Bad Lieutenant (1992)

Bad Lieutenant (Abel Ferrara, 1992)

Director Abel Ferrara doesn't afford Harvey Keitel's character a name. He is merely called the lieutenant, a denomination that discusses the character's limited humanity. We are clearly made aware of his position. He is a ranking cop in New York City. The film opens with the lieutenant bringing his two sons to school; we become aware that he is also a family man. Yet these positions in society are mere afterthoughts as Ferrara is more interested in what makes this character special --- his hourly trespasses, his obvious contradictions, his unlikely story of redemption.

Right after bringing his kids to school, he sniffs some cocaine while listening to the radio about the Mets-Dodgers game. He bets an ungodly amount for the Dodgers; his stab at luck betrays him as the Mets inch their way slowly from a winless season to championship. He regularly visits a whore (Zoë Lund) whom he engages in different kinds of illegal drug treatments. He drinks while driving; he smashes his radio out of mere wrath; he consorts with prostitutes in sado-masochistic positions; he sneaks away illegal drugs from crime scenes and sells them to a Latino drug dealer; he blasphemes; he uses his positions to force sexual favors from lady trespassers.

In one scene, the lieutenant stands naked, howls pathetically with his arms outstretched (with no one to return the embracing gesture). The entire film tracks the lieutenant in all his vulnerable inglory as every capital sin is committed, as he marathons his way out of human virtue and rational forgiveness. Ferrara polarizes us, gets us angry and disgusted, before convincing us that he hasn't fallen so far out from grace to be irredeemable.

Aside from the spree sinning, the film explores the case of a nun (Frankie Thorn) who was raped by two Latino gangbangers. The rape itself is a thing of complete depravity. The statue of Mother Mary is pushed down the ground while the nun is perversely invaded by both malefactors; the crucifix used as an object of rape; the holy altar as the exact spot of the crime. In the lieutenant's mind, the case represents a way out of his ballooning debts to the gambling shark as a fifty thousand dollar reward is attached to the solution of the case. The lieutenant is faced with two options of redemption; an earthly one that keeps him attached to mortal pleasures and threats, and one which he realizes from an abrupt chat with the rape victim, a spiritual redemption that requires a harsh sacrifice.

Ferrara examines the dilemma of redemption under the most difficult of scenarios. Keitel portrays the lieutenant unforgivingly. The two merely give slight glimpses of humanity to the character, furthering the difficulty of accepting the conclusive redemption in the film. The cries and whimpers are almost inhuman in aural tone. Ferrara's depictions of the lieutenant's family life are mere traces of how far he has fallen. It's a dizzying spiral downfall by a man who has already fallen so far from grace; it's amazing how much more depravity he can commit to the point that the fantastic turnaround (Jesus Christ makes an appearance in a city depicted as modern Babylon --- mostly out of the lieutenant's drug-afflicted mixture of guilt, Catholic upbringing, and wild imagination) becomes a relatively unpalatable reward.

Ferrara has made a film of astounding depth and observant quality. It is unflinching in portrayal of humanity in its lowest yet despite that fact, it's a film that is interestingly religious (or Catholic, depending on your religious denomination). It's a film, with all its sleaze, violence, and celluloid-printed grease, that is more soul-affectingly powerful than Mel Gibson's Christ film. Each of the lieutenant's plentiful trespasses against morality bears a greater ache to the collective Catholicism than the rapid bloody whippings the cinematic Christ Gibson has created. The lieutenant's poignant yet open-ended redemption more uplifting and affecting than that final shot in Gibson's flick.

Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors (2000)

Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors (Hong Sang-soo, 2000)
Korean Title: Oh! Soo-jung

I remember my first time, my metaphorical devirginization, into Hong Sang-soo's cinema. It was nowhere near the portrayed deflowering in this feature, wherein Soo-jung (Lee Eun-ju) uncomfortably lies in bed and is assisted into the perfect position by her boyfriend Young-soo (Mun Seong-kun). She cries and pleads to her boyfriend that he be gentle; and when the first thrust is done, pain, pleasure and resolution coincides to make her face slightly smiling, slightly grimacing, and slightly tearful. It was nowhere near that dramatic when I saw my first Hong film, Woman is the Future of Man (2004). My deflowering was uneventful, droll, and quite fittingly numb; the second, third and fourth times were much more pleasurable, wherein the little details, the intelligent framings and editing, the cerebral form, the voluntary lack of music to incorporate the depth of the background noise heighten the experience to near climactic satisfaction.

Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors is Hong's third feature film. It is his only film in black and white --- he accuses color of giving "viewers more than they need." It is also very formal --- call cards of questionable intentions separate episodes; which are further separated by numbers. It's a cognitive illusion that Hong guides you in a step-by-step like manner; the film is structured like a masterplan, opening with a curious dilemma of the sexually persistent guy being stood up by his girlfriend inside a hotel room. Hong then methodically dissects the problem by narratively detailing the history of their relationship; he then traces the missteps and possible errors in mnemonic assessment or emotional understanding, before indulging us with the surprising yet inevitable outcome of devirginization. The process is dehumanizing yet quite understandable in this queer scenario.

The plot is concentrated on that single act: to have Soo-jung devirginized. It's been said that virginity is a state of mind; Soo-jung's elusive treasure is not innocence or purity (those virtues, we know, are not part of her mental picture), but physiological virginity. It's that knowledge that brought a twinkle in Young-soo's eyes and would lead him to endlessly torture himself to just witness and experience such breaking. It is also Hong's biggest joke, amidst the numerous subtle observational ticklers (Young-soo, in the beginning, examines every corner of his hotel room for hidden cameras; perpetually interrupted acts of lovemaking). Hong pushes us to take part in believing the seriousness of the act, which, if placed in a rational perspective, is a mere anatomical illusion of womanhood, and nothing more. The extent and gravity society and its participating characters, including the ever-cerebral Hong, attributes the first time provides for the hugest chuckle of them all.

And it's all the same for Hong. He accomplishes the feat with tender precision. Each frame, each sequence, each scene is composed lovingly that it's easy to get lost in the black and white timeless feel of modern Korea where street lamps and headlights glare with muted and romantic intensity. The exchanges of dialogue, the misplaced and dubious scenes that somewhat came out of nowhere (the sideplot involving Soo-jung's brother leaves a dry taste in one's cinephiliac palette), the confusing or complicated temporal or imaginary stretches in narrative structure --- all these merely point out the vaporous style of Hong's cinema, wherein characters move, talk, and feel like real men and women do, although they are carefully observed through an obtrusive filmic magnifying glass.

Beautiful, complex, arrestingly humorous, and numbing in its anti-romanticism, Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors also criticizes the Korean male as servants of a mutated mixture of their heart and gonads. They easily swoon under the temptations of the pheromones of an easy, unvirtuous yet virginal female; the swooning lets them forget about friendships, professionalism, family, and respect. In the end, like that abruptly stopped cable car Soo-jung rides to finally let go of that fool's gold she jealously guards with her hands and panties, they are left hanging with the normalcy of a relationship that is not colored by that fetishistic attraction with hymen. The somewhat sweet ending where the two lovers embrace inside a well-lit hotel room will inevitably betrayed when both are left hanging, not with tight loving hugs and kisses, but with the cries and whimpers of family life.

******
This post is my contribution to Hell on Frisco Bay's Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors The Blog-A-Thon.

Compound (2006)

Compound (Will Fredo, 2006)

Loosely connecting the sequences are seveal chemical compounds. By the end of the film, we learn that these compounds are the ingredients of an addictive drug called shabu or crystal meth. While the chemical compounds (lye, red phosphorus, acetone, etc.) have nothing to do with the scenes where they appear in, crystal meth is one of the destructive agents that would lead to the climactic sequence. With the crystal meth are other agents that amplify the conflicts that provide for the meat of the feature: an intricate web of sexual trysts, familial intrigue, secrets and the impending threat of terrorism.

Will Fredo's debut feature film Compound tackles the people living inside a residential compound. The patriarch Virgilio (John Arcilla) is about to land a lucrative contract with visiting Koreans to the delight of his vain wife Divina (Janet Russ), whose daily routine includes morning exercises, massages, and visits to her favorite plastic surgeon. Her daily routine leaves no time to her mentally retarded daughter Luisa (Joan Palisoc) who would spend the day playing with her imaginary friends.

The other people inside the residential compound are Romina (Liza Diño) and Big Boy (Perry Escaño), the family's servants. When newcomer Jay (Jake Macapagal), a bisexual yuppie who is spending some time away from his ex-wife and ex-boyfriend), decides to rent one of the empty houses within the compound, jealousy, suspicions, and uncontrollable lust are aroused.

Political themes are oversimplified to fit the narrative milieu of the film. Terrorism is depicted in its simplest, without any matching depth as to why these terrorist agents are there in the first place. Their objective is clear and simple: to obliterate the wealthy. Fredo, however, gives an astute observation as to how terrorism might work. Through media and personal paranoia, the threats of terrorism oozes into the safety of the residential compound. Television and news programs, overly fantastic soap operas are all contributors to the expanding sense of psychological dysfunction these characters are harboring. Virgilio's monomania and inability to let go of his family's former wealth and glory, Divina's fetishistic need to beautify herself, Jay's overly complicated battle with sexual identity and his two meddling ex-lovers, Luisa's self-inflicted mental and emotional repression, and Romina and Big Boy's ambitious dream of living a perfect life far away from the compound where they slaved their lives and romances for: these are all subtle effects of a self-contained world whose only connection with the outside world are expanded and exaggerated impositions.

Compound isn't always seamless in its narrative. Like most features that drown themselves with themes, it is bound to implode with self-importance or just fail miserably with its mishmash of confusing priorities. However, Fredo possesses discipline that counters his feature's ambitions. While the film is still afflicted with the typical faults of a first-time director: excitement, overabundance of themes, among others, Fredo balances everything with an admirable fervor that keeps the film afloat amidst questionable sequences (I still do not understand certain narrative tracks like Virgilio's sudden disappearance or Jay and his ex-boyfriend's prolonged sexual acts). With Compound and its controlled complexities and psychological aptitude, Fredo stands tall as an exciting new voice in Philippine cinema with this successful and mature first feature.

Feathers in the Wind (2004)

Feathers in the Wind (Song Il-gon, 2004)
Korean Title: Git

It all started with a promise similar to the one made in the end of Richard Linklater's Before Sunrise (1995). Two young lovers agree to meet again in that same motel in a remote rural island after ten years. Filmmaker Hyeong-seong (Jang Hyeong-seong) return to the island a decade after; seeking a closure from that first relationship that kept him rooting against Germany during soccer matches and perpetually reminiscent of that former romance. He is unsure if his ex-girlfriend, who left for Europe to study piano-playing and later on marries her German professor, would stay true to that promise.

The pangs of waiting for that said event invade his persona. Right after completing a film he describes as a box office failure and a mediocrity, he tries to write his second screenplay but is unable to do so because of the more impending matters that affect him. In the island, he is taken care of by the motel's caretaker, a jovial yet undeniably sweet girl named So-yeon (Lee So-yeon). Underneath the violent stormy weather are other extrinsic events that would add a touch of mysticism to Hyeong-seong's island getaway; a mysterious peacock lands in the island's rocky beaches, a piano being delivered by an unknown sender to the remote island, So-yeon's bleached-haired uncle awaits for his wife who left him and afflicted him with the lack of desire to talk, and finally, the image of So-yeon lonesomely dancing the tango with her hair distinguished by a single feather.

As with his first feature Flower Island (2001), Song Il-gon utilizes digital stock to capture the beauty of Udo Island. Originally commissioned as part of an omnibus film that would tackle issues on environmentalism, Feathers in the Wind expanded into a seventy minute feature that simply oozes with a subtle romantic fever brought about by a mixture of common love tropes (as with the premise that seems to originate from Linklater's more famous film) and Song's use of injecting mythical and mystical fuel to his narrative. It results in an endeavor that evolves with an unrushed passionate push; that when the climax starts to slide comfortably from the relaxed narrative, a more enhanced swooning emotion is felt --- the Hollywood trope fascinatingly meshes with the more individualistic moods of Song with remarkable grace.

Hyeong-seong and So-yeon's affair is something that doesn't blossom; it just happens --- probably because of their respective reasons; So-yeon's freshness offers a curative antidote to Hyeong-seong's relational hurts while Hyeong-seong's air of mystery pushes So-yeon to opt to discover and experience. Actually, their initial conversations never go deeper the same way Jesse and Celine initially sparked conversations on life, death, philosophy and culture in Linklater's films. The conversations never fathom the inevitabilities of attraction, probably at its most subtle, it only tangentially scrapes the possibilities of the two longing for each other. Through games, requests, and little favors, something erupts and the effect, although largely predictable, has a gravity that is quite surprising; that when Hyeong-seong finally leaves the island, and So-yeon rushes with her uncle to say their belated farewells and an acceptance of another challenge to meet up in a certain place after a year, it comes off as totally impromptu and more emotionally resonating.

Feathers in the Wind is Song Il-gon in his most basic, most unembellished, and simplest. Yet from the simplicity of the picture, from the numerous grains and pixelations of his digitally captured visuals, from the intimacy of his subject, and the earnest existence of his very few characters and their individual needs, he arrives at his most resounding and emotionally truthful work.

Flower Island (2001)

Flower Island (Song Il-gon, 2001)
Korean Title: Ggot seom

Other than Yu-jin (Lim Yu-jin), who we first meet narrating how she got punished by the gods for abandoning her promise of using her gift of song for good, we get introduced to the trio of females in very compromising scenarios. Seventeen year-old Hye-na (Kim Hye-na) undergoes a self-inflicted abortion inside a filthy restroom; while motherly Oak-nam (Seo Ju-hie) bares herself for a paying elderly man who after several sexual thrusts, dies of a cardiac arrest. Oak-nam is temporarily discharged by her husband who learns of her prostituting to buy her daughter a piano. She meets Hye-na inside during a busride to the Southern Seas --- Hye-na is on a trip to find her lost mother while Oak-nam seeks the legendary Flower Island, said to be the place to ease pains and burdens.

We finally witness Yu-jin compromising scenario when an impersonal doctor announces her medical predicament --- her tongue has to be removed to prevent the spreading of a cancerous growth in her throat. An opera singer, she loses the will to live, until she is rescued by Oak-nam and Hye-na who brings her along their trip to Flower Island. The three females undergo what seems like a roadtrip to an Oz-like place of magic and promises; along the way, they meet colorful characters who in their respective manners and ways, allow a tender and subtle release of each female's personal ache. A truck driver who carries his friend's corpse to town, a traveling music band led by jealous singer and his life partner, a mysterious man who lived with Hye-na's mother, and the proprietress of the island --- these personalities and their anecdotes and methods represent the promises of the island.

Lodz-trained Song Il-gon's directorial debut, Flower Island, is fashioned like several pieces of individual memories forcedly pasted together, like the coincidental meet-ups of these three troubled women. The point-of-view is always past-oriented, with the narrative being interrupted by flashbacks; as if there's a likely prevention of moving forward, of an outward acceptance as the world has been swallowed by the lasting scars of a troubled past.

Song's method of using digital film to capture the happenings creates an unfathomable viewing experience. The lack of detail (caused by digital filmmaking) causes a frustrating feeling of being trapped within the meager extents of the medium. Bodies and faces fade and disappear from focus; objects do not have their concrete appeal; experiences and events therefore are appropriated a fleeting feel, like they're happening not in this real world but in a mythical other-universe wherein pains and aches are as temporary as the captured movements and conversations. It's oddly mesmerizing; wherein the visual technique inhabits the poetic form Song drapes his feature with.

The film's ending is both mysterious but unsurprising. It adequately gives the feature an earthy and mortal conclusion without necessarily pulling away from the fairy-tale feel of this grim yet hopeful parable. Song possesses an admirable control on his vision and his themes; something quite surprising as this is his first feature film. The film aches when it needs to ache, and its joyous when there's a reason to celebrate --- yet despite the numerous facets of emotions on display, the film is headed in a single direction; no tricky shortcuts or long-winded stop-overs. Flower Island is one satisfactory road trip where emotions swell in every step, that when the destination is reached and leaves you still cold and curious, there still seems to be no trace of regret and remorse in traversing such path.

The Good Shepherd (2006)

The Good Shepherd (Robert De Niro, 2006)

Robert de Niro's The Good Shepherd is indulgently long. Clocking at over two hours and a half, it tries to trace the history of the C. I. A. through a fictional version of James Jesus Angelton, the founder of the agency's counterintelligence operations. Angelton, an intriguing character, was said to have resigned from his post as his spying business has caused him to become overly paranoid even with his personal affairs. The film uses each minute of its lengthy running time to explore the tiniest details of the worldly, political and personal intrigues of espionage work. It's quite fascinating how the story unfolds, how screenwriter Eric Roth intricately meshes the jarring interests of the person and his duties, and how de Niro articulately crafts the film so handsomely.

The film plunges immediately into the depths of facades and double meanings; bespectacled Edward Wilson (Matt Damon) looks like your ordinary suburban American --- he goes to work by riding a bus, a Cuban kid asks if he can break her dollar bill. His normal polish changes when he steps into his office, he exchanges mysteriously phrased words with his co-workers; examines the dollar and matches it among the dubious other dollar bills that are linked to America's Cold War rival. The film is grounded by two events, one historical, and the other personal. The American defeat in Cuba sends a question of loyalty among the ranks of spies of the agency; while Edward receives a mysterious videotape of two blurred lovers and whispered notes of affection. Through several flashbacks, clues and hints are carefully placed, and further blossoms into an intricate web that fittingly lands in near-perfect fashion right before the film's conclusion.

What I found most interesting is how these institutions seem to have been started by the secret society of Skull and Bones in Yale University --- its members proud to have produced an American president, and other ranking officials. Its ungainly effect on American society --- that fact that the cornerstones of these institutions are men who are initiated through secretive rituals, mud wrestling and disrespect. It's a psychology that is ingrained in the American psyche; deals and futures established through parties and fraternity meetings. It's not something that's impossible; it's actually very true.

It's the best acting work of their careers for both Damon and Angelina Jolie. Jolie plays Edward's wife. She literally grows from flirt-ish waif to resolute mother and unsatisfied wife. Although the aging seems unnaturally graceful, the years of worries and domestic burdens are seen through the quiet movements done by Jolie. Damon's performance, however, controls the film. His curved back, uncharismatic facial features, uncharacteristic inconfidence yet boiling genius are adequately shown --- it's something that you didn't think would work, but quite fittingly does, miraculously and thus, delightfully.

De Niro directs with a subdued but obvious finesse; he invokes Coppola in the way he lays down his plot in epic and historical proportions. It's a beautifully shot film --- perhaps too beautifully shot (by very talented cinematographer Robert Richardson). It's polished exteriors, perfected production design (each car feels brand new, each object in perfect condition), its delicate lighting and framing, all these aspects add a literary sense that I thought distracted me from the film's more telling themes. Everytime a perfectly lighted hair falls from a book, or an object is framed conveniently to obey commercial standards, it lends an air of artificiality to the effort.

300 (2007)

300 (Zack Snyder, 2007)

My first exposure to violent art is a painting done by Juan Luna called Spoliarium. It's a painting that is shown to each and every young Filipino student, even in his tenderest years. It depicts a scene in a Roman gladiator coliseum, where dead gladiators are being dragged by other men. It's not necessarily a realistic portrait; the bodies are not proportionate nor are their formations in possible arrange. It's an exaggeration that only meats out the hideous twists and grotesqueness of the situation. Above what's literally seen in the portrait is a nationalistic ache, a courageous exposé of the collective experience in the Philippines. That is art --- violent yet beneath such violence, is a passion, a history, a resonating and clear message.

Zack Snyder's 300 is very similar with Luna's masterwork. 300 is teaming with exaggerations --- mountains of disfigured corpses; limbs flying out in the air like dandelion seeds in search for fertile grounds, fresh wounds exposed like badges of honor. Comparing a Hollywood film to a painting might raise eyebrows but the reason why I saw the comparison fit was because despite the plenty similarities, 300 fails to be anything more than pretty pictures of violence. Underneath the initial shock or delight of seeing men fight to their deaths, there's really nothing. It's that --- frames of a graphic novel put into motion with no real depth but plain "cool."

300's racial stereotyping, its ineptitude in fashioning the Battle of Thermopylae as a modern narrative, its questionable artistic themes (freaks are evil, muscular pecs and perfect abs are good) are attributable to Frank Miller. It's something I really can't comprehend --- there's a near-pious reverence to Miller's art that almost all directors who try to adapt his work (including Robert Rodriguez in Sin City (2005)) has a fervent duty to replicate his art. Snyder, whose first feature is a remake of George Romero's Dawn of the Dead (2004; probably his only contribution to the genre is to turn zombies into hyperactive sprinters), makes every scene look like it belongs in the pages of a glorified graphic novel rather than in a darkened movie theater.

The rest of the film's failures I attribute to Snyder. He's out to prove something, yet in so doing overkills the concept. The film is mostly eye-straining. He edits like a madman; and the fight sequences are butchered to the point of ridicule. True, when Snyder tries to ape Peter Jackson with vistas teaming with goons and monsters, there's still a momentary sense of awe. However, when the fights actually happen, he focuses on thrusting limbs and swords, then just before you relish the lethal blow, cuts to the next muscular limb slashing, then again cuts, resulting in complete incomprehension. It's quite inutile which is only further emphasized with Snyder's indulgent use of slow motion; quite funny I thought as Snyder puts into slow motion the movement of a Spartan from one victim to another, then puts into real time the actual slash and blow (the abundance of the gimmick, the misappropriation of such only weakens, annoys, and cheapens).

300 can be seen as overtly political (against American imperialism, or for Bush's wishes to bring in more troops to Iraq). However, its political message is drowned by the film's boorish trappings. It's an inevitable trade-off; especially when the message is skewed by cultural ignorance (in exchange for aesthetic coolness), racial sanctification (the Spartans are all perfect Caucasian specimens, as opposed to the evil Persian army --- a mixture of Black, Arabic, Asian, Indian and the freakishly indeterminable), political incorrectness (Xerxes as bald drag queen diva; his voice lowered to further the fearsomeness of this macho gay), and bad filmmaking (I need not explain this more).

Again, there is nothing more to be gathered, not even the typical lessons of the actual Battle of Thermopylae (a rousing point, a morale-booster for the brave yet hugely outnumbered), nor the evident emotions or humanity of a desperate situation. It's all gloss, unjustified spurting of blood and floating of glowing embers, and loud yet empty battle cries. I'd rather stare at Luna's painting for the entire duration of the film, than be maligned by this mess pretending to be art.

Painted Skin (1993)

Painted Skin (King Hu, 1993)
Mandarin Title: Hua pi zhi yinyang fawang

King Hu has made great films in his lifetime; these films defined the wuxia genre; films like Come Drink With Me (1966), Dragon Inn (1966), and his masterpiece A Touch of Zen (1969). Aside from forwarding the thematics and stylistics of the genre, his films and stature influenced many directors. Ang Lee's bamboo fight scenes in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) was borrowed from a similar scene in A Touch of Zen. Zhang Yimou's House of Flying Daggers (2004) evokes a similar intrepid adventurism as many of Hu's wuxia features. Tsui Hark, one of the defining directors of 80's and 90's Hong Kong cinema acknowledges Hu as a direct influence to his artistry. He even tapped Hu to co-direct Swordsman (1990), but after discovering a difference in working habits (Hu was too slow), removed him from the directing team while keeping his name, out of respect, in the credits.

Hu's final film, Painted Skin, surfaced in the early 90's. It wasn't greeted with critical laurels. It seems that Hu, unlike Tsui who was reactive to the burgeoning influence of the globalization of American cinmea, wasn't evolving as a director. Painted Skin, although quite similar in the sub-genre revitalized by Tsui's A Chinese Ghost Story (1987), is bothered with a bumpy pace and a narrative slightness. However, to completely dismiss Painted Skin as a failure in Hu's filmography is completely out of place. True, the film is probably the weakest in Hu's works, but it's something of a last hurrah to the classy, the lyrical, the intrepid filmmaking that defined 60's and 70's Hong Kong cinema. Moreover, Hu's visuals is as tight as before --- there's a grandiose and graceful quality to his filmmaking that seemingly transcends the genre's limitations; his editing is as quick and crisp as ever --- the film actually utilizes very little extraneous effects (wire-fu, pre-CGI visual effects) as Hu's editing adequately fills in the illusion of action and flash.

Painted Skin concerns the plight of You Feng (Joey Wong), a ghost who is prevented from descending to hell to be reincarnated into the mortal world by the Yin-Yang king. She escapes to earth, where she blindly meets a scholar-philanderer Wang (Adam Cheng). Wang adopts You Feng, unaware that she is a ghost. When he sees her repainting her face, he seeks the help of two Taoist monks to try to remove the spirit from his home. You Feng then travels with the two Taoist monks to seek the help of the High Priest (Sammo Hung) to defeat the Yin-Yank king and restore the natural flow of spirits and the process of reincarnation.

The problem with Painted Skin is that there is an inherent absence of rapport in between its characters. The motivations behind their decisions are skewed; their rationale for being seems to be a result of predestination rather than human appropriation. You Feng's plight seems to be too unexplainedly great, especially for the Yin-Yang king to get worried over for. Even the High Priest's reasons for helping You Feng is individualistic instead of heroic; the same can be said for the lecherous scholar who claims You Feng as his concubine rather than an object for good deeds. Hu's world seems to have transformed from being a battleground of virtues and camaraderie into a stage of blurred lines between good and evil.

There is not one character that represents virtue, not even human imperfection. Instead, Hu forwards a scenario wherein confusion abound in terms of the characters' station in the moral ladder. Facades are put into a thematic spotlight. You Feng wears a painted human face to lure help; The High Priest pretends to be a lowly peasant to hide his godly powers; The yin-yang king has invisibility powers, represents an orderly rebellious bureaucratic government against the natural flow, and possesses human bodies to pave the way for his plans. In a way, the slightly told battle against a single evil is revoked of its benevolent ideals by the fact that there is nothing to grab, nothing to take in, with no character to represent the human plight, as opposed to Hu's more successful films --- probably the reason why Painted Skin is seen as a failure rather than a mild addition to Hu's filmography.

Dreamgirls (2006)

Dreamgirls (Bill Condon, 2006)

I've heard the complaints, that there's barely anything cinematic or worthwhile with the film adaptation of the beloved musicale Dreamgirls. The music and the lyrics pale in comparison to Bill Condon's previous adaptation of a musicale Chicago (2002), which was turned into an entertaining but shallow string of mediocre song-and-dance numbers of Hollywood A-listers by director Rob Marshall. It was touted as an Oscar frontrunner (it has the directorial pedigree, the triumphant backstories, the musicale glitz and glamor), but failed during the final stretch. Is it really a failure? I think not, it's actually an alluring film --- a musical movie that had its song numbers as essential narrative devices rather than mere showstoppers or gimmicks. True, it looks more like a montage put into music rather than a film, but that complaint only enhances the film's extraordinary flow. It's not Condon's best, but it's also not an embarrassment to the competent director's filmography.

I think Condon understands that he doesn't have a great material like Bob Fosse's Chicago to back him up. The tunes in Dreamgirls, except for a few, are barely memorable and hummable. The lyrics don't have the catchy wit and humor or even intelligence that give Fosse or Stephen Sondheim's works an edge. Dreamgirls, is pop musical set in 20th century America. This disposable quality to the musical's ditties make Condon's adaptation work a lot easier. He conveniently tells the story through the songs, and there are barely any wrinkles and folds to his storytelling, as when Effie (Jennifer Hudson) abruptly ends a dialogue straightly spoken with a sung line, there's no distracting effect since the setting dictates musicality from its characters. The songs now serve as an enhancement to the filmmaking rather than plain gimmickry, as what I have noticed with recent musicales (Chicago, The Phantom of the Opera (Joel Schumacher, 2002), and to the largest degree Moulin Rouge (Baz Luhrmann, 2001)).

When Condon adapts the musicale's only showstopping number, it literally stops the show. The free flowing merging of pop musicality and Condon's filmmaking give way, and the effect is tremendous. It makes you understand why American Idol-reject Hudson received the praises she gathered for her performance. She trembles the same way her voice, her character, her ego are in the verge of crumbling, and Condon understands that this is the film's moment. It's quite sublime.

This brings me to the film's biggest problem: the human drama that operates in the film overshadows the film's importance. Dreamgirls is supposed to be a commentary, not a mere show that razzle-dazzles yet the film overplays the melodramatics, the back stories, the underdog struggle of Effie that it fails to say something about the music industry in general, or how its blossoming was a betrayal to what the music really represented. The character of James Early (Eddie Murphy, in probably his most electrifying performance ever) becomes a mere dramatic sidestory than a poster for how the musical 'soul' has been transformed into a commercialized hack. Moreover, the lead Dream singer Deena Jones (Beyonce Knowles) transforms into a non-entity, a mere boring moral yardstick to the demonized Curtis Taylor (Jamie Foxx).

Condon is a very aware director. His biopic Kinsey (2004) is probably the most resounding of recent biopics, simply because Condon accurately and explicitly depicted the society's sexual urges as blanketed by its immaturity, which emphasizes the title character's psychological and narrative struggles. The same can be said with the wonderful Gods and Monsters (1998). With Dreamgirls, there seems to be a faint acknowledgment to the times. Curtis releases a record of Martin Luther King's famous speech as he struggles to put African-American musicians in America's consciousness; Effie's jealousy bursts alongside the civil rights riots; but these are so subtle and slight that it felt like they were done to merely keep the film into a historical perspective, instead of commenting something deep or resonating about that time in history, or the music industry as a whole.

Given a choice of concentrating on the human drama or pumping up the film's importance, it felt like Condon chose the former which is really unfortunate because I think Condon could have juggled the two; he is that capable a writer. I really can't complain about the final result, it certainly did move me as I was setting myself up for a disappointment. It's a good film, probably the best musical film Hollywood released recently (which would exclude Hedwig and the Angry Inch (John Cameron Mitchell, 2001), which is definitely the braver musical).

Letters From Iwo Jima (2006)

Letters From Iwo Jima (Clint Eastwood, 2006)

I was quite surprised to have immensely liked Clint Eastwood's Letters From Iwo Jima. I've heard all the praises the film has received, and I thought it would be Mystic River (2003) all over again --- overly praised film but heavy handed to the point of tedium. My dislike for Letters From Iwo Jima's companion piece Flags of Our Fathers (2006) also led me to expect utter disappointment. Flags of Our Fathers was all over the place --- it was narratively unstructured, sentimentally grating, and extremely melodramatic. However, after seeing Letters From Iwo Jima, I was completely dumbfounded. I never thought Eastwood has the capability, or even the knowledgeable restraint to create such a film. Letters From Iwo Jima is both poignant and celebratory. It dismantles the importance of warfare by celebrating the value of humanity; and all this is seen from the point of view of the conceived enemy of the Pacific War, the Japanese.

Iris Yamashita's screenplay disposes of the time jumping narrative structure of Flags of Our Fathers. Instead, she begins her tale with the arrival of American-schooled general Kuribiyashi (Ken Watanabe) to Iwo Jima to see through the military affairs of the island until the expected attack of American troops. Flashbacks are utilized to give a human face to the Japanese troops; Eastwood segues voice-overs of these troops reading their letters to the flashbacks --- we see these soldiers years before they were commissioned to sacrifice their lives for their country. It's not an uncommon device, but in Eastwood's hands, these flashbacks urge you to immediately identify with these soldiers, who through the years have been described as war-hungry conquerors, or mindless suicidal drones of an inutile empire.

What surprises me the most with Letters From Iwo Jima is how Eastwood successfully fleshed out the theme of identity through the feature. It's a war pic --- two great nations forced into war with Iwo Jima as the touted final battleground. Ordinarily, a war pic would force you to distinguish hero from villain, winner from loser, Japanese from American, yet what Eastwood does is to give each player in the war their individual stories and with that, transform his war pic into a struggle for these individuals to seek out an identifying factor with the rest of humanity. These soldiers, forced from their homes and families, have suddenly found themselves in a situation wherein they juggle their multiple roles in life --- husband, soldier, citizen, baker --- in the end, the only thing remaining from what feels like a melting pot of jarring roles, is the fact that they are human beings, similar to the captured American soldier who through his letter is revealed to be a loving son to a worried mother, similar to the lowly soldier who becomes entrapped in a mutiny within the Japanese army, similar to the Kuribiyashi who finds himself in a situation wherein he'll be fighting against his friends.

It's a classy film. I didn't understand why Eastwood bleached out the colors from Flags of Our Fathers --- the result was a drab and dreary film. Here, Eastwood similarly uses the same technique, but with vastly different results. There's a elegiac quality to the visuals. Some of the scenes look like something John Ford would make --- close up of faces backgrounded by an empty sky, shadows of men in desolate vistas. It's extremely beautiful --- and the bleaching out makes an illusion of a black and white feature, enunciating the little gestures, the folds and wrinkles of troubled faces, the contemplative moments wherein almost nothing or something utterly mundane happens.

This is the only Eastwood film I can honestly say that I loved. It's the only Eastwood film that I can call cinematic. It is quiet, observant, focused, and graciously plotted. The film aches with a thoughtful power that urges you to just dwell in these very human experiences that unfold onscreen. I must admit, I am deeply impressed.