And yet, somehow, these films seem to have slipped under the radar of most critics. Maybe this is because it’s difficult to categorize within a genre or dictate a country of origin. There is little doubt that this is a Thai film, but it’s interesting to note that Tran, originally from Thailand, fills most of his key crew positions with Frenchmen (and women) and currently resides in France. Despite this, all of his projects thus far have been shot in, about, and on Thailand.

Cyclo follows a number of nameless young adults struggling to come to terms with adulthood, attempting forget their respective pasts and move forward in life with a good economic foothold. An honest, hard-working kid stumbles deep into the Thai underworld and tries to resist the temptation and allure of death, along with other disparate characters whose paths cross occasionally throughout the film.

Cyclo hammer's it's viewers in the face. With a cinematic style close to the visual and vocal poetics of Terrance Mallick and taking narrative pointers from Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu and Italian Neorealism, Cyclo jumps all over the thematic map - from loss of innocence to alientaed rural areas, from substance abuse to collective subconscious and more. Even then, though, Tran has the ability to bring beauty to anything he pleases with ostentatiously relaxed control. He is not afraid to break stylistic consistency in order to communicate an idea in a more efficient manner. Cyclo, at the halfway point, for a few moments, seems to drop everything it's been working towards to allot time for Tran to guide us through the dilapidated decay of the Thai country side, using the poetics of Tony Leung on top of jump cuts of children standing still as stone, who standout sharply against the piles of trash that background them.

When all was said and done, I thought about a Podcast that a friend of mine - Charles Tashiro - had published on "Liking vs. Loving Movies" It's difficult to say whether or not I "love" Cyclo, but it certainly hit me in much the same way that others have in the past. Sans Soleil or In The Mood For Love, for instance are films that I love, and it's for this reason that I don't watch them very often. They're very intense, involving films that require a lot of effort on both sides of the screen, and unless I amp myself up for a good little while, I most likely won't choose to watch it. Lost in Translation, on the other hand, is a film that I enjoy very much. A film I can pop in at any time and watch endlessly, until my eyes bleed and I unknowingly sit in a pile of my own excrement.

But if films were people, then I'd say that most of the films I love would hate me - that is if we met at a party and shook hands, and then began to judge each other from across the room. If we were to actually sit down and shoot the shit, I'm sure we'd become great friends. As things stand now though, I have yet to chit chat with any of the films I love.

AKIRA: Critics take note

2007-07-20T06:14:00.000+09:00

It's easy enough to get lost in the immense spectacle of Katsuhiro Otomo’s AKIRA (1988), from the vividly lush landscapes of it's setting - Neo Tokyo - to the plethora of detail stuffed into every frame. To do this, though, is to circumvent the story, characters, and themes without acknowledging and understanding them sufficiently. Definitely, the visuals alone have the ability to terrify and belittle viewers with their awesomeness, a form of education in their own right. But even film critics have stopped at this, simply identifying thematic elements and leaving it at that. In academic circles, too, AKIRA has remained largely unanalyzed, and will most likely remain so until it's remade into a live-action film 5 or 10 years down the road (there have been talks and rumors since the mid-90's)

The story is an epic one. Set 30 years after WWIII in the year of 2019, Neo Tokyo is in a state of fractious civil uprisings. Suicide bombers, organized attacks on the government, and political corruption are all too ubiquitously routine, and yet, through it all, everyday life continues. Kaneda and Tetsuo adapt to their environment as best they can, riding the streets recklessly in search of trouble and debauchery. But there’s a freak occurrence during a battle with a rival gang, and Tetsuo becomes deeply intertwined with a dangerous government agency involving ESPER children (individuals born with telepathic abilities). Tetsuo finds himself in a lab and discovers that, years ago, Akira was born in the same set of experiments, only to be frozen shortly after because of his catastrophic power. If Akira awakes for a second time, it will be the responsibility of all mankind to deal with – united or divided.

Director Katsuhiro Otomo began his career as an aspiring manga artist in the rural landscape of Miyagi Prefecture. After graduating from high school he picked-up and tried his luck in Tokyo, attempting to find commissions as a professional manga artist. Beginning at Action Magazine drawing short comic strips, he would later move on to publish DOMU, a manga more in the vein of a graphic novel, which launched his career as a nationally renowned artist. Serialized from 1980-1982, here, too we find Otomo grappling with collective subconscious, juvenile delinquency and adult disenchantment with youth, all central themes that permeate both AKIRA and his second feature film, STEAMBOY (2004).

Directly after DOMU’s popular acceptance, Otomo began what would define his career with the most internationally influential manga to date, AKIRA. Beginning in 1982 and culminating in 1990 (note that AKIRA the film was released in 1988), this epic cyber-punk sci-fi serial finally concluded at 2000+ pages, and was later bound into 6 separate volumes. With each page composed of 8-12 frames, Otomo stood facing the daunting task of adapting roughly 16,000 shots for the film.

And so the long adaptation process began. The disparities between the manga and film are plenty: from the complete absence of central characters to neglected themes. So the film is by no means an accurate translation, but rather a re-envisioning of the original ideas. For instance, the entirety of AKIRA vol. 5 is dedicated to the various competing factions that skirmish for power over the new “Tokyo Empire”. The major ideas in question are, “At humanity’s current state of social, physical, and cultural evolution, how do humans organize themselves?” And, “How does the need to hold and control power implicate this organization?” Definitely, these questions are omnipresent throughout most of the manga, but in vol. 5 it is made almost black and white: There are four powerful groups who want control of Neo Tokyo, and not all of them can have it. In the film this is, more or less, paired down to a conflict between the army and Akira and Tetsuo, so the conflict seems more of a dichotomy - conjuring connotations of the long-winded battle between “man and nature” - rather than the more chaotic urban fighting involving many parties.

That said, human organizational complexity is still present in the film, somewhat through the plot and characters, but also through subtleties in the environment. A neat little feature on the special edition DVD points out and translates a choice of graffiti riddled throughout Neo Tokyo, and, curiously, a vast majority of the writing bears revolutionary messages such as, “Struggle, Oppose Imperialism!” and counter-cries as well, to the conservative tune of, “Smash The Strike!” So, although the various revolutionary rivalries are not physically foregrounded in the film, they are certainly present in the background, and thanks to this nifty feature, foreign audiences are allowed at least a little taste of these important tidbits strewn throughout the film.

These messages are just a small element in helping create a more holistic environment for a revolution / apocalypse. AKIRA is notorious for its use of “excessive violence”, and although this is forgrounded to some degree in the film, it’s used as a sort of punctuation, rather than a means to an end in itself. To depict this sort of revolution and destruction without violence would be an inaccuracy. But, even respected critics such as Jonathan Rosenbaum of The Chicago Reader states that, “Grade-school violence freaks may find a few kicks…” and Michael Adkinson of Village Voice coins it, “juvenile and baffling.” A typical review of AKIRA is composed of the identification of groundbreaking visuals, and then moves onto the condemnation of violence, followed by a summation comprising _ of the review, and finally a tip-of-the-hat for internationalizing the anime genre.

While there is much more to AKIRA than critics give it credit for, some people might give it a little too much credit. AKIRA’s cult following has cultivated the film’s original ideas, elevating it to a new plane of reality – much like that of STAR TREK, STAR WARS, or THE MATRIX trilogy. Various unofficial websites are dedicated to AKIRA, covering everything from character history to Kaneda’s bike specs (if anyone is curious, the bike is “rumored to be a Honda” and has a drag coefficient of CD=.024).

This is simply an indicator of AKIRA’s enormous international influence, shaping viewer’s interest in animation and raising-the-bar on professional animation techniques (at $8 million, AKIRA had the highest animation cost of all time, and was also considered the most detailed animation ever created, merging over 7 production companies together just to gain sufficient labor power). One objective that AKIRA’s release failed to capture, though, was to persuade critics to take anime seriously. As things stand now, AKIRA will probably go down in history as purely visual stimulus, while its much larger questions of human nature remain undiscovered and unanalyzed.

Sources

www.wikipedia.org

http://www.akira2019.com/

http://www.bbakira.co.uk

Akira Special Edition DVD

ÉAÉLÉâ(AKIRA) Vol.1 – Vol.6 English and Japanese edition

The Chicago Reader – Capsule – Jonathan Rosenbaum

Village Voice – The Art of The Ridiculous Sublime – 03/26/01 - Michael Adkinson

www.imdb.com

Apologies....

2007-06-22T08:00:00.000+09:00

... to the 1.5 people reading my blog out there.

I've been very busy the past couple weeks, namely graduating and work. The better of my two jobs entails film research, so for the past week or so I've been looking into "British Kitchen Sink Realism" (also referred to as British Realism or British New Wave), a brief film movement from the late 50's, early 60's, that foregrounds working class citizens - typically 20-somethings - struggling against the deeply entrenched class system in England. The directors are relatively unknown today - Karel Reisz, Tony Richardson, Bryan Forbes, Jack Clayton to name a few - with the exception of John Schlesinger, who continued to make movies until his death in 2003.

The titular "Kitchen Sink" is meant to be slightly ironic, deriving from the way kitchen sinks are typically viewed in British films before and after this movement: clean, pearly white porcelain that idealizes the bourgeois household - a kind of holy grail of success. This is precisely the portrayal of Britain that Tony Richardson - the father of the movement - intended to destroy with his first theatrical production Look Back In Anger, which was only later adapted to the film medium. It was a critical success to be sure, but certainly not fiscally. On and on the story goes. The establishment of Woodfall Films, the creation of some of the most highly acclaimed British films (The Loneliness of The Long Distance Runner, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, A Taste of Honey, Room at The Top, etc.), it's failures and subsequent demise.

All that said, I have yet to see any of these films. Ha ha! I'm still waiting on a few to arrive, at which point I'll start studying and writing on those. As a result of the research, I've posted a few more links on the side bar.

At any rate, lack of writing = No Good. Definitley go time.

Bubble: Already Forgotten

2007-06-07T02:02:00.001+09:00

This film will be forgotten and overlooked. The characters, and the millions of people they represent, will also be forgotten and overlooked. Time has already proven both to be true.

Bubble, conceived, produced, and cast in the small town of Belpre, Ohio, follows the lives of three working class citizens trying to eek out living wages at depressingly dead-end jobs producing dolls. Kyle – an awkward, 20-something, high school dropout - molds the dolls from plastic and passes them off to the hulking, red hands of Martha, where she applies facial cosmetics for an undoubtedly diminutive wage. This, they do daily, passing the time with small talk in the breakroom and between shifts, sustaining off of fast food and soda. Much of Bubble is composed of what a typical TV show or film may refer to as “filler”, and is in fact the focus of the film. With foley, seemingly unprocessed sound, and being shot on HD with a hand-held camera, Soderbergh attempts to give that - yet again - documentary feel to his subjects, presenting them with candid grace.

Released in 2004, this was supposedly the first of 6 locally shot, small town films to be directed by Soderbergh and released through HD networks. What happened to this deal? No one seems to be too sure. Then again, Soderbergh is one of the more interesting exploiters of Hollywood cash, his career entirely composed of contradictions and surprises, so it’s no wonder the deal mysteriously vanished. His films post-Bubble have ranged from the third installment of the lucrative Ocean’s series to the absolute flop of The Good German. It’s a bummer, though, that this deal wasn’t seen through, as the films would most definitely create local film collectives around the country, while simultaneously providing a small economic boost for the communities as a whole. But, alas, it’s quite possible that Bubble simply did not do well enough in the boxoffice, on TV or DVD, as not even the progressive distribution idea didn’t provide a big enough push for the film (Grindhouse recently attempted the same with it’s trailer, also falling flat on it’s face).

This creative form of distribution logically follows the experimental nature of Bubble (that is, by Hollywood standards). Soderbergh does his best to properly represent this growing class of the borderline impoverished. For the most part, he does a fantastic job of remaining subtle and implicit, eliciting wonderfully ad hoc dialogue from his inexperienced cast with his well-worked script (by the talented Coleman Hough). The film works precisely because nothing substantial takes place for the first half of the film, that is, until Rose comes along.

The doll factory receives a large order from an ambiguous buyer, hiring Rose as a temporary to fill in the labor holes this creates. She’s introduced to her co-workers through her manager - who gives one of the best, most forgettably amazing two-appearance-roles to date, fitting the “I’m a gigantic middle-management toolbox” position better than any of the other alarmingly few American films that attempt to portray the lives of the lower-middle class.

Rose befriends both Martha and Kyle in a hurry, seeking companionship from Kyle, and debtless favors from the morally guided Martha. Martha becomes deeply jealous of Rose – the audience only made aware of this through ever-so-slight, off-kilter behavior – and as one conflict leads to another, murder ensues, at which point Bubble sells the appeal it garnered for cheap narrative convention. Bubble takes a unadventurous narrative function, displaces it in a relatively unexplored locale in smalltown Ohio, and captures it’s inhabitants with an unconventional style, in the hope of attracting the type of viewership that is accustom to this type of storytelling. The result is a pastiche of form and content rather than symbiosis, clutter instead of fusion. Thus, as the story goes – and has gone since the silent era, the earliest days of literature, and the ancient pictographs of days past - the remainder of the film is dedicated to the inevitable capture and incarceration of the culprit, leaving little to the imagination.

It’s the lack of narrative direction that made Bubble so interesting in the first place, and this is shattered through generic convention. Sodeberg has, essentially, through imperial mandate, made a film about a people whose jobs he, “…cannot imagine doing [himself]” (DVD special features).

Luckily, the first half of the film resonates across the American class-scape, and the consistent realist style thoroughly engages the viewer to the point of forgiving the second half of the film. At the same time, we can all be glad that Bubble has already made the inevitable plunge into the awkward space of non-memory. In this sense, the film – and the public at large – remains true to the meandering characters of Bubble, and the people it represents.

Inland Empire: Experiential Cinema

2007-06-02T05:17:00.000+09:00

Staggering beauty infused with insane terror, reflexivity contrasted against intensely driven characters, reality paired against levels of fantasy: Inland Empire has the imprints of a master’s touch, everything Lynch has aspired to through Transcendental Meditation, spirituality, and his pursuit of film as the highest form of Art.

Hints of Lynch's past films linger in Inland Empire, like the many traces of the Mystery genre that provide the plot driving force of all his films. The innocent introductions of Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, and Wild At Heart invite the most conservative filmgoer to enter his work through conventional beginnings, speckled with punctuations of the insane, only to be exposed to the full onslaught of Lynch's psyche much later than expected. Most likely unconscious, Lynch shatters expectations and completely destroys the very idea of genre through abrupt shift in tonal qualities, an example of which is physically manifested by The Blue Box in Mulholland Drive. Once opened, there is no turning back for both the character and the spectator.

Both Mulholland Drive and Inland Empire share much in terms of "plot", but when considering style, Inland Empire demonstrates a maturity that shies in comparison to the rest of his work, but not at the expense of his impromptu, almost youthful buoyancy. The most obvious stylistic departure can be found in the very existence of reflexivity in Inland Empire. Camera lenses, projectors, and plot construction discussions are liberally peppered throughout the film, exposing Lynch's new hope – and cynicism – with the medium of film, or more specifically, video.

Inland Empire is the first video project in Lynch's oeuvre. In every recent interview I've seen with Lynch, there has been a repetitive mention of how "liberating" video is, and how he will never return to film. Anyone who reads these interviews – as I was – will most likely find this the regretful last words of an absolutist. After viewing this film, though, I truly hope he never returns for the following reason: as an auteur, Lynch is more versatile and free to express himself in his ostensibly stream of consciousness filmmaking style. Without gigantic 35mm film rigs to haul around, big budgets, or large crews, video bodes well with Lynch’s content and thoroughly compliments his style.

Inland Empire exploits the simplest of plots in a big way. By stripping away typical storytelling conventions, he simply throws results into the viewers face. Sure, there’s a semblance of a story, but this only provides the thinnest through-line to hang Lynch’s style and subplots off of. For better or worse – this line snaps about 20 minutes into the film, and never ties itself back together. Laura Dern in the most unmotivated, yet acutely affective role of her career, portrays Hollywood celebrity, Nikki Grace. Boosting her career to an even bigger stardom, she manages to snag a leading role in an upcoming Hollywood film with co-star Devon Berk (Justin Theroux). In the most evocative turning point in Inland Empire, they rehearse the blockbuster script with the film’s director, and are informed that the last two times this script was attempted, both lead actors were killed – both times. They joke and beat around the bush, and then dive right into a read-through. Close-ups of Devon and Nikki fill the screen - the hand-held camera providing that loose, documentary feel - emotionally tearing at each other with poetic lines of dialogue. The sequence peaks with Nikki trying to subdue an escaped tear that discreetly rolls down her cheek . As always in Lynch’s films, moments like these tend to verge on the melodramatic (music serves as the backbone), but Lynch manages to bring a very real poignancy to the scenes through intense direction – to both his actors and technical style. We hear a crash on the set behind them, halting their performance. Regrouping, they attempt to proceed with the scene again. A crash strikes once more. Each character silently waits for someone to take action, staring with profound concentration for a few moments, and Devon is off to investigate the still echoing noise. Whispers and distant taps amplify the viewers suggestive powers tenfold, the sounds resonating through mysteriously empty frames that both constrict and liberate our senses. This is a key moment where fantasy and reality first collide.

It’s at this point that the mysteriously cryptic script begins to take on a life of it’s own. Nikki’s character in this script, and Nikki in Inland Empire are weaved in and out of each other in a pastiche of scenes as disparate and far ranging as musical and horror. It is at this moment the film becomes completely incomprehensible and – partly thanks to this – comes to be deeply frightening.

There are always those people who will say, after all’s said and done, “Wait, what happened?” This is a futile and pointless question, although very tempting to ask. So tempting, in fact, that on the DVD of Lynch’s last film, Mulholland Drive, there are a list of 10 questions to help guide the viewer to “figure the story out.” This cute, mystery-solving (and thus, spoiling) feature, when applied to Inland Empire, will only result in annoyance and aggravation.

My advice? Don’t study it. Don’t attempt to understand it. Don’t try to make connections. Just experience it and let it wash over, at least once. And if that human instinct for understanding sneaks up on you, then, by all means, watch it again, pick it apart, and get frustrated.

Fashion The Movie: A Preemptive 5 Stars

2007-05-31T05:32:00.001+09:00

Already slated as the most anticipated film of 2008, Fashion The Movie "truly has what it takes to become the next French Connection" says Jonathan Rosenbaum of the Chicago Reader. TheReeler.com recently stumbled across this gem of a website, where Fashion is already mowing people down with it's explosive force. Flaunting some Behind-The-Scenes footage, a well crafted trailer, appellations galore, and contact information to die for, it's difficult to just push the mouse aside, take a deep breath and say, "Just wait for this one to hit the theater."

Wonderfully elucidated by the trailer, the film follows a group of undercover CIA operatives (with the likes of Faye Dunaway, Michael Madsen, Daryl Hannah, and David Carradine), where they escort the most bon vivant of professional fashion-ites across and through LA, New York, London, Moscow, St. Some-Shit, and many of the other posh, worldly cities. Armed to the teeth with 16 machine guns, 2 rocket launchers, sass and a couple of dildos, they magically morph their thrill seeking enemies into poop-socks with a single glance of the eye...

Actually, the trailer explains nothing and is completely composed of the 2 or 3 scenes they've shot thus far, and ends with Fay Dunaway saying, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Really, she does.

I can't vouch for the validity of the films actual existence - as Google only has The Official Website listed, and it's completely unlisted under IMDB - but I can say with utmost sincerity that I fantasize nightly about that night in 2008, when I take a seat in my theater seat and get shot in the face by Fashion The Movie.

The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On

2007-05-30T01:01:00.000+09:00

A fairly affective, if not repetitive, film that questions redemption, forgiveness, spirituality, and the filmic medium, Kazuo Hara documents Kenzo Okuzaki, a man quick on his feet who need never think twice. Confident in everything he does, to the point of arrogance and obsession, hinting at mental illness, he parades through Kobe, exhibiting his dolled-up truck riddled in messages to kill Emperor Hirohito, screaming over his loudspeaker, demanding justice for his actions in WWII.

Okuzaki, a WWII veteran, fought in New Guinea under hopelessly dire circumstances. He, and a handful of other soldiers (mostly officers), narrowly escaped death – the details of which are never elaborated on. The film’s foundation lies upon a very specific execution performed by senior officers of two privates. Reportedly, they were Killed In Action and “died with honor”. Okuzaki, through other soldier’s testimony, finds out otherwise and begins to fulfill a self-ordained prophecy, a long string of confrontations with all his officers to find out what exactly happened, and who’s responsible. The physical result of all of this is ambiguous; one can only assume some type of violence.

Throughout the film, Okuzaki physically assaults a number of his former officers, arriving at their houses unexpectedly and unabashingly demanding the truth of what happened to those soldiers. Of course, these fights aren’t all-out brawls by any means. The man is in his late 60’s. Although the police are called on many occasions, and some of his victims find themselves in of need medical attention. It’s important to note, however, that each one of these encounters begins with an exchange that goes something like,

“Oh, I’m so sorry to stop by your honorable home so abruptly.”

“Oh that’s quite alright, please come inside for a cup of tea.”

Not so exact, but something along these lines. It’s all cultural, a valuable aspect of the film for those of us outside of Japan. Each of the officers is on a different social tier – the sarariman, retired worker, the proletariat, the severe PTSD victim – experiencing different stages of acceptance of their war atrocities, some farther along than others.

That said, Okuzaki is an tremendously forward man, especially in the context of the 70’s. At that time, Japan was still predominantly conservative and slenderizing the Emperor was as a condemnable act, worthy of prison time. Even speaking of the war as publicly as he did was as taboo as anything during that time.

When compared to the way religion is used in the West, Japan is, essentially, a state without religion. If one were to name a religion it would probably be Buddhism, although, ultimately, this boils down to saving-face, performing rituals, and conforming to societal norms. Yes, Buddhism and Shintoism are the dominant “religions” in Japan, but they play a much more traditional and cultural function, rather than a spiritual one. Buddhism was chosen as the national religion in around 1100, simply because it’s an efficient controller, and Shintoism derived from this a number of years later. At any rate, if one were to ask 10 people in Japan if they were religious – not spiritual – I bet around 8 of them would say no. So what happens in a state without any truly empowering religion? Society fills that social function. Hence the need to fit-in in Japan, hence the world’s 2nd highest teen suicide rate, hence the insane amount of work hours, both official and non-official, and hence – at least to some extent – Japan’s involvement in WWII. This film is about shattering these boundaries both tradition and the state imposed on the Japanese, and telling the truth. Hara, as a filmmaker, also has to deal with the issue of showing the truth through a balance of objective and subjective storytelling, and clarity of form.

To the casual filmgoer, the film may come across as bland, slow, and boring, and to some extent this is true. Hara spends the first 45 minutes on a series of interviews that could have been cut down to 25 minutes, bringing the running time down to under 2 hours and appealing to a much wider audience. But, alas, he did not. The film will probably be seen by people with either a special interest in Japan or liberals interested in the Pacific War, the latter of which will be disappointed by this film.

The film moves in strictly chronological order, showing each encounter with each officer. While some remain severely informative, other conversations tangent into surprising directions. In one scene, Okuzaki speaks with an officer who was allegedly involved in the execution of the young officers, and he ends up jumping him and slapping him around with the back of his hand, pinning him to the floor with his knees. Then, as his family – oh, so slowly- comes to help, he’s overpowered and becomes the victim. He turns to the camera and says, “Stop filming! I’m getting beat-up now!” After a few seconds, Hara stops the camera.

Definitley, one of the most telling lines in the entire film, we come to realize how conscious Okuzaki really is of the camera. Apparently, very much so. He’s concerned about his image, and we can’t really blame him for that, because as the film moves on and we draw towards the conclusion of the film, it becomes apparent these last few days on camera will be his last as a free man. (*SPOILER*) He’s imprisoned after seriously injuring the son of the officer who was in charge of killing the privates – and allegedly cannibalizing them.

Okuzaki demonstrates that he’s a control freak, and in turn, he wants control over the film. Hara welcomes this by simply following him throughout the film, never falling away from him unless absolutely necessary (ie. Not being able to film inside a prison, etc.). In this sense, Hara successfully made a film about a truth – that of Okuzaki’s perspective.

Throughout the film, Okuzaki preaches to every soldier he encounters about his or her condemnation; how they will never be forgiven, and that they are being punished for participating in such a war. Some of the officers suffer from physical rehibilitation, others post-tramatic stress disorder, and even others from a lack of guilt – avoiding it their whole lives. Okuzaki suffers from an oppressive guilt, as most of them do, whether thy realize this or not. He may not be as guilty as some of his senior officers, but Okuzaki, too, does not expect atonement any time soon.

Time Of The Wolf: Devastating Acceptance

2007-05-22T11:55:00.000+09:00

Devastating acceptance: the first two words that drift together in my head when thinking of Michael Haneke’s films. Formally, most of his films are told through fragments that only further his stories through suggestion. Reading a Michael Haneke film is like trying to scale a mountain that only provides holds big enough for fingers and toes; they are as polemic as they are antipsychological, as violent as they are passive. As a director, he presents his characters through detachment, forcing the viewer to accept their circumstance, regardless of how harsh and hopeless it may be. Characters whimsically drop in and out of multiple storylines, important narrative functions are completely dropped (A meets B and uses C to get D turns into A gets D), which makes it impossible to distinguish how characters are motivated, let alone how plot points are achieved. But, nonetheless, they are most definitely achieved. Time of the Wolf is no exception, setting itself against a post-apocalyptic landscape in France, a perfectly cold and distant environment for Haneke to work in.

As with all of Haneke’s work, the film opens with a typically content suburban family returning to the comfort of a summer home, where they immediately fall victim to misfortunate chance – another family already awaits inside, anticipating their arrival. Verbal confrontation turns physical when a shot is fired and the father’s blood splats across his wife’s face. They are turned out into the French countryside, where a hostile and unforgiving landscape awaits them.

The first of Haneke’s films to be set in an alternate present, the space gives Haneke more freedom to create a greater symbiosis between space and story – both of which are indifferent to their characters. Anne, the mother, tries her hardest to keep her family together and alive, as her daughter, Eva, does her best to tolerate her mother’s panic and her brother’s silence. Their chemistry is illustrated best in the most affectively stressful sequence of the film: forced to take refuge in an abandoned farm as night falls, the family wakes in complete darkness, only to find that Benny – the son – has gone amiss. The mother, fueled with panic, is reduced to lighting small bunches of hay on fire, searching in vain against nothingness. With no electricity, the screen remains disturbingly dark, refusing to submit to unmotivated light. The search continues long and hopeless, hauntingly unmotivated sounds whisper from the darkness, and with a simple, abrupt cut, we jump through time to blue morning light, the barn a mound of smoldering embers, and Benny taken hostage by an entirely new character. The scene demonstrates Haneke’s intolerance of explanation and resolution, and his embrace of the ambiguous, while keeping the viewer deeply involved. Within this ambiguity, we’re allowed to fill in the many, many plot holes and character motivations with our own assumptions, thus engaging the audience in a way that throws light on both the characters and ourselves.

It’s never clear why or how humanity collapsed so suddenly; it’s simply a tool that lends itself to exposing the most primal levels of human interaction and organization. Haneke touches upon – if only ever so slightly explaining – tribalism when the family treks across the land, totalitarianism when they join an organized group huddled away in an abandoned train station, and communal socialism when a gigantic herd of people bring energy - and reinstate hope - to their small, organized clique.

All of this is presented through a lens that’s not so much objective as it is neo-realistic. Long takes of striking images morph subtlety like a magic eye book, bringing implicit meaning, as well as inherent realism, to many of the sequences. The acting is meticulous to the point of transparency. Unlike Benny’s Video, The 7th Continent, and 71 Fragments (The Glaciation Trilogy), there is no explicit reflexivity or commentary on mass media. Quite the contrary. Definitley, Haneke intertwines media coverage to some extent, but only insofar as mentioning it’s absence. Without disinformative news coverage, or taking the postmodern approach of studying the moving image within the frame of a motion picture, the only realities left on screen are relative to the characters, making the film much more accessible to any casual filmgoer who is open enough to let a film engulf their senses, as sporadic and shifting as the film is constructed.

Above all, it’s refreshing to have a film that – finally – doesn’t simply show what a post-apocalyptic world might look like (i.e. special effects and zombies [no matter how fast they move]), nor does it go through contrived, explanatory dialogue presenting the blueprints for how it happened. It shows characters in dire circumstances under an immense amount of pressure to survive, all through the lens of an artistic reality that consistently involves the audience – not submitting to viewer passivity by explaining “what if’s”. That said, there’s nothing wrong with films that simply entertain. Haneke says himself that, “The world is too cold without entertainment.” There’s a place for Haneke’s film as well, and that space was void for far too long.

In my own personal experience, I walked out of the theater attempting to envision – to the best of my ability – how I would cope with such a situation. Scooting out of the theater parking lot, I realized that this post-apocalyptic world of Haneke’s is not so different from the lives of many in Iraq, Sudan, or any of the other dozens of places currently undergoing genocide, a military coup, or dictatorship. It’s just that Time of the Wolf is an alternate present.

And Austin, TX

2006-11-05T10:35:00.000+09:00

And here I am. After many a day on many a plane, I've arrived. I made a quick stint in Redmond and Olympia seeing family, friends, and tying up loose ends at Evergreen.

Austin is a pretty alright place. Kind of Seattle-ish in size, Portland in feeling. Plenty of improv theater downtown, The Alamo Theater is an amazing establishment where you can drink and eat dinner while you watch a movie, an array of nice cafe's for me to choose from. Most importantly, I'm now living with Liz, which has brought me a lot of comfort and relaxation of the mind. While there is a lot to worry about, there is also much to look forward to. Cooper is going nuts, gettin the hiccups, rollin' around and bein' an all around good guy. Can't wait to meet him. Oh, for those of you who don't know yet, I'm gonna be a father very soon.

Other than that, job hunting. Exausted Craigslist, newspaper classifieds, and all my connections in Olympia, and still nothing too promising. There are a few internships I'm looking at getting, like at The Austin Film Society and The Texas Film Commission
but these aren't paid, which means if I get one of them, I'd have to take a job waiting tables or selling retail. I'm not opposed to this in the least, though, as after completing the internship a lot of doors would open for me. So I'll be busy in the coming months/years.

Otherwise, hangin' out. Something to leave you with:

The Maid Cafe

2006-10-20T02:31:00.000+09:00

Today, Kana and Emi (ESS [English Speaking Society] members) took me out to Sannomia as a farewell party. At first they wanted to take me 2 hours away on the north side of Hyogo Prefecture to a famous soba shop, but I said I didn't have enough time. "Well, how about...(a bunch of Japanese I didn't understand)" and then, "Otaku kafe mitai." It's kind of an Otaku cafe. "Holy shit! Let's go!" I say, and we were off. (Otaku can be roughly translated as "nerd" but is slightly different. It's someone who is close to or obsessed with manga, hentai, anime and the like).

Justin, Kana, Emi, and I walk by the cafe shrouded in mystery. Fluffy white curtains cover the windows so we can't see in, and we approach the entrance. Two girls in their 20's dressed in French maid outfits greet us and escort us to our seats. That's the appeal of the place: young girls dressed in maid outfits and fluffy curtains. After she systematically pulls out each chair for us individually, we sit and look at the menu. It has all the items one would expect, coffee, main courses, ice cream and such.

The waitress comes over and we order. After taking our order she stiffens her back and bows. But this isn't any ordinary bow. It was the coldest, slowest, most emotionlessly intense bow I have ever witnessed. She bowed slowly until her upper torso was parallel with the ground, and her eyes didn't move a millimeter . I looked over at Justin to make sure we witnessed the same thing. His face was pushed to the side, surprised, smiling cynically as I was. I guess we looked more than shocked, because a table of two girls in front of us started laughing hysterically just after this, trying to hold it in and not look at us. Every time she brought us food or drinks the waitress would be as gentle as possible with the dishes, place them in front of us, and if there was even so much as a tiny *cling* she would say, "shitsureiishimasu" I'm being rude, or sorry. Then she gave the exact same bow as before, each time making me more and more curious as to what lays behind this Otaku culture.

There's a lot to it, and I don't know enough about it to try to make an analysis here. What I do know, though, is that it is completely removed from reality and relies heavily on the mother figure as a symbol of complete comfort and erotic sexuality. I spoke to Makoto about this later, and he told me about more hardcore メイドカフェ (maid cafe's) that actually spoon feed their customers, quite literally. In addition to this, if you ask them to slap your face, they will politley say ごめんなさい (I'm sorry), and then give you a nice smack.

I'm aware that it sounds like I'm exoticizing this a bit, but this is type of stuff that truly surprises me, and I feel the need to write about it. Anywho, I'm sure this kind of thing exists in The United States as well.

As a short note, I apologize that there are no pictures to post, but it's a rule that pictures can't be taken there. I'm sure if one really wanted to see it though, they could find it on a Google image search.

The Presentation

2006-10-18T23:30:00.000+09:00

Today I accomplished one of the larger feats of my Japanese career. After a few weeks of preparation with Justin, Makoto, Isamu, and Son, we successfully pulled off a presentation that was mostly about Evergreen, Kinan College (the Chinese sister school to Hyogo University), and a little on rural life in China. I actually lead the organization of the event, and although it didn't go perfectly, it went well enough. We drew about 35 people (mostly from the English club that I'm involved with), and provided free tacos, gyoza, harumaki, and other assorted edibles. An enjoyable time all in all. The event as a whole was around 2 1/2 hours, with mine and Justin's presentation running at about 45 min (all in broken, yet understandable Japanese).

This was, by and large, the biggest concern of mine for the last few weeks, and now that it's over I can relax for a couple days and then go back to the US. I guess relax isn't the best word... maybe "stress the fuck out" would work a little better. Cleaning, getting rid of junk and all that will take up a majority of the last days here.

As the end approaches, I think about memory. I think about Sans Soleil. This is an inaccurate quote, but it's something along these lines, "How can anyone remember the past without taking pictures?" God knows, I've taken my fair share of pictures over here, but I feel like all my memories will be stored in these pictures until I die, and then quickly deleted because they are digital. Still, this is something that worries me. I did talk to one of my friends, Atsuko (Justin's girlfriend), who studied in The United States. She told me that she remembers her experience there clear as day because it was such a completely different experience then her typical life in Japan. This may be summed up by the following.

The "The" marks that of her experience in America. The white space marks that of her life in Japan. Something like that. Saying that, I look back on my experience in Korea 6 years ago, and I remember it clearer than ever before. It's completely detached from my everyday life, but attached nonetheless, because I still remember and think back on it quite often.

So, I've been trying to take more pictures out of sheer paranoia, but I've been living too much in the present to do so. As there are too many experiences to explain here, I'll leave it at that.

Garbage.

2006-10-10T22:19:00.000+09:00

So, I'm currently preparing to leave Japan. It's quite the endeavour, I must say. Speaking to all the sensei's that I know, cleaning my apartment (that hasn't been thoroughly cleaned in 10 years or so), saying my goodbye's, using as much Japanese as possible, and above all, trying to get rid of stuff.

Japan is a small, relatively isolated country. There are also a lot of people. Therefore, they're super strict about what one can throw away and when. Every first and second Wednesday of the month is cans and bottles, every Monday and Thursday is burnable garbage, the last Friday of the month is non-burnable garbage, and so on. I've been approached a few times about putting the wrong garbage in the wrong bins because, well, all the other Japanese people living here have had to deal with this their whole lives, while I and the other gaijin here have only dealt with it for a few months. I'm a likely suspect. In fact, they sent out a letter to everyone in the building saying that "one person has been putting bottles in their burnable garbage. This is incorrect, and as there is a garbage can in the lobby for plastic bottles, we politely request that blah blah blah...." The exchange faculty from Evergreen, Helena Meyer-Knapp, experienced residents from her building, not the garbage collectors, rummaging through her garbage and telling her that she was mixing things up.

One part of me says, "Jesus Christ! Can't I just throw some shit away without being hassled?" while the other part thinks that this system is absolutely necessary in Japan for reasons I've already listed. But, they don't even really recycle here. They use incinerators for everything possible.

On a semi-related note, a while ago, I went to the most beautiful incinerator I've ever been to in Japan.

Notice how there's no smoke coming out of the building. That's because the facility takes all the energy from the burned trash and recirculates the energy throughout the building and the city of Osaka. It was designed by... I forgot his name, but rest assured he's famous. The idea was to bring trash, nature, and the modern together in the design, thus the random lines and windows. The most postmodern building I've seen in my short lifetime. It was built to help with their bid for the Olympics, but failed, and so a lot of people got really angry because it cost a lot of money. What they fail to see is that the building will pay for itself within 20 or 30 years, and was thus a sound investment.

But, enough of tangents. As much as I criticize Japan in these posts, I am going to miss this country. It may be one of the most socially strict countries in the world, but a natural offshoot of this is that it's one of the most polite and helpful societies in the world (on a strictly 1 on 1 basis). Some of the most hospitable people I've ever met have put me up for a few weeks at a time and asked for nothing in return, providing me meals, transportation, presents, and straight up cash. This exists everywhere, but Japan truly embraces friendships, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends. Japan has always had to work together, and this shows through strong even today. If only America and Japan could meet somewhere in between and create a new country it might be a utopia...

Maruchan: My Second Home

2006-09-28T18:29:00.000+09:00

So, there are these great things in Japan called izakaya's. It's not really a bar and not so much a restraunt, but somewhere in between. A lot of people, although mostly older, find an izakaya close to their place and then make it their second home, much like the British still do with pub's. In fact, it so closely resembles a home-like atmosphere that the manager of the place, almost always a woman, is called mama-san and the head chef, commonly the mama's husband, the maasta (master). I've been called Oniisan on a number of ocassions by the mama and other customers there, which means brother.

I found my second home at Maruchan, which means circle, but I'm not sure if there's a pun to this or not. I come here mainly to speak Japanese with the mama and the other workers, but also the random people I encounter when I usually go in there. A few nights ago I was sitting with my good friend and savior, Makoto, eating, drinking, and winding down from our day. Behind us is a middle-aged rec-soccer team, being obnoxiously loud and drinking quite a bit. Me and Makoto, having taken a small break from our conversation, sit in the comfortable presence of each other when I start to hear them talking about the gaijin at the bar. "Here they come" I think.

And they do, in full force. One of the older men, 55 I would later find out, rotates his body toward me and yells, "Oi!" I turn and greet him, "Konbanwa." He stands and comes over, asking me where I'm from, what I'm doing, blah blah blah. Good practice, nonetheless. He goes on to tell me about their soccer team, where they play and what position each one of them plays. He points to a chubby man at their table. "And him. He's just fat." They all laugh at him, while he chuckles along. One by one, a total of four of them are now standing around me and Makoto, and they've successfully taken over the establishment. Mama-san stands and asks them to sit down, but they really want to talk to me. "You're like a rock star" she says and gives me her practiced, yet loving smile.

Two other guys at a table next to us beckon me. They start by asking Makoto where I'm from and what I do, because they think I can't speak Japanese. Once they find out that I do, they invite us to drinks at their table. I say that I've drunk too much tonight already, and that Makoto has a big test tomorrow. "Really? You drank too much? Alright then..." short pause.

"Hey! Two more pints over here!" Alright, I guess I'll have one more.

And then the other table comes over to the table I'm at and starts telling me about themselves, where I politley nod and laugh at their jokes. The older man, quite fit for his age, starts flexing and showing off his body. The other laugh hysterically at this. The man sitting next to me tells me about the time he was convicted of a crime and went to jail. I'm so drunk at this point that things start to blur, a wall of humans standing around me, beer everywhere, and then I decide it's time to go.

"It's time to go" I tell Makoto. He readily agrees.

Another time, and I'll try to keep this short, I met a man who had just returned from Malaysia on business. After talking for a short time he says, "Ahh, isn't today great? Talking to you... We're friends, right?" I reassure him that yes, although we have only spoke for 3 minutes, we are friends. "You want to go down the street and grab a beer at a place I like?" The waitress behind him, now an acquaintance of mine, makes a huge "X" with her arms and mouths, "DAME" which could be translated as, "don't fucking do it". I politley decline many many times, and the conversation shifts to world peace.

"You ever heard of 'Pay it forward'" he asks. "Yeah," I say, "you do something good for someone, and then they do something good for someone else."

"Exactly" he replies. "By speaking to each other tonight, I think we have done a good thing for each other. We should probably pass it on, don't you think?"

"Absolutley."

The highschool waitress comes over and gives the man another glass of sake. He looks at me with light behind his eyes, extends his hand, and with a thud, slaps her ass. "I'm just 'paying it forward'" he tells us both, head thrown back, laughing.

Shinjuku - Fantasy vs. The Rest

2006-09-26T10:32:00.000+09:00

Shinjuku, although largley the same as most of the other towns, was probably my favorite spot. The top picture of the last post was the view coming out of the station: people handing out flyers, 100'x100' music videos, hundreds of ads, all of them voyeurizing us voyeurs.

The main reason I've come here is to find The Park Hyatt, which is where Lost in Translation was shot; one of my favorites for quite some time now. So, after asking directions from no less then 6 people along the way, and walking for over an hour and a half, I finally find the enormously intimidating hotel/exhibition center. It was a laborious effort because, well, all the buildings were enormously intimidating. Sqaure miles upon square miles of concrete, steele, and granite. But, I found refuge in that beautiful video of nature above, and the fact that I was about to walk into a building I have seen about 35 times on my TV.

I pass the extensive fountain infront of the main doors, and step inside. I'm wearing visibly dirty shorts that haven't been washed in 5 days, a black t-shirt, and brown shoes that were once white. The lobby is gigantic and spacious, but certainly not inviting. The granite floors and walls, the different elevators assigned to sections of floors outlined in neon lights according to their numbers, large windows filled black, reflecting everything inside back in on itself. It's simple and box-ish, making anyone inside feel insignificant and tiny, and not in the comforting way that shrines do. I, quite shocked as this looks nothing like I excpected, stop for a moment and survey the situation. My conclusion: get the fuck out of here. Already having walked this far, I do walk to the other end of the lobby where I find this.

Yes, where Bill Murray pulls up for the first time in the film. After this photo I swiftly walk away, never to return. Lost in Translation could be semi-ruined for me at this point.

And then I ask myself: What the fuck is wrong with you, Evan? I'm always doing this, getting obsessed with books or movies and trying to discover them in reality, where it most definitely doesn't exist. But, it's a way of me ridding my obsessions I guess. I did the same thing with Twin Peaks. After watching the show twice through in a month and seeing Fire Walk With Me more than I couple of times, I drive up to North Bend, WA to check out the diner and some of the other areas they shot. The diner had been remodeled and was now covered in American Flags, Tweety stuffed animals, and some unpleasant individuals. At one point, a man leaned over to me and, after I told him that I'd come here because I loved Twin Peaks he looks over at the highschool waitress, and slowly turns his head back to me eyes wide, and, behind his thick beard, a grin. "I'd like cop a feel of those twin peaks."

At any rate, I did the exact same thing when I went up to Ueno with Justin to check out the area. This was a wonderful area filled with museums, vendors, and the biggest park in Tokyo: Ueno Park. This was the significant attraction for me because I had just finished The Japan Journals, by Donald Richie. He lives there and writes about the area in detail and so I know a little bit about where to go and what to see. But, deep down, actually, quite close to the surface, I know that the main reason I've come here is to see if I can meet Richie in person.

Me an Justin enter the park. "Keep an eye out for Richie" I whisper. He replies with a smile that might be translated as "What are you, 5?" But, I keep my eyes peeled and no sooner then 30 seconds later I see Donald Richie, one of the greatest Western thinkers on Japan, sitting on a bench talking to a young adult.

Then I think, "Holy shit." Richie's sexual prefrence was always for younger men. What if....

But, not wanting to disturb him and feeling a bit intimidated, I don't approach him. I do take a picture of him from a distance.

And then as I write this I look down at the shirt I'm wearing right now, bought in Japan, which says "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT'S GOING ON RIGHT NOW" Just like that.

And then I think,

"Holy shit."

I was stalking him.

I look at myself and reevaluate my existence for a moment. I justify it with my having a semi-obsessive and gluttonous personality. But that's not enough.

I stop writing this entry.

Back from Tokyo

2006-09-24T15:56:00.000+09:00

One week and 200 pictures later, Justin and I comfortably return from Tokyo on the Shinkansen (bullet train). Went all over the place: Shibuya, Shinjuku, Harajuku, Akihabara, Asakasa, Akasuka, Ueno... pretty much every major part of Tokyo. I'm not entirely sure how to write about everything I experienced; there's just too much. So, I'm just going to pin point some of the more poignant moments and write about them in detail.

The first that pops into mind takes place in Roppongi, a cornerstone of consumerism in this great city. A great example is "The Roppongi Hills".

This fortress of goods was created by Minoru Mori, far and away the most powerful single architect in Japan, also one of the richest men in the world. His idea in building this monstrosity was to create a self contained city, the pinnacle of which is the building above named, not surprisingly so, "Mori Tower". The other buildings in the plaza are, for the most part, residential and business buildings, with the lower floors occupied by clothing shops, jewelers, grocery stores, and other useless jargon, all of which is insanely over priced. Created on 4 billion dollars and taking no less than 17 years to construct, it's said this plaza attracts over 1 million visitors a weekend. Apparently - because of it's ridiculous proportions most likely - there have been certain political parties and angry individuals who take the ride to the top of the tower and promote their propaganda.
(click to enlarge)

As a side note, Roppongi is, topographically, relatively flat. The hills were artificially made, and come in at a height around 10 feet or so, if that.

At any rate, one night I was taking a walk through Akasaka and stumbled upon Roppongi by chance. This being my second time there, and it being a Friday night, I was surprised to see how many gaijin there were. People forcing me to take flyers, following me down the street demanding me to enter their generic, Americanized club; women standing on corners asking me if I want a "massage", which I politely decline; drunk business men throwing their weight around, objectifying women, and women prancing about dressed appropriately to be objectified. All around terribleness.

And then another stroke of fate. I run into two of my friends from my Japanese class at UW, and we go out for some drinks. After trying out some bars and clubs, we realize that we all hate clubs - in fact, most of Roppongi as a whole - and decide to go our separate ways. As we chat about our various experiences in Japan, I see a completely passed out, thoroughly drunk man on the sidewalk, sprawled in the middle of the busiest part of town. There are a few people standing around him talking, not about him, but about where to go next or where to eat. I, surprised and not familiar with the area, almost pass him without checking it out, but I finally decide to see if he's alright. I bend down next to him, all eyes on the gaijin trying to help out a passed out drunk guy on the side of the road, "Are you alright?" I ask, "Can you understand me?" Nothing. After repeated shaking's and shouts, I stand, kind of at a loss about what to do. Thankfully, another man comes by, checks his pulse, opens his eyes, and calls an ambulance. I walk away and think about how long he must have been there and if he's alright. But, most likely, he won't remember any of it anyways.

I go back to my capsule hotel and sleep.

Just another great human

2006-09-14T19:03:00.000+09:00

Have just returned from a wonderful afternoon with one of my sensei's, Tahira Sensei.

Today, I'm on campus taking care of some jargin and decide to stop by Tahira's office because I haven't seen him since summer vacation started. I knock on his door and hear, "Douzo" Come in. I step inside, saying, as all do when they walk into someone's room, "Shitsureishimasu" Literally, "I'm being rude", but doesn't feel like that in Japanese.

I remember the first time I stepped into his office a few months ago. The first thing I noticed was the shot dispencer hanging up over his desk. The next thing was ash tray on his coffee table. We sat there, drank some coffee, smoked cigarettes in his office, then went out for drinks. Today would prove to be no different.

I come in and sit down on his sofa, and we talk about Japanese economics, Japanese culture and the like. Then I remember how he brought me to this amazing traditional Japanese style bar earlier - in Japanese a "Tachinomya" which means "stand and drink bar". It's completley unknown by most of the community, and the only people who go there are the elderly who still need a home away from home. I ask in Japanese, "You remember that bar we went to a while ago? We should go there again some time."

"Immediatley" he responds., reverting to English.

"What?"

"Let's go immediatley."

How can I argue? Nor would I want to, anyways. So, after he helps me correct one of my papers, we hop on the bus and cruise over to the bar, surrounded by a mob of high school kids who have just got out of class. A blur of sound and images: high pitched laughter, gossiping, blue and white uniforms, all of us swaying in unison to the movements of the bus.

After the unexpected intensity of the bus ride, we arrive at the bar, "Kita" (means north, but can also mean to come), and I step into a time warp, the "real" Japan; the Japan I'd like to experience all the time. But most of it is gone, lost in the earthquake or through modernization.

We order a couple of beers. I go to the bathroom, and after returning pick up my beer and take a sip. I look at Tahira's beer, which is already gone. 2 minutes flat. He's practiced.

We drink a couple more, eat some of the most inexpensive, freshest fish I've had in Japan, and then I hear, "Welcome to Japan." I turn, and an old man, drunk and swaying, stands staring me down. "Arigatou gozaimasu. Doko de sundeimasu ka?" Thanks. Where are you from? He stares for a long 10 seconds. I glance at Tahira whose smile says - My apologies on behalf of the Japanese people. Back at the man, still swaying, eyes locked on mine. Then, abruptly, he turns and walks out. Tahira laughs, and we leave.

He suggests that I come see his place, to which I very quickly reply, "Excellent idea." We sit down in his impressive living room and he brings in another beer. He's already beet-red, but he's a drinkin' man. His wife brings in sushi wrapped in elegant leaves, snail, and pickeled squash like a good Japanese wife. I eat it, complementing her all the while on how delicious it is.

Tahira sensei suddenly stands and walks across the room, "I want you to have this." He hands me a beautiful Shodo set (calligraphy), and after some miscommunication, I graciously take it with both hands, bow, and place it into my bag. Not missing a beat, he then brings over a giant wooden carving and hands it to me. "I'd like you to have this."

I hesitate for a moment and stare at what's sitting in my hands. I put on my Gaijin smile. What can I say? After his wife wraps it in 3 layers of bubble wrap and tissue, he ushers me out of his place. I thank his wife again, and Tahira walks me to the bus.

As we're walking, I ask if he misses Olympia at all, if he plans on going back anytime soon (in the past, he was an exchange faculty at Evergreen for 8 months).

"I miss the bars." I laugh, and explain why I think Japanese izakaya's are superior. "Oh, I know..." he pauses. "I miss my friends there though. I miss the students and teachers." A shallow half-smile on his face. He's aging, growing old. He's thinking about his friend down the street who owns a second-hand goods store, lying in his death bed. He's thinking about whether he'll ever see those friends in Olympia again. I think about growing old. I think about how after I leave Japan, I may never see Tahira again.

But, luckily he's Japanese and the Japanese tend to live for a long ass time.

I shake his hand and jump on the bus carrying my piece of art and shodo kit.

One of the greater moments in my life...

2006-09-13T23:06:00.001+09:00

here I am In Sannomia, downtown Kobe, watching one of the many free concerts in Paiyama park, a small concrete park in the middle of everything. I wasn't doing anything particular, just stopped for a moment on my way back from Kyoto, maybe waiting for something to happen.

And then God delivers the goods.

An old man with some of the most insanely terrible teeth I've ever seen in a first world country takes a seat next to me. I don't take any notice because the park is crowded and I figure he just found an open seat, at least until I hear "Hello." At first I didn't even understand this because I'm so used to speaking Japanese.

"Hello" he says again. I turn, "Oh I'm sorry. Hi there." We have the typical Japanese dude interested in Gaijin discussion - where are you from? what are you doing here? etc. - and I respond accordingly. I comment on his English not because it's good (it's not), but he has the courage to use it, a big reason why Japanese English is, for the most part, terrible considering they study it for years and years in middle and high school.

"I have present for you."

"What?"

"Present."

"Why?"

"You foreigner."

I think for a second and decide it's a good enough reason. He picks up a bag he carried with him and takes out another bag within the bag filled with bags that have things inside them (a Japanese custom). He hands me a book in a thick construction paper jacket. "honto ni arigato gozaimasu." Thank you very much.

I open the book. My stomach drops. I shut the book.

"Nani kore!?" What's this?!

"Saa, hazukashii na..." Oh, you're shy aren't you?

But really, no explanation is necessary. On the first page was a school girl, holding a giant dildo. I think we both know the contents. I try to give it back to him, but, no, it's a present and he really wants me to have it. Really, just take it, I'm giving it to you. He persists, and I finally put it in my bag just so I can get it out of eyesight and bring the commotion to a halt.

A few moments pass and he says, "Hey, you should try opening it."

"No, really, it's alright. I'll look at it later."

We sit in the most awkward silence I have experienced since my arrival in Japan. At least it is for me. I look down at the ground and force my eyes as for to the right as possible so I can see, I don't know, I guess what type of expression is on his face. He's completely relaxed, and is taking care of some other business in his schedule. Not distracting himself, I can see this, but just something he probably has to organize and since he has a little time, he tends to it. Sex is viewed lightly in Japan, and a big reason for this is because Japan is, largely, a country without religion. Shinto and Buddhism were chosen by the government as acceptable religions long ago, simply because they're good at controlling people when practiced. Same with Confucianism, even more so, only this is not a religion but used for the same means. Thus, a bunch of social constructions were put into place that still remains, to some extent, today. Japan is a country where society reins supreme lord. You can do whatever you want in your private life, but once it's in the public you are punishable. Recently, this is changing, but you can still feel it, especially when considering "love hotels" and salary men antics.

At any rate, I stand up and tell the old man I have to go and meet a friend. He promptly stops what he's doing, apologizes for taking my time, and after thanking him again for my gift, I'm off. I look back and he's still sitting there, now with a cigarette in mouth. I walk away and smile, letting that feeling, you know the "just received a porn from some old guy" feeling, sink in.

Oh, how little I know about this country, still.

Another Blog

2006-09-13T23:02:00.000+09:00

I can't seem to find the right blog set up for me. I'm not too proficient when it comes to figuring out HTML code or anything like that, so it's been quite the search. Myspace just kind of blows ass, MoveableType was a bit much, but Google seems to create excellent things, and thus, I'm giving it a shot. For those of you who have checked out my other blogs, I've reposted a few from the past just to get this whole thing going. The future holds great and terrible things for this blog, I do believe.