Sukiyaki Western Django

At first there were American Westerns. Then there were Spaghetti Westerns (Westerns made in Italy). And now, choosing an equally stereotypical genre name, there are Sushi Westerns.

Takashi Miike's Sukiyaki Western Django is the Sushi Western. The plot of the movie is that there are two rival clans, the Red and the White, battling for control of a town and the hidden treasure the town supposedly contains. In enters a stranger, a Man With No Name, if you will, offering his services as a sharp shooter and treasure seeker to which ever side will reward him more handsomely.

This stranger, however, is not really the main story line of the film. The main story line, of which there are a few, and the most interesting one in my opinion, is that of a woman from the White clan who had married and had a child with a Red clan member. For the betrayal to the clan, the leader of the Reds took out the husband, with his wife and son present to witness it, and the wife consequently returns to the White clan in a plot to exact her revenge. When all-out war erupts between the two sides, the wife, her son and the husband's mother try to flee the town but are dragged into the battle at a dire price.

Solid performances are all around in the film, but especially but the main characters of this particular story line. There is such pain and hardship suffered by the mother and son that it's almost impossible not to root for them, and they're probably the only characters in the film worth rooting for. The other characters in the film are pretty cool and badass, but the mother and son are truly sympathetic, and I only wish there had been more of them in the film.

Considering that the film features Quentin Tarantino as a bit player, who is also a friend of Miike's, it's no surprise that the film takes influences from so many diverse places and piles them together. Japanese influences, such as samurai films like those of the great Akira Kurosawa, and Japanese anime, are spliced together with the Western influences, especially the Spaghetti Western stylization of battle scenes and tense gun duels.

Even the language reflects the internationality of the film. It's a film with a Japanese director and writers, and aside from Tarantino the entire cast is Japanese, yet the film is made in English. Miike had directed the Masters of Horror episode "Imprint" in English, so he's familiar with directing in English. But, in that film, there was an American character, so there's a reason for it being spoken in English, and the strange accents added to the uneasiness of "Imprint," it being a horror movie after all. Here, that effect is not achieved; the film isn't really meant to make you uneasy. Instead you just wonder if the actors really knew what their dialogue meant or whether they were just taught how to pronounce the lines, particularly when they used Western jargon like "a day late and a dollar short." That doesn't mean that they're performances suffered--Ron Perlman did the same thing when he spoke French in The City of Lost Children and he was just fine in that film. But the language does add an awkwardness to the film that probably wouldn't have been there if it were made in Japanese.

The film is undeniably exciting and lavish. The art direction is superb; the mixing of the American West and Medieval Japan costumes was done very well, and the sets, from the painting of Mount Fuji in Tarantino's flashbacks to the ending showdown in the falling snow, were simply beautiful. Not to mention how simply cool the dramatized gun slinging and epic battle scenes were. Gatling guns, dynamite, and sword fights. Oh my!

Tarantino's films, that also take influences from everywhere and combine them, always seem to add to a nugget of intelligence, a philosophical idea that grounds the film and explains the characterization. It's why I have a great respect for his films. This one, however, doesn't seem to find that theme quite as well. There are messages toward the end of "shit happens," of living life without fear and dealing with whatever life throws at you. These are cool ideas that wrap up the movie nicely, but I wouldn't say they carry the film or press the action the same way the ideas in Kill Bill (or a similarly strong film) do.

Despite the film's lack of a strong philosophy, the film is still definitely worth seeing. The action sequences are epic, the costume design is really cool, and the film is just inherently watchable. As long as you don't expect a deep, moving film, the spectacle is a lot of fun.

Dead Man

    "You William Blake?"
    "Yes, I am. D'you know my poetry?"

Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man is a wonderful film about an accountant, played by Johnny Depp, who, after traveling cross country only to realize the job promised him is no longer there, embarks on a strange, meandering trek through the Old West with an outcast Native American, along the way murdering several people and discovering his spirit.

The films takes the best parts of the Western genre--the gun fights, the rugged freedom of the open wild--and adds into the mix a gothic, almost impressionistic style somewhat similar to Tim Burton's early films, or David Lynch's Eraserhead. One wouldn't think that a Western film would be well-suited by a gothic temperament, but Jarmusch makes it work impeccably.

The first technique Jarmusch uses to blend these genres is the photography. It's shot in shadowy black and white, and is at times even reminiscent of a 1930s horror flick, e.g. Dracula. But, that aesthetic is kept in balance with the beautiful landscapes of the Old West, and all the classic iconography of that time period--trains, six-shooters, saloons--and this balance allows both genres to shine through.

Also the music is excellent in supplying the mixed feel to the movie. Imagine a theme song reminiscent of Sergio Leone's "Man with No Name" films, but infused with an industrial-rock guitar riff and Native American-style drums. This type of soundtrack is again in keeping with both styles, and, much like Leone's The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, the music crescendos and absolutely captivates as the film reaches its climax.

 

This mixing of these two distinct styles brings a strange mood to the film. The gothic aspects of it bring somewhat of a sarcastic feel to the slow and subdued nature of the Western genre. The more "badass" moments of the film, like the quote given at the opening of this review, which Johnny Depp delivers before shooting two U.S. Marshals, are highlighted and stand out even more when they're delivered in contrast to the gothic palate. Both genres bring a new feel to the other, and they work together in a beautifully symbiotic relationship that's a lot of fun to watch.

Johnny Depp delivers a very good performance in the role of William Blake. Through the first fifteen minutes of the film I was afraid that I would be dealing with another spineless wimp like the one I dissected in my review of Brazil. But William Blake, from the instance of shooting Charlie Dickinson without hesitation, shows hints of an impetuousness, and a willingness to shoot back at his would-be assassins, that makes him a dynamic character. This is shown through the changes in Depp's wardrobe over the course of the film. He starts out in his "goddamn clown suit," as his perspective boss calls it, then he loses his jacket, giving him the look of a more rugged outlaw, then later he dons a majestic fur coat as he begins to come to terms with his spirituality, his connection with nature, and his fate.

The film is called "Dead Man," and Nobody, Blake's Indian side-kick, often speaks to Blake as if he were dead. So the question is: Is William Blake really dead. I'd say the answer is yes, but in the philosophical and spiritual sense. William Blake, to me, represents man's departure from a connection with Mother Earth, to which every other character in the film still doubtlessly clings. Blake is a quiet, unassuming accountant from Cleveland, but once he returns to the wild, he's drawn back into the world of Cowboys and Indians, of hunter and game, of cops and outlaws, of a respect for and a communion with all Nature has to offer. This is shown by everyone's asking of Blake if he has any tobacco, a symbol of Nature's attempt to help man connect with her, to which he constantly replies, "I don't smoke." As Nobody returns Blake to the realm of the spirits, he places an amount of tobacco in the canoe with him as he sends him off to where his spirit belongs.

A wonderful film full of beautiful photography and a wonderful cast, with supporting players from John Hurt to Robert Mitchum to Billy Bob Thornton to Iggy Pop to Lance Henriksen to Crispin Glover, Dead Man is a film not to be missed.

Brazil

Brazil is Terry Gilliam's visually-striking sci-fi classic about a man, Sam Lowry, who rebels against the overbearing bureaucracy for which he works to save the love of his life--and himself--from being black-bagged by the Ministry of Information and forced to be overcharged for his interrogation. The film is chock full of beautiful set design, nice themes and excitement. That being said, the film has its flaws.

The most persistent flaw in the film would be the main character. Sam Lowry is a pitiful, pathetic man, his life ruled by his rich, domineering mother and shitty job. When his mother pulls some strings and gets him a promotion, he (at first) turns it down; even when given the chance to be somebody, he chooses to remain nobody. When he begins to rebel against the system, he's doing so out of some misplaced love for a woman he barely knows from his dreams (and even her character doesn't have a whole lot of meat on her bones). He doesn't initiate the rebellion; it's thrust upon him. And even then, he's not really changed by it. He still remains quite wimpish and soft, never truly growing a spine or becoming the hero the film needs. He just goes along with the rebellion that the terrorists and Harry Tuttle have already set into motion. He's a passenger on the train, and not a conductor.

Sam Lowry ends up as another one of those characters who are so sheepish and unimportant to their world that you can't really feel any connection, let alone sympathy, for him. Others include Wikus Van De Merwe from District 9, Scott Pilgrim, and Alvy from Annie Hall. These films are very good visually and very clever, but if the only real sentiment that can be felt for the protagonist is "When is this douchebag gonna grow some balls and take control of his life?" then the film suffers. The stellar technical qualities of the film are therefore brought down, as they are used in narrative film making to enhance the storyline and the emotions felt for the characters, and they can't enhance emotions that aren't there in the first place.

For this type of character to actually be worth caring about, he or she has to show a willingness to take control of a situation. Lionel Cosgrove from Dead Alive is an example. A silly film, yes, but when Lionel kicks open the front door holding the lawnmower and declares "Party's Over!" he has grown from an indecisive dork into someone with cojones. He has become a man. But the other characters I listed, who don't experience this transformation, remain one-dimensional wimps not worthy of my sympathy.

Another problem I had with the film was its goof-ball comedy bits. This was Gilliam's first film after his Monty Python days, and a lot of that humor lingers over into Brazil. This is shown with the casting of Gilliam's M.P. writing partner Michael Palin. Sam's new manager at Information Retrieval and the bumbling repairmen who ruin Sam's apartment are perfect examples of the quirky, oddball kind of humor that pops up in the film here and there. These scenes don't really serve as comic relief, as the film isn't paced fast enough to require relief. And there isn't enough humor to really place the film in the realm of a satire. Instead these scenes hinder the film, making it feel too silly and not poignant enough at times. Because of the comedy, the film ends up lacking strength and a solid raison d'etre that its sci-fi peers, like Blade Runner and The Terminator, truly possess.

The film, however, does have its redeeming qualities that make the film worth watching at least once. Lowry's dream sequences are beautifully-photographed sublime metaphors, and the art direction, both in and out of the dream world, are beautiful and evocative. I especially like the nod to 30s noir, with the employees' suits and the playing of Casablanca on the malfunctioning computers. The commentary on bureaucracy is also nice, even though it's been said before. The ending torture sequence (and just to be clear this is a review of the Gilliam-approved Criterion director's cut; not the heavily-reworked "love conquers all" version) is wonderfully done, with plenty of style and bravery, and is incredibly evocative.

But as I alluded to earlier, if there isn't an emotional connection made with the protagonist of the film, the stunning visuals and exciting climax are more or less for naught. If I don't care what happens to him, I won't feel excited when he's running from the Ministry, down when he's tortured, et cetera. I can admire the photography for its superficial beauty, but I can't really feel the emotions the photography are meant to enhance because I don't care about the main character. Brazil is a film with truckloads of potential to be great that is squandered on a pencil-pushing dork.

Toy Story 3

Many reviewers have described Toy Story 3 and being a strong example of an anti-socialist, or anti-communist, or anti-anything-un-American propagandistic allegory. Many reviewers have done so sarcastically, though. I proceed without sarcasm, without jest, with total seriousness. Toy Story 3 is clearly all those things.

Barbie explains the message quite clearly: "Authority should derive from the consent of the governed, not from the threat of force." Woody, Buzz and the rest of our heroic crusaders are the flag-bearers of democracy, trying desperately to escape the throws of the oppressive, communistic dictator Lotso.

To explain the full depth and extent of the allegory I must take you through each representation one by one:

As I stated, our gang of heroes represent democracy, specifically American democracy, with their house with the white picket fence and the apple pie cooling in the window sill. The attic, to which the toys are slated to be moved once Andy (much more on him later) moves away, represents peaceful retirement, a heavenly condo in sunny Florida, the much preferred resolution to the trash or donation, a form of exile or abandonment from Andy.

Sunnyside Daycare represents a communist nation, a modern China, with Lotso as its outwardly loveable monarch. It appears pleasant at first, with all the toys living together in harmony. They don't have owners, but are very happy nonetheless. But once the toys are put in the Caterpillar room, and see the horror of their new environment, they wish for the safety and security of Andy and the house, and Lotso seems less like a Princess Diana, the "princess of the people," and something a little closer to a Mao or Stalin. The crates used to imprison our heroes, the Box, and the ever-vigilant, 1984-esque monkey who sees everything complete the metaphor. We're not at a daycare, we're in North Korea.

Along with the communism-versus-democracy symbolism necessarily comes the religious symbolism, which is perhaps the most pervasive metaphor in the film. Andy is God. It's indisputable. And any other owner is the God to his or her toys. Any toy without an owner--any toy at Sunnyside--is the godless communist that Joseph McCarthy taught us to fear and loathe over 60 years ago. As Woody puts it, "Daycare is a sad, lonely place for washed-up old toys who have no owners." Translated away from the metaphor, Woody is saying that "Communism is sad, lonely system for washed-up old people who have no God."

The toys, excluding Woody, only like the idea of daycare because they think they've thrown away and abandoned by Andy (God). Even Lotso was once a happy, carefree, upstanding democrat and believer. But, being abandoned and replace by his owner (God) was too much for him to bear, and so he comes to Sunnyside, takes it over, and rules it with an iron fist. Just watch the film again, specifically the scene above the dumpster, and replace and the words "kid," "owner," and any names of a kid, with "God" and see for yourself how nicely the metaphor fits.

If Andy and other tow owners are God, then their total abandonment, the dump, must represent Hell, a metaphor not too hard to decipher given the demonic, fiery glow of the garbage truck and incinerator. Even the hardened "atheist" Lotso appears to have a change of heart in the face of the hellfire, but his bitterness from the abandonment of his owner is still too much for him to bear, and allows the Christian toys to burn, asking "Where's your Kid (God) now?" At the last moment, of course, before our heroes are thrust through the gates of Hell, with our heroes holding hands for a would-be prayer, the deus ex machina of The Claw--for all intents and purposes the Hand of God--comes to rescue them.

Hints are all around the film, both subtle--"Andy" written on the shoes of all his toys like a Creator signing his work--and obvious--Woody landing in the college box next to Andy's New International Version bible. But, now that the curtain has been pulled back and the metaphor revealed, the question must now be asked what to make of it.

In any other film, specifically a live-action film made for an older audience, this kind of metaphor would have really bothered me. It would have been pandering to this country's patriotic audience, preaching to the choir of conservative Christian America, something not too hard or daring to do. But the fact that this occurs in a children's film is utterly intriguing. Most if not all of the symbolism will be missed by the film's target audience, and their parents will brush it aside, saying that it's just a kid's movie, as if a kid's movie is a place where propaganda cannot exist. So I'm left with an ambivalence; I still shake my fist at Pixar and the film's creators for taking the easy, pandering way out, but I credit them for taking advantage of a social loophole and putting their propaganda in a kid's movie, the one place no one would think to look. How dare you, Pixar! But Kudos.