Arthur and the Invisibles (2006)

Arthur and the Invisibles (Luc Besson, 2006)
French Title: Arthur et les Minimoys

The English title is actually very misleading; there are no invisible creatures in Luc Besson's live action-animation hybrid Arthur and the Invisibles. Instead, there are creatures called Minimoys --- ant-sized elf-like critters who were transported from their native Africa by an intrepid explorer-inventor, missing grandfather of titular Arthur (Freddie Highmore). The Minimoys have built a sort of underground civilization complete with a monarchist government (with its accompanying bumbling king (voiced by Robert de Niro), overly enthusiastic heiress-princess (voiced by Madonna), and annoying and practically useless prince (voiced by Jimmy Fallon)), and a rival evil kingdom ruled by deformed and disfigured Maltazard (voiced by David Bowie).

Arthur, through a telescope-like contraption and with the help of some tall, surprisingly English-fluent tribesmen, shrinks himself to save the Minimoy kingdom, find his grandfather's rubies to pay off his family's debts, and discover love in the person of the Minimoy princess. The subterranean world of the Minimoys is an idea we've already seen before; the underground caverns of our familiar homes have already been home to plenty of cinematic mysterious creatures (just last year, computer animated The Ant Bully (John Davis, 2006) hypothesized a community of insects who are out to teach a kid a lesson; Antz (Eric Darnell & Tim Johnson, 1998) felt more sophisticated). Besson, at least, tries to actually develop his own microscopic civilization (he wrote the series of children's books that the film was adapted from) with a distinct cultural identity rather than mere microcosms of the above-ground human world. Sadly, it turns out that Besson's imaginative creation is mostly redundant children's fare, and has no dreams of transcending to Miyazaki realm (more substantial family fun).

There's also something very bothersome about the film. At first, I thought the tepidness of the film was a result of the substandard writing but when the end credits start rolling, and I get reminded that the princess is voiced by Madonna, and the kid is Highmore, I suddenly got goosebumps. Of course, there's a difficulty in establishing a convincing romantic angle between a kid actor and a married forty-plus actress (even if they're just voice overs). However, in this case, the forced rapport between the two performers turn what could've been witty or deep verbal exchanges between the characters into bland and discomforting tirades.

Mia Farrow (who rarely gets work nowadays) plays Highmore's grandmother. Decades after her turn as haunted mother in Rosemary's Baby (Roman Polanski, 1968), she actually pulls off a lovely performance as the kid's proxy mother figure. Sadly, she's just one of the few positive things to say about this Besson film. The computer animation, at first, was actually quite impressive. Besson has a knack for creating visually rich alternate universes and he does not fail us in this regard. However, after the initial wonder (which I thought was a mere aftereffect of the unremarkable live-action cinematography thus, the excitement when my eyes were treated to something colorful and vibrant), everything becomes drab; the elfish character designs do not astound; the locales are at times stunning but are not enough to sustain an entire feature. If you're looking for kid-friendly adventure, look elsewhere. Not even David Bowie's presence (or at least his aural presence) can save this shtick from the dumping ground of forgettable fantasy flicks.

The Host (2006)

The Host (Bong Joon-ho, 2006)
Korean Title: Gwoemul

Bong Joon-ho begins The Host with a sequence inspired by actual events: in a nearby U. S. military facility, an American orders his Korean subordinate to dispose bottles of formaldehyde in the facility's sink, which would eventually end up in the Han River. The subordinate unwillingly follows his superior's orders; grey smoke appears from the sink while Bong horizontally moves his camera to show us the multitudes of formaldehyde bottles that have been emptied to the river. Bong cuts to two men fly fishing in the banks of the Han; one fisherman observes a weird creature swimming in his bait cup --- Bong captures this moment in the evolutionary tale of The Host's monster in a wide shot of the Han River; we get a glimpse of the metropolis blanketed by a thick layer of pollution and smog. We initially get a sense of what Bong is getting at --- it's not necessarily finger pointing, but he makes it a point that the monster that we will soon see rampaging and murdering did not appear from thin air, but is a result of a combination of human or more specifically Korean errors (pollution, American presence).

The Host is a monster flick in the same vein as Ishirô Honda's Gojira (1954). Both films are reactionary social commentaries, while delivering the no-brainer fun and punch of its genre. However, Instead ofBong's film features a family in its center: the store-owning grandfather (Byun Hee-bong), absent-minded father (Song Kang-ho), his two more successful but not-that-successful siblings, Olympic archer sister (Bae Doo-na) and alcoholic and unemployed recent college grad brother (Park Hae-il). The family (a sort of opposite universe version of Brad Bird's superhero family in The Incredibles (2004)) unite to try to dodge governmental intrusion (the family is branded as infected by a deadly virus supposedly carried by the monster) while inching their way to salvaging Song Kang-ho's on screen daughter Hyun-seo (Ko Ah-sung) from the monster's lair.

The monster (a CGI-creation by San Francisco-based Orphanage FX) is an intriguing anomaly. It is no doubt a mutant drafted by years of environmental mismanagement; appendages sprout out of its armored body which looks like a mixture of a legged amphibian, a trout, and a parasitic worm. The CGI-work is near-seamless and Bong makes sure that the monster actually inhabits its environment; its tail makes it adept in bridge acrobatics, its fish-like fins make it superiorly amphibious, its gastro-intestinal make-up is developed for its rather bashful means of feeding on its victims (the monster keeps its victims safe in its inner-sewer lair to feast on them moments after their capture). The design is absolutely horrific --- definitely years and technologies after the rubber suited men/monsters of Gojira and its numerous subsequent spin-offs.

It's all superbly juggled by director Bong. His natural knack for comedy, his talent for judicious and economically placed characterization, his visual derring-do (the initial sequences with the monster features it basking under the bright rays of the Korean sun; very difficult and brave especially since he's using an entirely CGI-creation) which inevitably works very well, his satirical stance on pollution and America's need to invade on other nation's sovereignty (and the accompanying problem of Korea's eternal subservient attitude to America's bullying), his impressive gift of appropriating these big issues in what essentially is an intimate quest to save a family member: all these positive traits turn The Host from an ordinary monster flick to what may be an instant classic that can proudly sit beside the most memorable cinematic monsters of all time.

Gandahar (1988)

Gandahar (René Laloux, 1988)
a.k.a. Light Years

Gandahar is probably the closest René Laloux ever came in replicating the level of sophistication he gave alien civilizations in The Fantastic Planet (1973). He opens the film with an overview of a seaside community: blue skinned humanoids living life in utter simplicity. Laloux presents the planet of Gandahar as a utopian paradise where everything is in joyful order; nature and civilization coincide like connecting puzzle pieces (a plant gives birth to a pet, the pet is then taken care of by a female Gandaharian by breastfeeding it). The supposed peace is disrupted when laser rays start targeting the peaceful Gandaharians, turning them into stone.

Laloux cuts to the capital of Gandahar, Jasper. Beneath the carved bust of a female Gandaharian, the council of elders is debating on who to send to uncover the mysterious enemies of Gandahar. Sylvain is chosen; and is sent to the vast ocean to learn more about Gandahar's attackers, an army of metal men. On the way, he discovers an underground civilization of deformed Gandaharians (botched experiments of Jasper who were completely forgotten), and an oversized brain (again, another botched experiment of Jasper thrown to the sea when it was getting too big to destroy).

It's an interesting concept, sprawling in its seemingly unlimited area of creation; which is perfect for the highly imaginative Laloux. Laloux eats up the concept, and populates the alien world with a civilization that becomes too advanced (probably not industrially; but the scientific experimentations to turn nature into a tool for advancement cannot relate Gandahar as naturally perfect), too selfish and perfectionist (the deformed Gandaharias have turned into a mere tall tale; and instead of turning them into a distinct class, Gandahar has totally forgotten them (class structures cannot exist in a Utopian society)), and too complacent that it is almost powerless to any external struggle. The plot relies on time travel for its movement; Sylvain seems to be the chosen one to enact the prophecy but the prophecy's cyclical syntax connotes an impetus for salvation. I suggest that the sudden appearance of the Gandaharian dinosaur-like creature that saves Sylvain and love interest Airelle from their egg-shaped cell as the impetus; Sylvain thought that the dinosaur as extinct; I thought that the dinosaur is one of those Gandaharian creatures that have escaped Gandahar's god-like machinations and is therefore the proper turning point (it being pure from Gandahar's "sins against nature") that could enact the cyclical prophecy and in turn save Gandahar.

Gandahar is released in the United States as Light Years. The plot remains relatively unchanged except that the script was revised by Isaac Asimov, the music is modified to include generic sci-fi melodics and sound effects, the director's credit shamelessly grabbed by Harvey Weinstein. Asimov's translation turns Laloux's film into an unexciting talkfest; Asimov delights in several voice-over narrations, suggests a maternal relation between the Gandaharian queen Ambisextra and Sylvain, lightens the romantic angle between Sylvain and Airelle. Asimov's screenplay is also riddled with hyphaluting wordplay, which somehow lessens the natural transition of Laloux's original film --- the result is a disorienting flow, a boringly sexless characterization, and an inevitably less enjoyable film. Harvey Weinstein does employ several actors and actresses to provide voice talents for the characters (Glenn Close as Ambisextra, Christopher Plummer as Metamorphis the evil oversized brain). However, the delivery remains flat; presumably because of Asimov's distancing semantics.

Seeing both versions, I cannot deny that Laloux's final feature film is indeed a worthy feature; still miles away from his masterpiece The Fantastic Planet, but definitely up and above Time Masters (1982). Even with Weinstein's mutated Light Years, you can still observe Laloux's undeniable artistry and imagination in cooking up an alien civilization complete with its social and governmental structures, and biological make-up.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001)

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (John Cameron Mitchell, 2001)

Hedwig and the Angry Inch, John Cameron Mitchell's breakout film, is a cinematic translation of his successful off-Broadway musicale. It's hugely helped by the song compositions of Stephen Trask --- from its hyperactive opening song to the more mellow, more emotionally driven slow songs that inhabit the work's core. Trask and Mitchell's collaboration has crossed over to the silver screen with relative ease: the film is independently funded; no studio bickering beneath the translation; thus, the creators manage to keep their intentions intact.

Let's stop kidding ourselves though. True, the melodies, the rhythms, the driving force behind the art are all original but the work won't survive without the centerpoint of everything: Hedwig (as played by Mitchell). He's a cinematic anomaly. You just can't pinpoint what he is: he's had a sex change operation (but without that inner drive that pushes most transgender individuals; he was forced to undergo the operation by his American boyfriend and his mother); the sex change operation is not entirely successful as a bit of his phallus would grow back (thus, the angry inch). Hedwig is a character that uncomfortably sits in a vague middle: fabulous and almost nearly female (yet with signifiers of his male past --- underarm hairs, the prominent Adam's apple); Mitchell casts a female (Miriam Shor) as Hedwig's jealous boyfriend (it connotes another conundrum --- is their relationship homosexual or heterosexual?).

Hedwig's backstory is also wildly interesting. His life is told through the several musical numbers performed by Hedwig and his band in buffet restaurants while trailing rock icon Tommy Gnosis (Michael Pitt), Hedwig's ex-boyfriend and intellectual property-thief. It's an elementary technique that surprisingly works. A decision to record the songs live as sung (it helps that Mitchell and his band has had years of on stage performances to make it work, and work very well). Mitchell's visuals provide a very satisfying range: The song "Origin of Love," about how the Greek gods physically separated men and women as theorized by Plato, is accompanied by crude animation; a dreamy sequence of Hedwig (then, Hansel)'s seduction by his then-husband shows off the uncontrollable tempting power of Gummy Bears and American candies; Hedwig's childhood in Communist East Berlin is treated with nightmarish candor --- Hansel hidingly wiggles to the ditties of American radio or uncomfortably holes up in his mom's oven just to listen to his American inspirations.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch is more of a statement, a very powerful one on sexual and gender ambiguity, than a concrete narrative. This brings me to my serious problem with Mitchell's film: it's unconvincing (or pretentious) and highly open-ended conclusion. It's as if Mitchell couldn't come up with an adequate end to Hedwig's mission of reclaiming fame and intellectual integrity from Tommy Gnosis, that he just settled with something more symbolic (a cheap way out as it will excite and satisfy those watching the film as an activism or a strengthening of one's choices in life, sacrificing narrative competency). It's my same problem with Jonathan Larson's Rent (Chris Columbus, 2005; which appears a lot in the film probably as a symbol for selling out) which conveniently ended with a fantasy sequence and a medley of songs of affirmation.

It's a huge complaint, but one that didn't dent my appreciation for Mitchell's effort. Above everything else, Hedwig and the Angry Inch is bombastic, at time irreverent, always hyperactive, truthful, and most importantly, highly entertaining.

Rocky Balboa (2006)

Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone, 2006)

It's easy to dismiss Rocky Balboa, Sylvester Stallone's send-off to one of his most beloved cinematic alteregoes, Rocky Balboa. After all, Rocky (1976) has been regarded as an overly praised film; its Oscar trophy a mere indication of the time's irrational love for the underdog rather than artistic approval. It's sequels, all four of them, are all commercial ventures that seek to capitalize on the character. It can't be denied however that the Philly-bred Italian boxer has garnered a status of an icon; its famous tune "Gonna Fly" has acquired a timeless feel and rhythm familiar even to those born after the phenomenon. After that initial bewildered raised eyebrow and ponderous smirk when Stallone announced his desire to resurrect the franchise, I thought Rocky does deserve a chance at a glorious bow before he finally retires.

So it has been a decade and some years since we last saw Rocky Balboa. We first see Rocky with waking up; he visits the grave of his wife and tries to invite his son, now a corporate slave, to spend dinner in his restaurant (named after his deceased wife). Aside from the obvious physical changes (Stallone looks much much older, much much bulkier, and he talks with a much much more obvious laziness), a not-so-subtle emotional weight bothers the retired boxer. It also feels like the rest of his part of Philadelphia is sharing in his reminiscing woes. Paulie (Burt Young) becomes Rocky's receptacle of his passionate speeches; Li'l Marie (Geraldine Hughes), now grown-up, sad, and mother to half-Jamaican Steps (James Kelly III); Rocky opponent Spider Rico (Pedro Lovell) feels like a loafer in his old age. Rocky has turned into a living fossil; his restaurant an avenue for his celebration of his glory days. Cinematographer J. Clark Mathis bathes Philadelphia with a somber hue; he seemingly frames Rocky's interactions with the purpose of showing a man slowly drifting away and trying his best to come back.

Most of the film is spent detailing Rocky's geriatric dilemmas. Fantastically, most of the stuff is actually quite effective --- a sort of slow and gradual build-up to the ultimate underdog match. Written by Stallone, the screenplay is a bit of a struggle to sit through. When you are tortured into listening to Stallone delivering wordy chicken-soup-for-the-soul speeches with his lazy oratorical mannerisms, it should somehow pose as a problem for the film. But interestingly, Stallone's sentimental build up has got me hooked that the overwrought speeches, the corny one-liners, the quote-of-the-day-worthy phrases are taken in as mere parts of this nostalgia trip rather than points for criticism.

Every boxing pic relies on that huge match to deliver its goods. Rocky Balboa however suffers from it. Mason Dixon (Antonio Tarver), Rocky's opponent, is an iffy character. When the antagonist should be manipulating our emotions (Appolo Creed (Carl Weathers) and Ivan Drago (Dolph Lundgren) of Rocky and Rocky IV (1985) respectively were quite successful with that) so that we can root further for the battled underdog, Mason Dixon provides for a mere diversion, another emotionally-embattled character the film has too much off; and that doesn't simply help the film which banks entirely on the huge match. It also doesn't help that the match is filmed terribly; a little bit too much flashback, too much bad editing, too much flash and tricks. All the techniques mustered by Stallone to pump up the final match of Rocky Balboa backfire.

It is by no means a bad film; it is just sometimes good, and sometimes utterly terrible. It is also by no means a failure; its probably the most interesting entry to the franchise. The beginning felt like a solemn deconstruction of a declining hero; Stallone's respect for the icon he has made carried the film until the end. Rocky Balboa is more sad than triumphant end to the series.

Time Masters (1982)

Time Masters (René Laloux, 1982)
French Title: Les maîtres du temps

Time Masters is the second Stefan Wul novel ("L'Orphelin de Perdide") director René Laloux adapted. The first one being "Oms En Serie" which Laloux turned into the now classic The Fantastic Planet (1973). It certainly feels like Laloux's cinematic style is compatible with Wul's tales of otherworldly lifeforms, civilizations, and struggles. Laloux breezes through the planet of Perdide with its interesting landscapes and living curiosities, while accommodating a storyline that invokes a gripping twist in the end; a twist that all of a sudden turns the tale into an involving temporal puzzle.

The plot follows a troupe of space mercenaries in a race against time trying to rescue a little boy who is left alone in the wilderness of Perdide. The boy, who is merely kept alive by an intergalactic radio (from which he receives information and company from the space mercenaries) he, by his youth and innocence, thinks of as a friend called "Mike."

Time Masters feels a less serious effort compared to The Fantastic Planet. Unlike the latter film wherein adult themes surface from the planetary rebellion by the little aliens against their blue-skinned humanoid masters, Time Masters is pretty much a straightforward rescue film wherein the heroes jump in and out of problematic scenarios and try to arrive in Perdide before the boy gets devoured by locust-like creatures. There are scenarios wherein Laloux seems to be pushing a certain theme --- the troupe lands in a deserted planet inhabited by faceless angel-like creatures. These creatures would kidnap visitors and through a ceremony turn them into "puppets" just like them. The scenario feels like a commentary against organized religion (especially with the utilized imagery of angels, the ceremonial baptism to a common ideology). The scenario being a mere point within the entire film betrays the depth of the commentaries for narrative ease and straightforwardness. It feels like Laloux is kept from truly exploring these alien environs by his adherence to storytelling; something i never felt while watching The Fantastic Planet.

Time Masters marks the first collaboration between Laloux and comic book artist Jean Giraud. Giraud is most famous for co-creating The Silver Surfer, and would later on work on as concept artist for films like Alien (Ridley Scott, 1979), Willow (Ron Howard, 1988), and The Fifth Element (Luc Besson, 1997). This is perhaps the reason why there is such a huge difference between the designs of The Fantastic Planet and Time Masters. The Fantastic Planet's art is grotesque, surreal, and at times, downright disturbing. Time Masters feels much more cartoon-y and friendly. Giraud is responsible for the sketches, and there is indeed a comic book feel to the film. There is very minimal movement, and more often than not, Laloux bathes the film in sedentary moments; giving us the opportunity to examine and enjoy his and Giraud's collaborative art.

The animation is not smooth, which shouldn't pose a problem, especially when one is already used to Laloux's cinema. Time Masters seems to be confused of its classification; whether or not it is a children's film or an adult-centered animated film. Most of the alien designs are clumsily conceived (especially if compared to the dangerous flora and fauna of The Fantastic Planet), on the verge of being silly in the level of those Hanna-Barbara cartoons. Yet at times, it's quite fantastic and the level Laloux infuses these made-up alien landscapes with real ecosystems and cycles is just compelling.

Blood Diamond (2006)

Blood Diamond (Edward Zwick, 2006)

Edward Zwick opens his latest film with a lovely and obviously artificial taste of rural life in 1999 Sierra Leone. Solomon Vandy (Djimon Hounsou) reminds his favorite son to sleep and go to class the following day; he relishes in the thought that his son would graduate to become a successful doctor. Opening credits over the beautiful vistas of Africa (Eduardo Serra's lush cinematography captures Africa's natural beauty); Blood Diamond. Zwick quickly forwards his advocacy: Vandy's village gets raided and burned by bloodthirsty rebels; women and children are shot without remorse while the hands of the men are chopped off. Vandy is captured and is brought to the diamond mines where he discovers a pink diamond the size of a bird's egg; he hides the diamond in the jungle before he is spirited away from the mines and imprisoned in the capital city of Sierra Leone.

Vandy meets diamond smuggler Danny Archer (Leonardo di Caprio) in prison; Archer meets good-natured American journalist Maddy Bowen (Jennifer Connelly) in one of the local bars. A deal is made: Vandy helps Danny unearth the pink diamond; Maddy helps Danny with her press connections; Danny helps Maddy come up with a press-worthy story. The trio talk about Africa, diamonds, morality, African racial relations, before they become bullet and missile targets of stereotypically portrayed rebels. Repeat the tedious talk-run-explosion pattern and that's baisacally the film, a tiresome adventure film (an incompetently directed one at that), garbed in allegedly important "Oscar bait" issues.

It's not surprising coming from Zwick. Zwick is one director who has self-conscious ambitions of reinstating the obsolete theory of "white man's burden." His films are staged in exoticized locales wherein the natives are suffering from civil war. A hero (mostly white, good looking, with a sorry past that is revealed in one of Zwick's staged conversations, and moral ambiguity) is imported from the West, to help resolve the natives' conflicts while curing his personal inadequacies. That's basically Glory (1989), The Last Samurai (2003) and Blood Diamond in a nutshell, and that's basically Zwick's artistic contribution to humanity, paltry as it seems.

Zwick's films are harmless. It's just that Zwick wallows in self-importance that translates to the characters he creates. When Danny Archer consciously plans on pilfering the pink diamond from Vandy then discovers that he has a mortal wound, the moral dilemma is shrunk to inconsequential proportions. Maddy's supposed dutiful goals for humanity is tainted with gratuitously expedited romantic relations with the morally ambiguous diamond smuggler. Vandy is of course, the native (the same way Ken Watanabe's noble samurai general in The Last Samurai and Denzel Washington's African-American soldier in Glory are token good specimens of an exploited race) that is depicted with unanimous virtues: the loving father, dutiful family man with simple and selfless ambitions. Sadly, not enough Solomon Vandy's can overturn the fact that the rest of the Sierra Leone citizenry are portrayed by Zwick as either brainless bullet receptacles, devilish rebels, pacifist stereotypes, or helpless victims. This is Africa, at least in the eyes of Zwick.

The Queen (2006)

The Queen (Stephen Frears, 2006)

Queen Elizabeth II (Hellen Mirren) sits still as a commissioned artist paints her portrait. It's a striking image: the queen in complete regalia, Mirren's face shows off ages of experience and wisdom; then the queen breaks the silence and asks the artist if he has voted. The artist says yes, and adds that it's not for Blair. In her reply, the queen finally reveals a human weakness: she envies the common people and their right to vote. In that reply, we are impressed with the logic that the queen is different --- a figurehead, a symbol, an unnecessary obstruction to British mass democracy. Then, the artist reminds Elizabeth that despite that, it is still her government. The queen smiles with reassurance. Again, we are reminded of her stature. Stephen Frears gives us an impressive profile of the queen, from toe to head --- Mirren is the queen.

We know from history and common knowledge that Tony Blair (as portrayed by Michael Sheen) will win the election. The queen wakes up to the news, followed by the ceremonial task of inviting the newly elected prime minister to build a government in her name. Frears quickly establishes a conflict or a dilemma that will pervade his film: Blair's anti-monarchist wife quickly reminds her husband that he is elected by the people as opposed to the queen who was merely placed there by succession. The initial meet-up of the queen and Blair is delightful: Blair clumsily parades his youth, inexperience, and accompanying charm; the queen is quick to sermon, remind, and point out that Blair is merely one of the many prime ministers she has worked with (specifically citing her experience as an inexperienced monarch in the guidance of Winston Churchill).

The Queen mainly revolves around the monarchy's experience with the untimely death of Princess Diana. A lengthy montage of archived videos introduces us to the tragedy of Diana: how she became an unintentional celebrity after her break-up with Prince Charles; how it was that fact that turned her into a viable target for the bloodthirsty paparazzi which eventually contributed to her and her then boyfriend's demise. A tug of war of public approval ensues when the monarchy refuses to honor the ex-princess, while Blair geniusly declares Diana as the "people's princess." The queen stubbornly upholds tradition as the prime minister quickly triumphs by having the same senses and emotions as the common British people.

We go back to the film's initial scenes wherein we are prepare by Frears of the likely dilemma that will ensue. The rest of the film struggles to flesh out the monarchy's sense of tradition in the midst of public disaster. Amazingly, Frears does not take sides; while the monarchy's traditionalist has historically almost paved the way for its destruction, Frears depicts the traditionalist stance as strength and fortitude and Elizabeth's timely bowing down to change as nobility. It all boils down to Peter Morgan's witty screenplay and Mirren's careful yet effective portrayal as the queen.

Morgan pretty much makes up most of the private events that ensue throughout the film. I'd like to think of Morgan's mechanics as akin to the same tabloid culture that contributed to Diana's tragedy. He paints a very human portrait to the stoic and very unmaternal public figure who rarely makes public appearances, and Mirren pumps it up with her fantastic mix of monarchial finesse and humanist timing. It's the entire royal family that is given fictional personalities here: Prince Philip (James Cromwell) as dictatorial husband to the queen, perhaps because his machismo is hugely disadvantaged by his wife's place in history, Prince Charles (Alex Jennings) as a spineless, wretchedly emotional, and pushover twit, the queen mother (Sylvia Syms) as someone who is just waiting for her time (in a humorous episode, she complains that Diana's public funeral is an exact copy of her own funeral she has designed herself) and acknowledges her unimportance in public or familial affairs. Morgan makes us uncomfortably too close to the family; we witness side remarks, familial politics, emotional breakdowns, stress, disputes, sweet talks.

In the end, it works. Our curiosity as to the human side of these modern monarchs are quelled by Morgan and the actors and actresses' creations. Frears cleverly levels the pervading mythos of royalty and public opinion, without necessarily throwing down a real public personality.

Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo (2006)

Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo (Jose Javier Reyes, 2006)

Rough English Translation: To Marry, To Join, To Share

In a film festival that mostly caters to plebeian tastes and whose raison d'etre is commercial viability rather than artistic inegrity, it is quite pleasing to have something like Jose Javier Reyes' Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo (roughly translated in English as To Marry, To Join, To Share). It's a film that understands the clamour of the real moviegoers while understands the fact that the overused conventions of genre-filmmaking are getting old, too old. It's a film that acknowledges swift as an editing style, and natural as a comedic enhancement. In other words, Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo is dutiful in its profit-making mission, fresh in its artistic presentation, and actually quite entertaining.

Casting real life lovers Judy Ann Santos and Ryan Agoncillo as the film's lead couple is simply a stroke of genius. It saves a lot of time by deleting the need to establish chemistry and rapport. It only took Reyes around fifteen minutes to have Angie and Jed (Santos and Agoncillo, respectively) fall in love and get married. Although it feels slightly breezed through, I do understand the point that Reyes is not interested in pre-marital romances, but on what actually happens after the marriage; when all things previously invisible have materialized in a matter of days from the marriage ceremony. It's that pre-established chemistry that helps the film once the initial romance wears off. And there is actually a danger of shifting the focus from the central couple to the colorful support. Gina Pareno steals the show as Angie's histrionic mother who juggles her sausage-manufacturing business with her trite political career.

The storyline is probably a result of mixed real life experiences, conventional cinematic inspirations, formulaic genre-specific scenarios, and a select sprinkling of Reyes' talent in reorganizing real events into gems of filmic entertainment. Overall, aside from a few quibbles with regards to factual, legal (the questionable marriage license), and stereotypical issues in the film, its pretty much a faultless if not inconsequential tale. It's a comfort zone Reyes just can't get away from, and I'm actually glad he doesn't stray to uncomfortable territories --- we have seen him breezily tackling and portraying the lives of the middle class or the upper class, but he stumbles when its time to depict the lives of the less fortunate (he either forces the lower class to adapt to middle/upper class culture or just paints these characters as commonly acknowledged Lino Brocka-inspired caricatures).

It's actually quite admirable that Reyes trods a different path here when his recent filmography shows a director that has probably lost originality and artistic integrity (his recent features are all second tier horror/suspense flicks). Instead of drinking the panacea of sure success by rewriting the age-old tales of fairy tale-inspired romances, he cooks up something surprisingly refreshing (although it'd be criminal to claim that the film is entirely original --- it has shades of Hollywood films like Meet the Parents/Meet the Fockers, etc.) especially if taken from the viewpoint of someone who has suffered through the regurgitated rehashes of mainstream Philippine cinema.

Natutulog Pa Ang Diyos (1988)

Natutulog Pa Ang Diyos (Lino Brocka, 1988)
English Title: God is Still Asleep

In 1988, director Lino Brocka released two very different films: his more popular and recognized Macho Dancer and Natutulog Pa Ang Diyos (God is Still Asleep), a Seiko Films-funded melodrama. While Macho Dancer was outrightly dismissive of the overreaching arms of poverty towards the populace --- forcing men plucked out of their provinces to strip and gyrate their bodies in front of dozens of lustful eyes for a buck, Natutulog Pa Ang Diyos is more subversive --- using the commercial trappings of your everyday melodrama to surface the corruption of the huge social and economic divide in the Philippines. Brocka's social commentary here is probably as potent as those done by Douglas Sirk.

The film starts with a bar room brawl. Bernardo (Dante Rivero) forces bar hostess Patria (Gina Pareno) to quit her job out of jealousy --- and promises to marry her. With the blessings of Bernardo's employers (Ricky Belmonte and Marita Zobel), Patria moves in to the small house beside the couple's property. Patria and the mistress of the house both got pregnant at the same time. Knowing that he will not be able to provide a future for their future son, Bernardo switches his and his master's baby, only sharing that terrible secret with his wife, who disdainly agrees to the plan. The two babies grow up not knowing that they were switched at birth --- Andrew (Ricky Davao) believes he's the only son of the wealthy couple while Gillian (Lorna Tolentino) suffers through the rigors and the tortures of her meager life, furthermore burdened by the frequent abuses of Patria.

It's a ridiculous plot; one that is not strange to the melodrama-trained psyche of the Filipino. However, Brocka handles the plot with impressionable intimacy and intensity. Gillian's sufferings and pains are portrayed with a discomforting passion (Brocka's story is not very different from that of Gillian's; After the death of his father, he spent a portion of his childhood with an aunt who maltreated him). Gina Pareno inhabits the role of Patria with skill; when she dotes her real offspring Andrew, it's both heartbreaking (the fact that she only loves her child from a distance) and displeasing (since that doting is to the disadvantage of the already pitiful Gillian). Pareno's Patria is both maternal and vicious, both erringly heroic and pathetic. She spies from afar how Andrew celebrates his first birthday (without her). You can't help but understand Patria's plea; it's a difficult decision she had to make or was forced to make (probably out of Bernardo's cooked-up designs, or the fact that her upbringing dictates that she act that way (basic maternal instincts exclusively for those children out of her womb), or that the impossibly huge social and economic divide has turned the poor into juvenile savages (true, politically incorrect --- just like the film).

It's that ridiculous plot that got me to think that despite all the technical inconsistencies (I guess Brocka had to make use of Seiko Films' team of technicians thus the very generic look of the film), the tepid third half (the film got bad when Gary Valenciano's character was introduced, and everything became nice and dandy), it's the more poignant film out of the two 1988 Brocka releases (yes, even more poignant than men who are forced to dance and gyrate in seedy gay clubs). It's relevance may be overshadowed by its commercial trappings, but Brocka relays his point quite convincingly --- that parents have given up on ever climbing the social ladder, that they'd sacrifice knowing their children are being raised without them just to provide a future for them. Brocka portrays the wealthy couple as kindhearted and understanding; but that's a given since they have nothing to worry about but their own personal lives. Brocka critically paints Bernardo and Patria; infuses them with a very human objective that jars (which shouldn't supposed to) with their social status.