Film reviews in 500 words or fewer

Tag: movie-review

  • Disappointing consummation: Haruhiko Arai’s ‘It Feels So Good’ (A review)

    Disappointing consummation: Haruhiko Arai’s ‘It Feels So Good’ (A review)

    I don’t often feel so strongly about narrative direction in films going the wrong way, because stories are expressions of creative freedom and I think the respectful way to go about it is a matter of preference (I did like it) and not of correctness. But that’s definitely what I felt after watching It Feels So Good, Haruhiko Arai’s 2019 banger of a film (pun definitely intended) about two former lovers who agreed to temporarily rekindle their passion before one of them set out to get married.

    There’s a lot to like about this film, not the least the depiction of sex, which was deftly acted by Tasuku Emoto and Kumi Takiuchi. I don’t usually go about seeking to watch erotic films, but I can say that the physical realism and believability of the intimacy scenes are some of the best I’ve seen in film. It’s not prestige sex of airbrushed skin and cheesy soft lighting—there’s a lot of humanity portraying the “messiness” of getting to and doing it, which adds to the carnal appeal of the scenes. Even so, nothing was gratuitous.

    And while the sex was very visual, the keyword that governs the viewing experience of intimacy is feeling. There’s the feeling of power that the woman has over the man. There’s the emphasis on rawer physical sensation, with the camera trained on whole bodies doing the act and faces contorted to unabashedly display pleasure.

    And despite the more controversial and taboo aspect of the sex (hint: “blood is thicker than water”), there’s pervading feeling of comfort of being with someone from your past that comes through to the viewer. Indeed, there’s a lot of nostalgia, both happy and wistful, in this movie: from memories of childhood, to memories of young adulthood in the city, to the devastating memory of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake.

    Which is to say: this film is a moving reflection of that great disaster from a very personal and intimate point of view. For the protagonists, their intimate reunion is a powerful affirmation of life, being alive, and perpetuating life after devastation. It initially felt jarring to me, but after watching this film, I now strongly feel that the 2011 Tohoku earthquake and the disaster it wrought is something that is deeply ingrained in the contemporary Japanese psyche in ways that much of the outside world hasn’t fully grasped yet. But this film showed how bodily convulsions and tectonic tremors can be combined in one potent narrative.

    Which leads me now to that unceremonious end to what could’ve been a 5-star film. It might be the obsession with disaster, but it truly seemed overkill that the film doubled down on an already effective message about its personal effects with an amateurish narrative turn.

    I can only liken it to the festival dance featured in the film, depicting the wandering spirits of the dead that cannot enter heaven—full spiritual consummation. The film was almost there towards a sensible resolution, but unlike the two protagonists many times in this film, it just didn’t come.

  • Villain, dir. Sang-il Lee (2010)

    Villain, dir. Sang-il Lee (2010)

    I want to begin by saying that it will not be difficult to point out who the namesake villain of the movie is if we base it on the efficient cause of what happened to the victim. If that’s the whole story, the film would’ve ended at about the halfway mark. Thankfully, Sang-il Lee’s 2010 Best Film awardee (Mainichi Awards and Kinema Junpo Awards) is not just about a villainy or even villainies, but so much more.

    On the surface, Villain is a very competent and entertaining thriller that will keep the audience glued to the screen despite a slow start. It even makes a more-or-less substantial exploration of what really makes a villain. But it’s different from the usual crime-fugitive fare with how it rises above the conventions of its genre to explore a universal and almost unique human ability: the capacity to cherish another human being.

    While the visual style is not necessarily “meditative” (e.g., lingering shots, long takes, sparse camera movements) this film is indeed a meditation on what the act of cherishing does to the one who cherishes. I am careful to highlight this because narratively, it’s easier to show the things that the one who cherishes does to the cherished (not that that aspect wasn’t also explored by the film).

    For Villain, cherishing reveals our true selves and, in the process, changes us.

    This exposition stands on the heart-rending performances of Satoshi Tsumabaki and Eri Fukatsu, Tsumabaki, in particular, as the uninspired young man Yuichi, delivers an engrossing character study in a role that is at once familiar and strange. Yuichi’s central inner conflict, the unquiet specter of his own depravity as his affection for Fukatsu’s Mitsuya grows, produced some of the most intense scenes in the film, including the most emotionally charged sex scene I’ve seen so far in Japanese cinema.

    Veterans Akira Emoto and Kirin Kiki also delivered in their supporting performances as the father of the victim and Yuichi’s grandmother, respectively. Their stories of cherishing are underscored by loss—unjust loss of a beloved daughter, and the loss of a grandson to waywardness.

    I wouldn’t miss mentioning how surprised I was again that Joe Hisaishi did the score for this film. As with Hana-bi, I was clueless about his involvement here but unlike in that movie, I wouldn’t have guessed that it was Hisaishi who wrote the music for Villain.

    Listening to the score on its own, which also includes the closing credits track Your Story, I wouldn’t have guessed that it was the score for a crime movie (one reviewer even described it as “a soothing treat”). Equal parts contemplative, foreboding, sweet, and wistful, the score underscores what I think is the main point of the movie as I’ve shared above: that cherishing and loving someone reveals your humanity, including your depravity, and changes you along the way.

  • Harmony or distraction? Music in Listen to the Universe (A review)

    Harmony or distraction? Music in Listen to the Universe (A review)

    Here’s a little trivia about the Oscars: Did you know that there is an existing category called Best Original Musical in the Academy Awards? However, since it was established in 2000, no year has seen enough original musical films (read: not an adaptation) for a competition to be considered (there must be at least 10).

    But the thing in the rules for this category that made me remember that trivia in relation to Listen to the Universe is the qualification of narrative relevance. To be considered, the music in the film “must further the storyline of the motion picture.” This is different from the film’s score, or say, a soundtrack that goes with the movie but exists outside of the narrative, both of which usually only serves to heighten the emotional aspect of the work.

    I am bringing this up because in the case of Listen to the Universe, the music and the musicianship of the four competing young concert pianists are too much at the center of the story that it begs the question: Do these musical pieces, especially the classical ones, “further the storyline of the motion picture?”

    There’s no question about whether music belongs in the film; the score is expertly crafted. But how does Clair de Lune or Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 3 move the story forward? Why were these pieces chosen and not the others? While undeniably beautiful and significant, they ended up stealing the show without contributing much to the plot or character development. Their complexity, while impressive, can be intimidating to ordinary viewers, narrowing the film’s potential audience.

    This point about “ordinary people’s music” versus the highfalutin fare that the elite usually enjoys has been tackled but quite insufficiently to make a solid emotional impact. Aside from that, the film also attempts to explore a range of other themes: artistic inspiration, the nature of genius, and the purpose of art in the artist’s life.

    But with four distinct performers, it struggles to dive deeply into any one theme. The subplot involving one character’s journey with grief, which seems to be the movie’s emotional core, feels underdeveloped and doesn’t quite land, although the character’s rousing final performance offers a brief emotional payoff.

    That said, Listen to the Universe has its strengths. While none of the actors are actual concert pianists, their performances—directed by Kei Ishikawa—are convincing. Along with nimble editing, the film made virtuosos out of them.

    And where the film falters in using music as diegetic sound, it compensates with a striking score. The score and the visuals work together, contrasting or complimenting each other to heighten the “textures” or the “feel” of various scenes so that in some ways, the harmony between humanity and the universe that the title evokes somehow rings true.

  • Swimming gracefully: Imamura’s The Eel (A review)

    Swimming gracefully: Imamura’s The Eel (A review)

    In films like this, where a central object of curiosity is highlighted by the title (in this case, the eel), it’s easy to become fixated on it and overlook other important aspects that deserve attention.

    As I watched the film, I found myself consumed by the question, “What did the eel symbolize?” Was it simply a pet, a representation of the protagonist’s traumas, both external and self-inflicted? A symbol of his growth, with the eel embodying both his “before” and “after”? Was it his conscience or alter ego?

    A deeper analysis could support all these interpretations, and indeed the eel itself warrants close visual and narrative analysis, as it’s crucial to the story. But The Eel deserves appreciation beyond its symbolism, as this Palme d’Or-winning work of Shohei Imamura shines in many other aspects.

    This includes the powerful depiction of both honne (true inner feelings/true self) and tatemae (outward actions) by the lead actor, a young Koji Yakusho, who just recently (2023) won the Best Actor award at the Cannes for another film. Playing a former convict on parole, Yakusho was effective as the measured man who knew he has paid for his crime but is still racked up by the trauma of that past.

    Imamura’s signature visual style also stands out, showcasing “rawness” within graceful compositions and well-blocked mise-en-scène. Much like in The Ballad of Narayama (animalistic passions alongside dignity in death), Vengeance is Mine (serial murder and incest next to gentlemanliness), or Black Rain (the grim effects of atomic bomb radiation alongside quiet rural scenes), The Eel juxtaposes orderly domestic life with bloody violence. Imamura, like the eel, can swim gracefully between these contrasts, making them into works of cohesive wholes that are still appreciated until today.

    This style also allowed him to compellingly create what I think (so far, among the four that I’ve watched) is the film with most diverse set of characters. While depth could reasonably be expected only of a few of the characters given the restrictions of the medium, The Eel is able to provide a realistic response to the question of how a society reacts to ex-convicts in its showcase of a colorful cast of characters, all very human.