I initially felt a fool for not having seen The Third Man earlier. However, in retrospect, having now read most of Graham Greene’s major works, and having received some keen insight into the back-story of producer Alexander Korda through Kati Marton’s book The Great Escape, I feel I was able to enjoy The Third Man even more for the staggering masterpiece that it is.
As a European/American co-production bankrolled by two legendary hands-on producers, David O. Selznick and Alexander Korda, The Third Man was masterfully crafted by director Carol Reed from a screenplay by British novelist Graham Greene. The film served as a pinnacle of the film noir movement and is a prime example of master filmmakers working with an iconic writer and utilizing an amazing cast and crew to create a masterwork representing professionals across the field operating at the top of their game.
Fans of Greene’s novels need not be disappointed as the screenplay crackles with all that signature cynicism and sharp witted dialogue. Carol Reed’s crooked camera angles, moody use of shadowing and external locations (Vienna, partially bombed out, wet and Gothic, never looked more looming and haunting) and crisp editing are the perfect visual realizations of Greene’s provocative wordplay and often saturnine view of the world. Reed’s brief opening montage and voice-over introducing us to the black market in Vienna is also shockingly modern, as it is that energetic quick-cut editing that has influenced directors like Scorsese to film entire motion pictures in just such a style. Also making the film decidedly timeless is the zither music score of Anton Karas, a bizarre accompaniment to the dark story that serves as a brilliant contradiction to what is being seen on screen.
The story of The Third Man slides along like smooth gin down the back of one’s throat as characters, plot and mood meander and brood along cobblestone streets and slither down dark alleys in an intoxicated state. Heavy drinking hack writer Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten, doing an excellent Americanized riff on Graham Greene himself) arrives in post WWII occupied Vienna to meet up with his old pal Harry Lime (Orson Welles) only to find that Lime is reportedly dead, the police (headed by a perfectly cold Trevor Howard) don’t seem to care, and Lime’s charming broken-hearted mistress (Alida Valli, perfect as another Greene archetype) has been left behind. Of course, Martins can’t leave well enough alone as conspiracy, murder, unrequited romance, and political intrigue ensue. Welles benefits greatly from being talked about for most of the film and appearing mostly in shadows spare for two scenes: the famous ferris wheel speech, and a climatic chase beneath the streets of Vienna through Gothic sewers. His top hap, dark suit, and crooked smile are the stuff of film legend.
The side characters, however, are what make The Third Man such a rich, rewarding experience. We’re treated to small glimpses into the mindsets of varying people ranging from a British officer obsessed with American Western dime-store novels (of which Martins claims his fame) to an Austrian landlady eternally wrapped in a quilt going on and on in her foreign tongue as international police constantly raid her building and harass her tenants. The brilliance is that one needs no subtitles to understand her frustration. These added layers of character and thoughtful detail, hallmarks of Greene, set The Third Man in a class above the rest of film noir from the late 1940’s era.
Make no mistake, The Third Man is arguably one of the most finely crafted films ever made. One’s preference towards noir and Greene’s world-view will shape how much one actually enjoys the film. For the sheer fact it has held up so well over the decades and has clearly influenced so many great films that came after it, its repeated rankings as one of the greatest motion pictures ever made can not be denied. With a good stiff drink in hand, and Graham Greene’s collection dog-eared on my bookshelf, The Third Man is undoubtedly now one of my favorite films. Reed’s closing shot of a tree-lined street along a cemetery and Joseph Cotten leaning against a car smoking a cigarette while Alida Valli walks right past him with that zither music score playing is one that has left an indelible mark on my memory and enriched my love of film as art.
The futureworld of The Zero Theorem is so chaotic, gaudy, aggressively high-tech, and lonely—and not much of a stretch from where we’re heading—that it’s no wonder Qohen Leth (Christoph Waltz) wants to stay indoors permanently. The Gollum-like Qohen (that’s Co-hen)—all neuroses and no hair, and even prone to referring to himself as “we”—is a corporate number cruncher so skilled that he is granted permission to work from home, a cavernous former church he shares with pigeons, rats, and many layers of dust, tasked with solving the unsolvable title equation, pertaining to the meaning of life.
But, as it turns out, there’s not much peace to be had in Qohen’s hideaway either. This empty, socially inept man’s world—both real and virtual—is regularly disrupted by a collection of amusing weirdos, including, most notably, his weaselly superior (David Thewlis) and the big boss’s obnoxious yet ultra-likeable genius teenage son (Lucas Hedges) who’s sent in to assist Qohen. (The considerable screen chemistry between Waltz and Hedges makes for some of the film’s best scenes.) The women, however, don’t fare quite so well: Mélanie Thierry as the “love interest” is relegated to looking like a human sex doll, while Tilda Swinton, playing “odd” yet again, is cringe-worthy as Qohen’s invasive digital psychiatrist.
The Zero Theorem is very much a Terry Gilliam film: fantastical, kooky, occasionally sloppy, but with a big brain and a beating heart. And like most of his work, it won’t appeal to all, but its unmistakable passion makes it well worth the while.
It’s taken me exactly a year to go from Dark Star to Starman in my survey of John Carpenter’s career. At this rate, I’ll be at Escape From L.A.by this time in 2018. The timing works out on this one, however. There’s no “winter holiday” Carpenter movie — no, The Thing doesn’t count, that’s a “winter” movie — but Starman is as cheerful and uplifting a science-fiction tale as Carpenter has ever turned out, so it feels right for December.
Starman has quite the long history behind it. The script was in development at Columbia back in 1980 and went through a round-robin of writers. Columbia had the opportunity to do the Spielberg project that would eventually turn into E.T., but turned it down in favor of Starman — a decision the studio would come to regret when E.T. became the highest-grossing movie in history during the Summer of 1982 (when it squashed a certain other alien visitor movie).
The mega success of E.T. caused director John Badham to abandon Starman because he thought it was too similar to Spielberg’s movie. (Badham went on to direct WarGames, so that worked out.) Many other directors were on the film at one time or another — Adrian Lynne, Mark Rydell, Tony Scott, Peter Hyams — but John Carpenter had the pitch that stood out: film it as a love story/road movie in the classic Hollywood vein. Like It Happened One Night, but with an alien. Carpenter wanted to show he had the directing chops to tackle a different type of material. He was also still wounded over the poor reception of The Thing and wanted to deliver a hit for a big studio.
And thus we have a John Carpenter film for the whole family! Which is odd enough on its own.
The Story
Advanced extraterrestrials discover space probe Voyager II and choose to answer humanity’s invitation to “come and see us sometime,” as inscribed on the probe’s audio-visual disc. An alien observation ship heads to Earth, but the U.S. Air Force knocks it from its planned course so it crashes in rural Wisconsin. The disembodied alien aboard takes on the human shape of Scott Hayden (Jeff Bridges), the recently deceased husband of lonely Jenny Hayden (Karen Allen), by using DNA from a lock of Scott’s hair.
Jenny’s reaction to the physical resurrection of her husband with an extraterrestrial’s mind is… complex. She agrees to drive Starman-Scott to Arizona for a rendezvous with a ship from his homeworld. At first she acts out of fear, but later because she’s genuinely falling in love with the being in Scott’s shape — and she knows his body will die unless he makes the rendezvous. Their cross-country trip must stay ahead of pursuit by the police, a curious SETI scientist (Charles Martin Smith), and an aggressive National Security Agency director (Richard Jaeckel) who isn’t interested in giving the alien the “friendly reception” promised on Voyager 2’s golden disc.
The Positives
Starman is a sweet, lyrical movie that has aged beautifully. It’s Carpenter’s most humanist film, the opposite of the invasion paranoia and frigid horror of The Thing. But Starman isn’t Carpenter attempting to do a karaoke E.T. or imitate Spielberg, even considering the background of the project. No one else could’ve made Starman the way Carpenter did. E.T. is a science-fiction fable about childhood. Starman is a science-fiction fable about adulthood, realized as a road movie. It’s also a beautiful and complex romance about love rediscovered and hope overcoming morbidity and the human tendency to cynicism. Yes, overcoming cynicism in a John Carpenter film!
In short, this is probably the only John Carpenter film you can show to your Great Aunt Betty. Or to any other relatives who just don’t get out to movies that often. It’s a four-quadrant film — the only one in the director’s career.
It’s astonishing/aggravating how the 1980s shrugged off the brilliance of Jeff Bridges. It wasn’t until the late 1990s that the entertainment world stopped taking him for granted as merely a handsome actor who had an almost proverbial trouble landing roles in hit movies. Starman is a perfect case of this: although he was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor that year, Bridges not only didn’t win, he didn’t experience a major career boost from the nomination. Starman was only a moderate success in 1984, which didn’t help, and people seem to have forgotten Bridges was even nominated for the movie.
Bridges’s Best Actor nomination is the only time any Carpenter film got an Oscar nod. (“What, The Thing wasn’t nominated for special effects?” you’re shouting. Nope, it wasn’t. Don’t shoot the messenger.) Bridges lost to F. Murray Abraham for Amadeus. I can’t complain much about this because Jeff Bridges eventually won an Oscar for Crazy Heart in 2009, Abraham was superb in Amadeus, and Bridges has never been anything but thankful for the career he’s had. (“I couldn’t of dreamed it being any cooler than it is,” he said in a 2009 interview.) But given all that, if I were an Academy voter in 1984, I’d definitely cast my vote for Jeff Bridges. Because he’s just amazing in Starman.
Bridges as Starman-Scott is immediately impressive for the unusual physicality the actor invests in the part. Viewers are continually reminded through even the smallest gestures (oh, that nutty smile!) that this is an alien creature trying to figure out the most basic workings of the human body and human communication. Just watching Starman attempt to navigate eating Dutch apple pie feels like a full acting course. There’s also tons of great humor from the character quirks, with gags that Terminator 2: Judgment Day would later recycle as Starman-Scott fumbles with colloquialisms and gestures like “Take it easy,” and “Up yours.” My favorite of these comedy bits is when Starman-Scott nearly gets him and Jenny killed on a railroad track because he learned the wrong lesson about driving from watching her: “Red light stop, green light go, yellow light go very fast.”
But what Bridges achieves with the role is bigger than odd tics and a physical sense of the alien. He shows Starman-Scott evolve over a few days from an entity that terrifies Jenny into a person she loves deeply, and not only because he resembles her deceased husband. Starman is an alien moving toward human — but also toward something better than human and better than his species, as he indicates his and Jenny’s son will be. His wordless resurrection of Jenny inside the trailer is a powerhouse moment for Bridges where he shows the key point of alien and human merging. (He never tells Jenny that he brought her back from death, a subtle but wonderful addition to the character.)
It takes two to make a romance story work, of course. Thankfully, Karen Allen delivers her career-best performance as Jenny Hayden. (Sorry, Raiders of the Lost Ark.) Starman-Scott may be the flashiest part, but Jenny is the main character who goes through the change from a woman burnt-out early in life by the loss of a loved one to a woman reborn with hope for the future. The role is an incredibly challenging one, putting the strain of a constant tug-of-war of emotions on Allen as she reacts to the bizarre actions and potential danger from an alien wearing the form of the recently deceased love of her life. That’s plenty for an actor to unpack in each scene, and Allen goes on an incredible emotional road trip along with the physical one. Trying to explain the meaning of love to Starman-Scott in the diner, right as she’s making another plan to escape from him, is one of the tear-jerking highlights. But it’s the scene aboard the train, where Starman-Scott tells her she will have his baby, that contains Allen’s finest moments. It’s also the best scene in the film, lovingly crafted in a way I’d wager most people in Hollywood would never have expected from John Carpenter.
Although still missing photographer Dean Cundey (Donald M. Morgan repeats from Christine), Carpenter lenses some amazing outdoor sequences using the open spaces of Middle America as a canvas. It’s the most visually wide-open film he ever shot. I’m used to complimenting Carpenter and his cinematographers for doing impressive work with the widescreen format in enclosed and dark spaces. Here’s the opposite: Carpenter having the opportunity to shoot a movie like a John Ford epic Western. He even gets to use Monument Valley!
Starman is my pick for the best score to a John Carpenter film not composed or co-composed by John Carpenter. Producer Michael Douglas convinced Carpenter to let Jack Nitzsche score the film, based on Douglas’s previous work with Nitzsche on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Nitzsche’s all-electronic score has some striking similarities to Carpenter’s own work (I think he paid close attention to the director’s musical style) but it develops enough of a separate identity. The main theme, a soaring love piece, is an exemplar of how mid-1980s composers were discovering ways to create vast electronic soundscapes. (See also: Vangelis.)
The only Carpenter Acting Company regular to pop up is Buck Flower, who plays a short-order cook who gives Starman-Scott a ride after the alien feels he’s putting Jenny in too much danger. It’s one of the funniest scenes, as the cook finds its surprisingly easy to chat with Starman-Scott’s odd handling of conversations:
Cook: What’s your line?
Starman-Scott: Line?
Cook: Work. Whaddya do when you’re not hitching rides?
Starman-Scott: Oh, I make maps.
Cook: Make any money?
Starman-Scott: [pause] I make maps.
Cook: Well, you don’t get rich cookin’ either!
At one hour and fifty-five minutes, Starman is John Carpenter’s longest movie. Think about that: nineteen movies on his resumé and none even reached the two-hour mark. That’s incredible, and it says plenty about what an efficient filmmaker and tight storyteller Carpenter is.
The Negatives
I don’t have much to say against Starman. As a gentle science-fiction romance, it’s nearly perfect. Yet … it’s never my first choice when I’m looking to rewatch a John Carpenter film. There’s so much to love about it, but it doesn’t engage me on the same level that even some ostensibly lesser entries in the Carpenter filmography do.
As I talked about above, this isn’t a sell-out movie or Carpenter trying to imitate a recent hit. This is no work-for-hire paycheck gig like Memoirs of an Invisible Man. But it feels like something Carpenter needed to do at least once so he could get back to the suspense, cynicism, and violent weirdness that are his specialty; the films of his that are endlessly rewatchable. Starman is an interesting detour for Carpenter, as well as a good film to share with non-fans and family members who don’t want to watch gang members murder a little girl, an “action adventure comedy Kung-Fu ghost story monster movie,” or a satirical/political allegory about alien invaders that also contains a prolonged wrestling scene. Just writing those descriptions explains a lot about why I love John Carpenter’s movies — and why I feel a touch removed from Starman.
One actual criticism I have is that the government/science sections of the story with scientist Mark Shermin and military blowhard George Fox are less developed than the road trip romance sections. The seamless split between these similar halves of the narrative that Spielberg achieved in Close Encounters of the Third Kind with Roy Neary’s collapsing family on one side and Lacombe’s quest on the other doesn’t occur here. The movie loses a bit of its momentum whenever it shifts away from its central couple.
Charles Martin Smith gives Mark Shermin personality, but there’s not much to the character on the page and his impact on events is minimal. The trimming down of the military, political, and SF aspects of the story to center more on the romance only really inflict damage to the movie in this case: it seems as if Shermin should have a larger role and much more to say about who and what the alien visitor is. His only encounter with Starman-Scott is a short one; I would’ve enjoyed a few additional minutes of exchange between them to learn more about Starman’s view of humanity and what drives Shermin.
The Pessimistic Carpenter Ending
Not applicable! This is as optimistic as Carpenter films come, leaving Jenny Hayden on Earth with her life renewed and the gift of a child from both her husband and the Starman — a child who shall become a teacher. You won’t find as optimistic a quote in the Carpenter canon as Starman’s observation on humanity: “Shall I tell you what I find beautiful about you? You are at your very best when things are worst.”
Like every young anime fan, you relied on Reddit, Tumblr, or YouTube as your source of information when looking for new anime to watch; in particular, I was a fan of the ultraviolent Wicked City-type films. No one in my sphere of influence watched anime like that, but as a person who was raised young on 80s ultraviolent action flicks and cheesy slasher flicks. Most anime I watched did not scratch that itch I had. One day, while browsing YouTube, I saw a recommendation from my favorite anime reviewer. He just made a review on a little film named Jin Roh: The Wolf Brigade, a hidden late 90s gem that almost nobody talked about.
Jin Roh: The Wolf Brigade was released in Japan on June 3rd, 2000, and did not hit America until it was licensed by Bandai Entertainment and Viz Media for an English release, hitting theaters on May 25th, 2001. The Film chronologically is the third film in Mamoru Oshiis Kerberos Saga beginning in 1987. The Kerberos Saga ranges through various installments, such as live-action films, radio dramas, an original manga run, and a feature-animated film.
When I first experienced the film for myself, I was upset that something this beautiful felt hidden and almost forgotten by mainstream anime fans nowadays. However, my opinion changed when I showed my friends the film; rewatching it with new viewers fresh for the experience made me realize why Jin Roh is such an underrated gem in the first place.
Based on Mamoru Oshii’s original manga Kerberos Panzer Cop. Jin Roh takes place in an alternate timeline. Set in an alternate 1950s Japan, where after World War 2, Germany won the war, occupied Japan, and eventually denazified, leaving the country in economic and political ruin. The film follows Kazuki Fuse. A member of the Capital Police menacing paramilitary unit nicknamed Kerberos equipped with MG-42 machine guns and specialized nightmare-inducing Protect Gear that looks straight from a sci-fi movie.
We follow Fuse as he is embroiled in a web of political intrigue and personal turbulence after failing to stop a member of the terrorist group known as The Sect from detonating satchel charges that cause a blackout. The incident damages Kerberos’ reputation. Fuse, deeply haunted by guilt, is reprimanded for failing to stop the bomber and sent back to basic training for re-evaluation. Fuse, still remorseful, visits the courier’s grave, meets Kei Amemiya, a woman who claims to be the courier’s older sister, and develops a friendship. However, Kei is eventually revealed not to be the suicide bomber’s sister but a former member of the Sect who is being used as a pawn by the Capital Police to discredit Kerberos and disband the unit once and for all.
Jin Roh is unlike other anime like Akira or Ghost in the Shell, but it is as influential as the two. However, the film does not bombard the senses with a visual feast for the viewer. Even though many animators, including the director, worked on anime such as Paranoia Agent, Evangelion, Patlabor 2, and so on, the real magic comes in its sound design and soundtrack.
It is something you’ll quickly come to appreciate. The film’s attention to realism and subtlety in its sound design helps create a realistic environment; it’s purposeful and not distracting. Things sound squishy when they should; Fuze reassembling his MG-42 sounds real and so damn crisp to the ear; even the sound of a Molotov hitting the ground shows the care and level of detail that went into making every sound heard realistic.
I’m not discrediting the visuals because what you see visually is also curated and adds to the experience. Characters are distinct, and the world is visually stunning; on my second viewing, I realized I never noticed most of the weapons, uniforms, and vehicles seen are German or German-influenced. The Mauser C96 is the Kerberos standard sidearm. Capitol Police are seen carrying MP40s, and when Fuse is sent back to basic for training, we see members of the unit training with Sturmgewehr 44 rifles. It is what makes this film so distinct. There’s noticeable love and attention to detail carefully considered when developing the movie. I never understood why it was so underrated until I rewatched it with my friends. Watching the emotional roller coaster, my friends went on made me realize something. Jin Roh is meant to be a rainy-day film.
It should be a hidden gem. It’s a cozy watch, especially with the soundtrack composed by Hajime Mizoguchi in collaboration with Yoko Kanno. Even though the soundtrack is used sparsely compared to other films, it hits. There’s not a punch pulled when it comes to composing the soundtrack. It is orgasmic. It is why even though the film may not be as acclaimed as Akira, it’s memorable. And that’s what the legacy of this movie is supposed to be. Jin Roh is a memorable viewing experience.
While scenes can feel like they drag, they serve a purpose. The movie doesn’t care about your expectations as a viewer; hell, within the opening scene and throughout the film, it makes it a matter of fact. Surprisingly going as far as spoiling how the film will end with visual clues and off-screen exposition. It’s something sprinkled throughout with imagery of wolves or that Fuse figuratively and almost literally being a wolf.
The scene in the sewers with the wolf brigade still gives me chills. It is revealed the wolf brigade has been fully aware of the Public Security plan and used it as an opportunity to flush out those trying to eliminate the unit. Fuse himself is a deep-cover operative. Well aware of what’s going on. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. It is even more heartbreaking in the end. Just like the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf devoured Little Red Riding Hood. Fuse, distraught, realizes he has no other choice and kills Kei, cleaning up all loose ends.
Jin Roh on the surface, may be boring to some, or the use of the wolf and little red riding hood may be pretentious to others. Except, it is safe to say that is purely personal bias. Jin Roh is a stunning film. I encourage any anime fan who has not graced their screens with the movie, should. It should be watched and celebrated with other great pieces of animation. As the sea of new anime rises. Gems like Jin Roh are bound to be forgotten or passed over. The next time you are looking for a visually stunning; masterfully made; and well-curated film, watch Jin Roh: The Wolf Brigade. You won’t regret it.
To call “Santa Sangre” (1989) a horror film would be unjust to a film that exists outside all categories. But in addition to its deeper qualities, it is a horror film, one of the greatest, and after waiting patiently through countless Dead Teenager Movies, I am reminded by Alejandro Jodorowsky that true psychic horror is possible on the screen–horror, poetry, surrealism, psychological pain and wicked humor, all at once.
The movie involves the perverse emotional and physical enslavement of a son by his mother–a control all the more macabre when we learn, late in the film, the secret of its actual nature. It is also about an instinctive hatred between characters representing lust and chastity, which are both seen as perversions in a world without a sane middle way. This bold subject matter is orchestrated by Jodorowsky in a film that inspires critics to make lists, calling it Jungian, surrealistic, Felliniesque, Bunuelian, sadomasochistic, expressionist and strongly flavored by such horror classics as “The Beast With Five Fingers,” “The Hands of Orlac” and the film that guides the hero’s fantasies, “The Invisible Man.”
The story involves Fenix, the boy magician at the Circus Gringo, a shabby touring show in Mexico. Played by two of Jodorowsky’s sons (Adan at about 8, Axel at about 20), Fenix is the child of the beautiful trapeze artist Concha (Blanca Guerra) and the bloated circus owner and knife-thrower Orgo (Guy Stockwell). Always at Fenix’s side is the dwarf Aladin (Jesus Juarez), who acts as his assistant and moral support.
The little magician’s best friend is Alma (Faviola Elenka Tapia and, when older, Sabrina Dennison). She is a deaf-mute mime, the daughter of the carnal Tattooed Woman (Thelma Tixou), who works as the target for Orgo’s knives. One night when Concha is suspended above the circus ring by her hair, she sees Orgo caressing the Tattooed Lady and screams to be brought back to earth. In a rage, she surprises them in bed and throws acid on Orgo’s genitals. Bellowing with pain, he severs her arms with mighty thrusts of two knives. Then he kills himself, the acid having rendered him uninteresting to women tattooed and otherwise.
Concha’s mutilation is a cruel irony: She is the leader of a cult of women who worship a saint whose arms were cut off by rapists. Their church contains a pool of blood, no doubt suggesting menstrual fluid (Concha’s name is Mexican slang for the vagina); its members wear tunics with crossed, severed arms. When authorities arrive to bulldoze the church, there is a clash between the women and the police, and then a shouting match between Concha and the local monsignor, she screaming that the pool contains holy blood, he replying that it is red paint.
The bulldozing reveals the shabby construction of the church, mostly made of corrugated iron and possibly reflecting the film’s limited budget. If Jodorowsky’s funds were limited, however, his imagery and imagination are boundless, and this movie thrums with erotic and diabolical energy. Consider the scene where the circus elephant dies after hemorrhaging from its trunk. In a funeral both sad and funny, the beast’s great coffin is hauled by truck to a ravine and tipped over the edge–to the delight of wretched shanty-dwellers, who rip open the casket and throw bloody elephant meat to the crowd. An image like this is one of the reasons we go to the movies: It is logical, illogical, absurd, pathetic, and sublimely original. For Alejandro Jodorowsky, all in a day’s work.
Now 74 and at work on his first film in 14 years, Jodorowsky is a legendary man of many trades. Born in Chile, living mostly in Mexico and Paris, he works here in English, which has been imperfectly dubbed; oddly enough, the oddness of the dubbing adds to the film’s eerie quality.
Jodorowsky has occupied the edges of the arts. He was a clown and puppeteer, studied under the mime Marcel Marceau, filmed a mime version of Thomas Mann’s play “The Transposed Heads,” was a friend of the surrealist Arrabal, and is, in his own words, a “very famous comic-strip artist,” the author of graphic novels that have become legendary.
He is also the author of the legendary cult film “El Topo” (1970), which was both saved and doomed by John Lennon. Saved, because Lennon admired it so much, he asked his manager, Allen Klein, to buy and distribute it. Doomed, because after the film became a worldwide sensation (Jodorowsky told me in 1989) “Klein made it disappear. He says, ‘I am waiting until you die, and then I am going to have a fortune.’ He thinks he’s immortal. If he dies first, I get the film back.” So far, both men are still alive and “El Topo” is not available on video.
Jodorowsky’s visionary world owes much to the surrealists, but even more to the quirky films that Luis Bunuel made during his Mexican exile, films showing men quietly obsessed with the details of their fetishes. Fenix, his hero, is literally a man whose world is defined by his obsessions. The witness to his mother’s mutilation and his father’s suicide, he is in an insane asylum when the film opens, perched atop a tree trunk. When he returns to the world, it is to play the role of his mother’s arms and hands. He walks behind her, slips his arms through the sleeves of her garments and feeds her, plays the piano, gestures, and even caresses her body as if it is his own. Axel Jodorowsky and Blanca Guerra do this with such perfect timing that the hands seem to sense the next thought of the mother. But Fenix has no identity except as her instrument, which is why “The Invisible Man” appeals so strongly.
The first half of the film is filled with Felliniesque exuberance, celebrating the circus with its tawdry charms and sad clowns. The second half is somber and creepy, as in a scene where Fenix and four young men with Down syndrome are taken on a movie outing that ends (not unhappily) with cocaine and a visit to the red-light district.
Fenix eventually moves with his mother into a house where timbers lean everywhere at crazy angles for no apparent reason, except to evoke expressionism. And here he begins his revolt. As his mother jealously uses his hands to kill one woman after another, he recruits a muscular giantess who will be able, he thinks, to fight off any attack.
This giantess is pretty clearly a man in drag, but the movie makes no notice of that fact, and indeed many oddities pass unremarked, including the omnipresent doves and the ability of the Tattooed Lady, the dwarf and the deaf-mute girl to materialize in Fenix’s life when and how he needs them. All is finally made clear at the end, revealing how fearlessly Jodorowsky has married magic realism to Freud, in a film that is like a shriek against Momism.
Of course the movie is rated NC-17. I believe more horror films should be made for adults, so that they are free to deal with true malevolence in the world, instead of retailing the pornography of violence without consequences. A generation is growing up that equates violence with action, instead of with harm. Not long ago “The Exorcist” was re-released and some young moviegoers laughed all the way through it. A society that laughs at evil eventually laughs at good, and then it loses its way.
The quality that Jodorowsky has above all is passionate sincerity. Apart from his wildly creative style, apart from his images, apart from his story inventions, he has strong moral feelings. He has an instinctive sympathy for Fenix, who was born into a world of fanaticism and cruelty, and has tried, with the help of a deaf girl and a dwarf, to get back the soul that was warped by his father and trapped by his mother. Maybe one difference between great horror films and all the others is that the great ones do not celebrate evil, but challenge it.
Metropia is a stranger film than the average dystopia. With a visual design that would be appropriate for 1984 and its depiction of a Europe connected by a vast subway complex called The Metro and a plot that includes a biological mind control device disseminated by shampoo, Metropia is definitely a unique experience.
Roger [voiced by Vincent Gallo] is a drone who works at Supercall, the mother of all telemarketing/tech help companies. He lives in a shabby apartment with his exotic looking girlfriend, Anna [Sofia Hein], and rides a bike to work because he doesn’t trust the Metro. The Sweden in which he lives is a grey, grey place – as is all of Europe, we learn over the course of the film. He is as normal/unremarkable as a person can get. His biggest fantasy is to meet the model for the shampoo that, unbeknownst to him, has left his thoughts open to the ominous Trexx corporation.
Being as normal as he is, Roger is startled to realize that he’s hearing voices – or rather a voice – in his head. Freaked, he manages to finish his shift and get home. The next morning, he has to take The Metro to work – someone has trashed his bike. In the station, he spies the woman from the shampoo. He follows her. She is Nina [Juliette Lewis] and she not only confronts him, she seems to know about the voice in head! She also seems to know what to do about that.
Metropia is a great looking film. The animation – like some absurd CG hybrid of Terry Gilliam’s more fluid cutout work and Gerry Anderson’s Supermarionation – is extremely well done and carries the story as well as setting a very specific mood. Director/co-writer [with Stig Larsson and Frederik Edin] Tarik Saleh keeps things to a very deliberate pace for most of the film, with only a few moments of accelerated action.
Considering the number of people who worked on the script [comparatively few for an animated film], the story seems to be pretty skeletal. Everything moves, more or less, in a single direction and [with only a couple of exceptions] at a single pace – and the film doesn’t quite hang together.
The biggest problem has to be that Roger hears that voice in his head, but is still able to do whatever he wants – which makes him unique in a world of people whose lives are seemingly controlled by others. It’s never explained why this should be – and there’s no real reason for Nina to take him bed, either. Roger is such an unremarkable guy that the film might have worked better had she used her sexuality to get him to do what she wanted with just the promise of sex as a motivator. Still, Gallo’s washed out vocal performance as Roger is spot on, as is Lewis’ turn as Nina. If we buy them, then we buy the film – and they work.
Some of the best moments of the film come with the CEO of Trexx, Ivan Bahn [Udo Kier] explains to investors just how the company works – and how the shampoo figures in the company’s bottom line. His demonstration of the effects of the shampoo –on a Texan named Wayne Marshall [Indy Neidell] – is particularly effective.
Metropia may be flawed, but it’s still quite the visual feast, and definitely worth a look.
Without a doubt, the majority of the reviews of Amores Perros, the acclaimed debut feature from Mexican filmmaker Alejandro González Iñárritu, will, at one time or another, invoke Pulp Fiction. There are undeniable similarities, although most of them are at the surface level. Amores Perros, like Quentin Tarantino’s Oscar-nominated opus, deals with men and women who live on the seedy side of life. The plot unravels episodically and in a non-linear fashion, with characters from one segment occasionally appearing in, or passing through, another. However, one of Pulp Fiction‘s trademarks was to glamorize the gangster – to make the traditional “bad guy” seem hip and interesting. This was done through clever dialogue and stylish filmmaking techniques. In Amores Perros, criminals are not romanticized. They are exposed for what they are – human beings whose moral compasses have become twisted. So, although the territory may be familiar to viewers of Pulp Fiction, the vantage point is radically different.
Amores Perros introduces us to a veritable Rogues Gallery of individuals. Of the seven or eight significant characters traversing Iñárritu’s terrain, only one could be considered sympathetic. The others comprise a web of corruption and deceit. There are hit men, murderers, philanderers, thieves, betrayers, and other assorted riff-raff. Tarantino’s anti-heroes are cool and suave, with always the right one-liner to offer. Iñárritu’s are brutal and lacking even a modicum of charisma.
The first two we meet are Octavio (Gael García Bernal) and Susana (Vanessa Bauche). She’s his sister-in-law, but that doesn’t stem his ardor for her, and, because he treats her with a degree of kindness that her brutish husband, Ramiro (Marco Pérez), never shows, she can’t help but be attracted to him. Octavio is determined to make enough money so that he and Susana can run away together (along with her infant son), but, in Mexico City, where poverty abounds, clean money is hard to find. Ramiro’s meager income as a grocery store clerk is supplemented by convenience store hold ups, but that’s not a path Octavio is interested in taking. Instead, he decides to get involved in dog fighting, and he’s fortunate to own a real winner. But, once Ramiro finds out about his little brother’s windfall, he wants a piece of the action, and all of Octavio’s carefully laid plans are put in jeopardy.
Meanwhile, a couple of rungs higher on the social ladder are Daniel (Álvaro Guerrero) and Valeria (Goya Toledo). She’s a world-class model who has hit the big time. Her face and body are plastered all over billboards throughout Mexico City. He’s a magazine publisher who has left his wife and two children to be with her. Together, they make the perfect couple – young, good-looking, and in love – until tragedy strikes. Valeria is seriously injured in a car accident and Daniel must cope with living with a mentally and physically crippled woman whose modeling career is at an end. Suddenly, the rosy life he envisioned reeks of decay.
Finally, there’s Chivo (Emilio Echevarría), a mysterious, wild-looking figure who hovers around the periphery of the other stories until his tale is finally told. Chivo is an ex-guerilla who abandoned his wife and daughter for The Cause. Now, many years later, he lives with regrets. He spies on his adult child from afar, never having the courage to approach her, while he takes odd jobs as a hit man to feed himself and his small menagerie of mangy dogs. But, when Chivo is hired by one brother to kill another over money, he arrives at a few realizations about the importance of family.
The dogs in this film are almost as important as the humans. Canines feature prominently in all three stories. Octavio makes his fortune by fighting dogs. Valerie loves her pooch more than a child (and, one might argue, more than Daniel). And Chivo treats his animals with greater respect than he accords to any human. By elevating dogs to this level of importance, Iñárritu is making a statement about the level to which society has descended. It’s a sad commentary about a culture where individuals care more about dogs than other human beings.
Amores Perros‘ timeline is not linear. It curves back on itself, but not in a manner that is intended to confound the audience. The film begins with an pivotal occurrence that happens half-way through the movie, then proceeds to show events that lead up to that moment, and, later, what happens afterwards. Chivo’s story plays out in the background for most of the film, until, during the final forty-five minutes, it is brought to the fore while the other tales are wrapped up on the periphery. Iñárritu’s approach isn’t unique, but it is unusual, and it’s one of the elements that will keep viewers involved in Amores Perros from beginning to end.
Iñárritu has surrounded himself with a strong cast. Veteran Emilio Echevarría is magnetic as Chivo, with blazing eyes staring out from beneath bushy eyebrows. They are the eyes of a fanatic, but there’s also a sense of almost unspeakable loss in them as they gaze in the direction of his daughter. Álvaro Guerrero brings a youthful energy to the part of Octavio, and Goya Toledo is suitably fragile and spoiled as the model who is used to having the world bow down in front of her. In fact, there isn’t a weak performance to be found throughout the movie; even the trained dogs do solid jobs.
Amores Perros has won an impressive number of awards in film festivals across the globe. Watching the film, it’s not hard to understand why. Iñárritu’s style contains elements of Tarantino, Peckinpah, and others, but, ultimately, the synthesis is all his own. Even though there’s really no one in this film we can like, root for, or sympathize with, the intricacies of the narrative and the its themes are strong enough to ensure that we will not lose interest. Amores Perros is more than just a strong debut; it’s good, gritty filmmaking.
After the Crash 