Korea's Most Wanted

Voice of a Murderer (Geu nom moksori). 2007. Written and directed by Park Jin-pyo. Produced by Lee Eugene. Cinematography by Kim Woo-hyung. Edited by Kim Mi-joo. Music by Lee Byung-woo. Production design by Lee In-ok. Lighting by Goh Nak-sun. Released by CJ Entertainment.

Cast: Sol Kyung-gu (Han Kyung-bae), Kim Nam-joo (Oh Ji-sun), Kang Dong-won (The Voice).

The chilling docudrama Voice of a Murderer is the latest from Park Jin-pyo, one of Korea’s most interesting directors. His previous features Too Young to Die and You Are My Sunshine, as well as his short “Tongue Tie,” tackled provocative social subjects: the sexual life of the elderly in Too Young, HIV/AIDS in Sunshine, and oral surgery to improve English pronunciation in “Tongue Tie.” Park’s gravitation toward these subjects is a natural outgrowth of his previous experience directing television documentaries. One of these forms the basis of Voice of a Murderer, a fictionalized chronicle of the 1991 real-life kidnapping of nine-year old Lee Hyung-ho that to this day remains unsolved. It is quite a pessimistic film, since it exposes in devastating fashion the utter failure of such social systems as the police, media and religion to protect its citizens.

Han Kyung-bae (Sol Kyung-gu, one of his best performances) is a popular TV news anchor who specializes in investigative reporting. He is a self-styled man of the people doggedly exposing government corruption, his nightly commentaries decrying the inability or unwillingness of the government and law authorities to truly serve the citizenry. Kyung-bae’s media pulpit is so influential that he is contemplating a run for political office. His wife, Oh Ji-sun (Kim Nam-joo), is devoted to two things: her religious life serving as the deacon of her local church, and her quest to slim down her overweight son, Sang-woo.

As passionate as Kyung-bae’s concern is over the growing crime rate, his personal connection to this issue remains in the abstract, until one night Sang-woo is abducted at the local playground. At this point the film shifts to an intriguing hybrid of docudrama and tense thriller. This film is reminiscent of two other recent Korean films: Park Chan-wook’s Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and Bong Joon-ho’s Memories of Murder. Like Park’s film, Voice posits the crime of kidnapping as a weapon against the privileged, and like Bong’s film, it uses a true-life unsolved murder to illuminate the massive failures of law enforcement. However, in contrast to Park's relentless genre mechanics and Bong's slapstick humor, Voice leaves the viewer with as palpable a feeling of dread and helplessness as that felt by the parents in the film. The kidnapper is always completely in control, and enjoys playing cat-and-mouse with both the aggrieved parents and the police. Known in the film as only “The Voice,” the kidnapper (Kang Dong-won) is eerily omnipresent, joking, threatening, and cajoling, reveling in his invincibility. (The film’s Korean title translates as “That Guy’s Voice.”) We are denied an omniscient view of the action; we are afforded only frustratingly brief glimpses of a figure with his back to us, face obscured by a baseball cap. We know no more than the family and police knows, as Sang-woo’s parents can do nothing but wait for the kidnapper’s calls and do his bidding.

Park’s film is a devastating portrayal of incompetence, bad judgment, and simple rotten luck on the part of the police. All efforts to trace the call and identify the kidnapper’s voice come to naught. At one point, the kidnapper even gets the best of an undercover detective hidden in the trunk of Kyung-bae’s car, beating him and stripping him naked. The police spend as almost as much time fighting amongst themselves and with the parents as trying to catch the kidnapper.

Religion also fails to save them. At his lowest hour, Kyung-bae rips a crucifix off the wall, smashing it to pieces, and kicks members of his wife’s church out of his house. “As of today, we have no God,” he says to them.

In the film’s final scenes, we are left with the tragic image of two people who have been stripped of all hope and faith. Ji-sun beats her chest, leaving deep bruises, and Kyung-bae makes a desperate attempt to have another child to replace their lost son. Kyung-bae returns to his anchor chair in a heartbreaking scene, reporting on his own story. “I always thought such things only happened to other people,” he says, choking back tears. Kyung-bae wears his favorite tie, emblazoned with Superman’s symbol, a brutally ironic detail which only serves to highlight his own failure to save the day. The camera continues to roll, as the media machine still demands to be fed. Kyung-bae plays a tape recording, imploring the public to help him catch the kidnapper. The tape we hear, in a disturbing bit of documentary, is the actual voice of Lee Hyung-mo and his abductor.

Voice of a Murderer is a riveting and ultimately despairing film of institutional failure. The one glimmer of hope the film holds out (and Park’s motivation in making the film) is the slim chance that bringing this case back to light will expose the killer, who continues to escape detection and judgment.

Voice of a Murderer opens in New York on April 13 at the ImaginAsian Theater. For more information on the film and to purchase tickets, visit the ImaginAsian's website.

Here is the film's trailer:

Review: Shohei Imamura's "Nishi Ginza Station"

Nishi Ginza Station (Nishi Ginza Eki-mae). 1958. Written and directed by Shohei Imamura. Cinematography by Hisanobu Fujioka. Music by Toshiro Mayuzumi. Released by Nikkatsu Corporation.

Cast: Frank Nagai, Shinichi Yanagisawa, Ko Nishimura, Masahiko Shimazu, Hisano Yamaoka, Shoichi Ozawa, Kyoko Hori.

Nishi Ginza Station (1958) was Imamura's second film, a studio assignment made as a vehicle for popular singer Frank Nagai. Imamura was able to use this as a vehicle for himself as well, indulging in a playful formalism that breaks the narrative in a number of ways. Nagai appears right at the beginning, addressing the camera. “What an interesting place!” he says of the train station where much of the film takes place. He will tell us “a good story” about the married couple we will follow for the rest of the film. “But first,” Nagai says, “Let’s listen to my song … Hey! Music!” He pops up throughout the film to comment on the action, a device that amusingly anticipates Jonathan Richman’s musical interludes in the Farrelly Brothers’ There’s Something About Mary, among other films. After the credits sequence, which appears in neon lights, various people in the station break out into song, prompted by Nagai’s jazzy start.

We are then introduced to a woman complaining about the inaccurate station clock. Her kids knock over the ladder of the man working on it, and trailing after is her meek, henpecked husband. These two form the central couple of the film. Jutaro is a Walter Mitty-esque character who daydreams about romancing a native woman on a deserted island. This foreshadows Imamura's later portraits of primitive societies such as Profound Desire of the Gods (1968) and The Ballad of Narayama (1983). Jutaro works in his wife Rinko’s pharmacy, and his life is regulated down to the minute. He has to take regular doses of a “body energizer,” and he is monitored on this by his wife’s employees. When his wife and kids go away on a two-day trip, Jutaro takes this opportunity (egged on by his veterinarian friend) to taste a bit of freedom. They go to bars and get drunk, and Jutaro finds the courage to attempt an extramarital affair with Yuriko, who works in the pen shop across from the pharmacy.

The film alternates between Jutaro's fantasies and his real life, with Nagai as a commentator or a silent observer (or in a couple of cases as the man in the moon, and a cave wall carving). Compared to the films he would make later, Nishi Ginza Station is a minor work. However, many of the elements that would come to the fore later, such as his bawdy humor and his experiments with form, can be seen here in embryo.

Travelling Actors

Stolen Desire (Nusumareta Yokujo). 1958. Directed by Shohei Imamura. Written by Toshiro Suzuki, based on the story "Tent Theatre" by Toko Kon. Produced by Kazu Otsuka. Cinematography by Kurataro Takamura. Edited by Tadashi Nakamura. Music by Toshiro Mayuzumi. Art direction by Kimihiko Nakamura. Released by Nikkatsu Corporation.

Cast: Osamu Takizawa (Taminosuke Yamamura), Shinichi Yanagisawa (Ezaburo Yamamura), Hiroyuki Nagato (Shinichi Kunida), Michie Kita (Chigusa Yamamura), Yoko Minamida (Chidori Yamamura), Kimiko Nanazato (Sayoko), Masako Urushizawa (Midori).

Stolen Desire (1958), Imamura’s first feature film, and the first of three films he released in that year, is his delightful tribute to the “earthy” citizens of the Kawachi district of Osaka. From this film onward, Imamura expressed his interest in what were considered the lower rungs of Japanese society. One of the lowest were actors, especially the traveling kabuki actors we follow in this film, whose troupe is constantly referred to in the film as a “beggar theater.” This colorful lot includes Shinichi (Hiroyuki Nagato), the troupe’s stage director, whose ambitions for elaborate and artistic productions are often frustrated by his less-than-disciplined cast; Chidori (Yoko Minamida), an actress married to Eizaburo (Shinichi Yanagisawa), a star of the troupe whom Shinichi is in love with; Chidori’s sister Chigusa (Michie Kita), another actress who is in love with Shinichi, and is jealous of Shinichi's obvious affection for her sister.

The film begins with a narrator’s voiceover extolling the fact that 13 years after World War II, there is now “no trace” of the war, and that the people there have been pretty much unchanged for hundreds of years. We focus in on the troupe’s last performance of “The Loyal 47 Ronin.” As always, the kabuki performance opens with a striptease show, after which most of the largely male audience exits the theater before the actual play. The narrator amusingly notes that although students almost never attend these shows, there is a sign prominently displaying student discounts. The performance is aborted after an actor onstage refuses to say his lines, complaining that he hasn’t been paid. The fight moves outdoors, with one of the actors trying to grab the cash box from the ticket seller’s hands, culminating in Shinichi going after the fighting actors with a hammer.

The troupe is forced to leave after their stage is taken down by workers in need of timber. The troupe leader says he cannot pay them and they should go their separate ways. However, the actors say that they will stay with him. Shinichi sticks with them also, even though a friend of his has offered him a job directing television. He also remains there because of his longing for Chidori.

They move on to another village, and after raucous negotiations with the local landowner Fujita, the owner of a brush factory in the area, they set up a tent in a paddy field. The actors are an immediate sensation, especially the actresses whom the men chase after and sometimes peep in on when they are dressing for bed. The men especially enjoy the opening strip show, and the troupe plays to packed houses. The conflicts and love triangles continue here also.

Imamura’s love for these passionate, uncouth, and rowdy people comes through beautifully here, and the film is an often hilarious experience, made all the more so by not following a conventional narrative, but instead being a freewheeling and lighthearted portrait of these people. Imamura would continue his examination of the lower classes for the rest of his career, which would include darker portraits of those even lower in society than actors -- prostitutes, pimps, killers, primitive societies -- which were always interspersed with sensualist and bawdy humor. Stolen Desire is a remarkable debut film that contains many hallmarks of the even greater work to come.

Disappearing Acts

A Man Vanishes (Ningen Johatsu). 1967. Produced and directed by Shohei Imamura. Cinematography by Kenji Ishiguro. Edited by Matsuo Tanji. Music by Toshiro Mayuzumi. Production design by Ichiro Takada. Sound recording by Kunio Takeshige. Released by Nikkatsu Corporation.

Cast: Yoshie Hayakawa, Shigeru Tsuyuguchi, Sayo Hayakawa, Shohei Imamura.

A mystery without a solution, A Man Vanishes (1967) is a fascinating study of the eminently collapsible boundary between reality and artifice. More precisely, it suggests that what we think of as “reality,” and how we behave in this framework, is as much a construction as any work of fiction. Initially, the film seems to be an example of the cinema verité documentary style prevalent in the 1960s. A voiceover informs us that even on the “small island” of Japan, hundreds of people a year can easily vanish among the crowds of people, never to be seen again. The film is ostensibly a study of one of these "johatsu," or missing persons. We focus in on the particular case of Tadashi Oshima, a man who disappeared one day on his way to work, and the efforts of his fiancée, Yoshie Hayakawa, to find him. The camerawork is handheld, and fly-on-the-wall observant. There is little music, and all indications point to the idea that this is a document of Yoshie’s search, with an "investigator," actor Shigeru Tsuyuguchi (the rapist from Intentions of Murder), accompanying her to interview people who knew him in order to find out where he is and why he disappeared so suddenly.

However, there are signs that Imamura is up to something different here, beginning with the credits sequence, in which a medium attempts to contact Oshima. This is rather odd, since he is apparently still alive. “The unhappy spirit of a woman haunts him,” the medium says of Oshima, and this explains why he cannot love any woman. The medium reappears at other points in the film, sometimes as brief flashes.

The film delves into the investigation, revealing the many layers of personality and history that exist beneath the surface of this apparently ordinary salesman and the lives of those connected to him. Among other details, we learn that he had embezzled money from his company over a two-year period, and kept a mistress while he was away on business, who he may or may not have gotten pregnant. The animosity between Yoshie and her sister Sayo also surfaces in the course of this search. Yoshie disapproves of her sister’s relationship with a man she is not married to. She also comes to suspect that Sayo may have had an affair with Yoshie.

The verité veneer begins to drop away as we see how Imamura is manipulating certain actions, as he would in a drama. At one point, Yoshie confesses she is beginning to fall in love with Tsuyuguchi; he tells Imamura that this would be “awkward.” We see discussions between Imamura and his crew (in which Yoshie is frequently referred to as “The Rat”) in which they discuss how the film is going and where they want to take it.

The “documentary” aspect of A Man Vanishes, already questionable and extremely flimsy, completely collapses at the end of a long scene in which Yoshie, increasingly agitated, interrogates her sister about the fact that several people have reported seeing Sayo and Oshima together. They argue at either end of a dinner table, with Imamura sitting silently between them. A fishmonger is brought in, who confirms that he did indeed see the two of them together. Despite all this, Sayo strenuously insists that everyone who saw them together is mistaken. It is a lengthy and repetitious scene, with neither side willing to budge. Sayo then turns and asks Imamura, “Director, what is truth?” Imamura answers, “I don’t know what’s the truth. Nobody knows the truth.” At this point, the film’s most audacious and astonishing gambit occurs: Imamura yells to the crew, the walls fall away, and it is revealed that the scene we’ve just witnessed has been occurring on a soundstage. A narrator informs us that everything we have seen up to that point is fiction, although this fiction is indeed based on actual disappearances.

The camera crew moves to the street, and the argument resumes as a growing crowd gathers. Even though the scenario has been revealed to be fictional, the arguments on either side become increasingly passionate, resulting in an irreducible impasse. Both sides insist that their version of reality is the truth, and nothing is resolved. Imamura and Yoshie speak to each other in a voiceover at the film’s conclusion. “The film is finished, but reality is not,” Imamura says. A Man Vanishes is one of Imamura’s most idiosyncratic and unsettling films, in its radical fracturing and questioning of cinema’s representation of what appears in front of the camera.

Kiarostami at MOMA/Imamura at BAM

Just a quick note to say that I am currently eyebrow-deep in two major retrospectives happening right now in the city: "Abbas Kiarostami: Image Maker," a multimedia exhibit at MOMA, the film section of which runs through March 19. Alongside that series is one that is proving to be a long-overdue revelation for me: "Pimps, Prostitutes, and Pigs: Shohei Imamura's Japan," screening at BAM through March 29. This accounts for the woeful lack of posts lately. However, this will be rectified soon. Watch this space for reviews of films in both series.

In the meantime, here are some interesting links on both directors, from the online journal Senses of Cinema:

Merhnaz Saeed-Vafa on Abbas Kiarostami
David Sterritt's interview with Abbas Kiarostami
Nelson Kim on Shohei Imamura

Also: an interview with Imamura from the World Socialist Web Site.

Rendez-vous with French Cinema 2007 Review: Bruno Dumont's "Flanders"

Flanders (Flandres). 2006. Written and directed by Bruno Dumont. Produced by Jean Brehat and Rachid Bouchareb. Cinematography by Yves Cape. Edited by Guy Lecorne. Sound design by Philippe Lecoeur. Costume design by Cedric Grenapin and Alexandra Charles.

Cast: Adelaide Leroux (Barbe), Samuel Boidin (Demester), Henri Cretel (Blondel), Jean-Marie Bruveart (Briche), David Poulain (Leclercq), Patrice Venant (Mordac), David Legay (Lieutenant), Inge Decaesteker (France).

Bruno Dumont’s latest film, Flanders, screening in Lincoln Center’s “Rendez-vous with French Cinema 2007” series, which runs at the Walter Reade Theater from February 28 through March 11, is a highlight of this year’s selections. A return to form after his failed US-set experiment, Twentynine Palms, Flanders returns Dumont to his familiar milieu of raw sex and violence told with Bressonian preciseness and economy. While Flanders is not quite up to the level of his near-masterpieces Life of Jesus and Humanity, it is a searing vision of war and its effects on those who fight it and those they leave behind, made all the more powerful by Dumont’s painfully unadorned and stripped-down presentation. Following Dumont’s usual method of casting, the actors in Flanders are all non-professionals.

We first encounter Demester (Samuel Boidin), working on his farm. We soon learn he is about to go off to war; whether he has been drafted or volunteered is unclear. Demester is a rather brutish-looking, inarticulate hulk of a man; the actor portraying him is one of the very distinctive ones that Dumont has an uncanny ability to discover. He speaks with a friend about the war, in very plain and simple terms.

We are then introduced to the film’s other central character, Barbe (Adelaide Leroux), Demester’s sometime paramour, and there is an early scene of the two having sex in the woods near the farm, shot in an unblinking fashion that emphasizes the animalistic nature of the coupling. This sort of non-dramatized vision will be carried throughout the rest of the film, both in the home and war scenes.

Before Demester is about to go to war, he has drinks with Barbe and other friends in a local bar. Perhaps to distance himself from Barbe’s reputation as the town slut, he denies that they have a real relationship. To punish him, she picks up another man, the more conventionally handsome Blondel (Henri Cretel), who will soon join Demester in the war, fighting in the same regiment. The pain on Demester’s face as he watches them is quite palpable. Later, Barbe tearfully embraces them both before they go off to fight.

Up to this point, the bleak rural setting (beautifully rendered by Dumont’s regular cinematographer Yves Cape) and the lack of an obvious contemporary feel would lead one into thinking this is a period film, perhaps set during World War I, in which Flanders was a famous setting. It is a surprise, then, that when we finally see the men in the battlefield, they are fighting a modern war in a Middle Eastern desert, clearly evoking the current conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. The country they are in is unnamed, and the nature of the conflict is never stated. What everything is reduced to is casual brutality on both sides. The soldiers shoot two teenage boy soldiers and brutally rape a female soldier. Dumont frames these scenes in medium shot, without cutting, close-ups or musical underlining, a matter-of-fact method that makes them all the more disturbing. Demester, however, doesn’t seem to participate in these atrocities; he simply observes them, but does nothing to protest or stop them. Later, the soldiers are captured by enemy forces, in which they are shot, tortured, and subjected to the same treatment they have given out.

The film alternates between the battlefield and the farm, where Barbe becomes increasingly agitated, to the point that she is committed to a mental hospital. She also aborts Blondel’s child. Barbe seems to feel the cruelty of the war in an extremely empathetic way; after the soldiers shoot the children in the stomach, there is a cut to Barbe holding her stomach. Although this is perhaps due to her pregnancy, the juxtaposition of these shots suggests otherwise. An outburst she makes to Demester later in the film, where she says she saw what happened in the war, confirms this. Barbe, far from the battle, feels the death and destruction keenly, while Demester and the other soldiers commit brutal acts without remorse or any recognizable human feeling. We can infer from this that in Dumont’s view, women, as far more empathetic creatures than men, are far less likely to cause the conflicts that lead to the carnage that we see here.

Demester returns from the war, in the film’s terms, just as abruptly as he went in. Outwardly, he seems unchanged, returning to his usual life of work on the farm, and sex with Barbe. When asked about the war, he says simply, “It was hell out there.” However, the film’s final scenes drive home how profoundly he has been transformed by his war experience. Culminating in a final scene that explicitly evokes Bresson’s character epiphanies (especially Pickpocket), Flanders offers a vision of war that is quietly shattering and quite moving, remarkably achieving this without overt politics or specifics, rendering Dumont’s essential truths in quite visceral relief.

Flanders screens on March 4 and 5. For more information on this film and others in the series, see the Film Society’s website.

Flanders trailer:

"Film Comment Selects" Review: Kiyoshi Kurosawa's "Retribution"

Retribution (Sakebi). 2006. Written and directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa. Produced by Takashige Ichise. Cinematography by Akiko Ashizawa. Edited by Nobuyuki Takahashi. Music by Kuniaki Haishima.

Cast: Koji Yakusho (Yoshioka), Manami Konishi (Harue), Tsuyoshi Ihara (Detective Miyaji), Riona Hazuki (Woman in Red), Jo Odagiri (Dr. Takagi), Ryo Kase (Man on a work boat), Hiroyuki Hirayama (Young detective Sakurai).

Kiyoshi Kurosawa has been one of the most consistently interesting stylists in Japanese cinema. His films can be superficially associated with the “J-Horror” genre, but anyone familiar with his work knows that much of it goes far beyond this catch-all label. His main strength is that he has not been bound to conventional narrative, and in using his adopted genre as a framework, he has been able to experiment greatly within this form to create a unique cinematic space of moody and intriguing images. In his finest work, including Cure, Pulse, Charisma, and Barren Illusion, Kurosawa offers haunting images that resonate well beyond initial viewings. These qualities extend to his ventures outside the genre, such as License to Live and Bright Future.

Unfortunately, Kurosawa seems to have hit something of a rut lately. His last film, Loft, was a disappointment, even though at first glance it contains many of the elements of his previous work: the somber, unsettling mood; the often baffling and near-incomprehensible occurrences, often concerning the fluidity between the worlds of the living and the dead. While diverting at first viewing, Loft left the impression of being a pale retread of much better earlier work.

However, it pains me to report that his latest film, Retribution, is an even bigger and more serious misfire. Just like Loft, everything familiar to Kurosawa’s films is present and accounted for, including his regular lead actor Koji Yakusho, as a detective investigating a serial killer case. And this is exactly the problem. Everything is far too familiar, both from Kurosawa’s own films (much of it, including a crucial plot point revealed late in the film, feels like a remake of Cure), and other clichéd tropes of J-Horror, such as floating female ghosts (the one in this film often lets out an ear-splitting scream).

In Retribution, detective Yoshioka (Yakusho) is called to investigate a series of murders occurring around a construction site. The victims have all been drowned in saltwater, but strangely, all the murders occur far from any saltwater source. He lives alone in a ramshackle apartment, and is often visited by Harue (Manami Konishi), a mysterious young woman whose relationship to Yoshioka is initially ambiguous. We are unsure whether to sympathize with this character, since the film plays with a well-worn idea in this genre, intentionally making us question whether the detective himself has committed these murders. In the film, we see at least two other murders occur, by two different characters, using the same M.O. Again, not to give too much away, if you’ve already seen Cure, it’s easy to guess how these murders are connected to the central case.

The most disheartening aspect of Retribution is the rote and earth-bound quality of the proceedings. What gives Kurosawa’s films their special resonance is the free space he gives himself to explore such themes as alienation and loneliness which gain their power from not being tethered to a conventional plot. However, in this case everything is explained and rationalized away, as if ticking off items on a checklist. Also, there seems to be an odd lack of engagement with the material on Kurosawa’s part. This may be due to the fact that his producer is Takashige Ichise, responsible for the most popular and archetypal examples of recent Japanese horror (Ju-on, Ring, Dark Water). The tension between their disparate sensibilities, however intriguing a concept it may have seemed on paper, definitely works to the detriment of this production. The lyrical visual quality of Kurosawa’s previous works comes through here and there, especially in the scenes in the abandoned sanitarium that serves a crucial site in the film. Also, Kurosawa seems to be making some point about the eagerness of Japanese society to bury the past, indicated by the constant construction and destruction depicted in the film. But this theme remains undeveloped, itself buried in the film’s insistence in shackling everything to its derivative plot.

In short, Retribution is probably Kurosawa’s worst film yet. For other filmmakers, this would be a not-bad effort, but Kurosawa is capable of, and has achieved, so much more. An escape from the J-Horror ghetto, on the order of Bright Future or License to Live, is sorely called for. Let’s hope he can break out of this stagnation with his next film.

News & Notes, 2/19/07

From Variety Asia: intriguing details on John Woo's upcoming film, The Battle of Red Cliff, an adaptation of the classic Chinese epic "The Romance of Three Kingdoms," which will be released in two different versions -- in Asia as a two-part film, four hours in total, and everywhere else as a single two-and-a-half hour film. Hopefully, when this film is finally made, it will lessen the damage to Woo's filmography wrought by films such as Paycheck and Windtalkers.

Also from Variety Asia: The latest film to run afoul of Chinese censors, Li Yu's Lost in Beijing, screened in its uncut version at the Berlin Film Festival, which just wrapped this past weekend; also, some Berlin deals, including Hou Hsiao-hsien's new film Ballon Rouge ("Red Balloon"), a French-language remake, and expansion, of Albert Lamourisse's 1956 film of the same name, which won the Oscar in 1957 for best screenplay, a remarkable and unusual achievement considering the original was only 34 minutes in length and had no dialogue. Definitely something to eagerly look forward to.

Speaking of Berlin, some of the notable winners included: the top prize (Golden Bear) going to Wang Quanan's Mongolia-set "Tuya's Marriage"; Park Chan-wook's new film I'm a Cyborg, but That's OK won the Alfred Bauer Prize for "innovative film." Also, Taiwanese filmmaker Zero Chou won the Teddy Award, which honors gay and lesbian cinema, for Spider Lilies. I saw her earlier film Splendid Float, which I quite liked, two years ago at the New York Asian-American International Film Festival. You can read about the rest of the winners here.

Also in Korean cinema news, there has been a rather disturbing number of high-profile celebrity suicides, the latest being actress Jeong Da-bin, best known for the 2003 TV drama Cat on the Rooftop, whose popularity had apparently waned in recent years. The method of suicide (by hanging) eerily echoed the 2005 suicide of actress Lee Eun-ju (Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Bungee Jumping of Their Own). Even more unsettling, these suicides have inspired copycats. You can read the full story here, in Joong Ang Daily.

"Film Comment Selects" Review: Lin Tay-jou's "Bardo"

Bardo (Chui-si Zao-wu Ai-ge). 2005. Written, directed, photographed, and edited by Lin Tay-jou. Produced by Hsieh Chia-kuen. Music by Lo Song-tze. Sound design by Chou Chen.

This year’s “Film Comment Selects” series got off to a very strong, and unusual, start for me with Taiwanese experimental and documentary filmmaker Lin Tay-jou’s Bardo, a 70-minute triptych about the stages of life death, and rebirth. As Lin himself explains on the film’s website, the film’s title is a Sanskrit word meaning “between two things.” The film’s subtitle, “The Lamentation of the Dying Creatures,” is from a medieval text referring to Christian notions of hell, purgatory, and divine judgment. This mixture of Eastern and Western philosophies informs both the subject matter and structure of this astonishing film. The extreme images and sound design of this work are quite indelible, and amid the images of death, cannibalism, rough sex, decay, rot, and blood that flood the viewer in this film, there is also a hopeful vision of the unending cycle of life’s birth and rebirth. I’ll briefly explore each section of this film, preceded by the filmmaker’s statements regarding each one.

Bardo Part 1:

In this merciless universe, everything is expendable.

When the stream of life is exhausted, does any humanity remain?

Time is short – do the gods have any answers for us?

If all will vanish in the end, then why these unending waves of desire?

In this first, dialogue-free section (as is the rest of the film), the black-and-white misshapen-iris images portray a withered and dead post-apocalyptic landscape in which civilization is not only absent, it’s as if it has never even existed. Men and women in tattered rags wander zombie-like among dead trees sprouting rotten fruit. The sacred and the profane intertwine greatly here, as a Buddhist temple looms over these ravenous and murderous creatures. A woman greedily licks and sucks on a statue of Buddha; the pages of an illustrated erotic book are turned; a man masturbates in front of a painting. The survivors of this unspecified disaster are all appetites and animalistic impulses. The only food in sight is rotten and decayed, and the people feed on their dead. In the climactic sequence, a black rain of what is probably blood comes down on the people as they stop, open their mouths to let it in, and rub it on their bodies. The sounds we hear are chanting, growls, murmurs, electronic music, among others. This first section could superficially be classified as yet another example of the “Asian extreme” vogue so prevalent in recent years. The difference here is that this is not done as a cheap shock tactic, but as an expression of a philosophically rigorous examination of Lin’s themes of the life cycle, and his portrayals of these way-stations between levels of existence.

Bardo Part 2:

Legend has it that at the end of life,

we cross a bridge. Old women on the bridge

offer you a bowl of broth, and drinking it,

you forget all. Since the end has been

reached, why look back? If,

at the end of the bridge,

you forget your own face,

then beyond the Door to Yesterday,

will you find your own footprints?

If all is to be forgotten,

when did we actually live?

In the second section, a dead man revisits scenes from his own life, in the film’s words, “like a movie on fast forward.” Actually, the life-as-film metaphor is taken literally here, in both this section and the one following, as scenes play out on a movie screen, and we see the projectors working. The young man in this section has been killed by riot cops during a protest, and he wanders through these scenes and the ones leading up to his death. He sees his happier days as a young radical, reading a Che Guevara volume with his girlfriend on a hill, and later giving her a cross in his car. He travels to these scenes through theater curtains and doors. However, we see that he is not as principled in his personal life as he is in his political life; his girlfriend catches him with another woman, whom he has given the cross to. Lording over it all is death with his scythe, sitting in the screening room and later waiting to chain him. The sequence culminates in an ultrasound image, reiterating the film’s themes of the circularity of life.

Bardo Part 3:

Babies keep being born in hospital beds; pigs’ heads still drop to the

slaughterhouse floor. Entries, exits, in this wailing sea of blood. Do they

represent life – or death? Do dreams still exist in a gigantic earthquake?

Can a poem be found in the depths of ashes?

The third section begins with a piano’s dulcet tones, and the soft-focus image of a woman sleeping at a desk, her head in front of an open book lined with seashells. This gentle beginning soon gives way to what is perhaps this woman’s dream, as a succession of images of death ensues: slaughtered pigs and frogs; a body being cremated; bloody, dying geese. Also, a man and a woman have auto-asphyxiation sex in a hospital bed, and the sequence climaxes with footage of an actual childbirth. Once again, projected images form the basis of what we see, as the woman looks both into the projector and out to us as viewers. This sequence, and the film itself, ends with the gentle piano tones, and the woman sleeping. After all these images of despair, there is a hopeful note, as the baby is returned to the safety of the womb, and the notion that perhaps all we have seen is just a dream contained within the peaceful, restorative world that we see at the film’s conclusion. Or perhaps both sides of this equation are necessary to maintain the holistic balance of the universe.

Whatever the ultimate meaning of it all is, Lin Tay-jou has created a visually, aurally, and philosophically challenging work that will probably haunt me for weeks to come.

Film Comment Selects!

The cinematic winter doldrums are officially over. It will be quite a busy time for me over the next few months, starting with what has become an essential film series for me: "Film Comment Selects," a selection of recent highlights of world cinema, chosen by the editors of Film Comment. The eighth edition screens beginning tomorrow through February 27 at the Walter Reade Theater. I will be reviewing the films in this space over the next couple of weeks or so. For now, I'll briefly point to a few films that seem especially worthy.

The first is one I just saw, the one that provides the striking image you see above: Lin Tay-jou's Bardo (screening on Feb. 16). A truly unclassifiable and mind-melting experience, Lin's film is a non-narrative triptych that speeds through the cycles of life, death, and rebirth, making use of references to Buddhism, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Bible, erotic and religious art. Lin compresses all these elements into a unique and searing vision of death, murder, sex, dismemberment, cannibalism, political protest, and much more, which, despite its often extreme imagery and visceral sound design, culminates in an oddly hopeful notion of the circularity of nature's existence.

Other films to look out for are: Jean-Claude Brisseau's Exterminating Angels (Feb. 14 and 17), which continues his unique depictions of female sexuality that he has explored in previous films such as Secret Things; Portuguese filmmaker Pedro Costa's Colossal Youth (above, Feb. 16 and 18), in which I'll see for myself if he is worthy of the hype he's gotten in many quarters, most notably from Mark Peranson in his magazine Cinemascope; Johnnie To's latest in his series of gangster tales Exiled (Feb. 15); the veteran experimental filmmaker James Benning's 13 Lakes and Ten Skies (Feb. 24); Finnish master of the deadpan Aki Kaurismaki's Lights in the Dusk (Feb. 22); Retribution (below, Feb. 17, 18, 19), the latest from Kiyoshi Kurosawa, that is hopefully an improvement upon the visually creepy but utimately baffling Loft; Lou Ye's Tiananmen Square evocation Summer Palace (Feb 17 and 18), which got its creator in major trouble with the Chinese government and a five-year ban from filmmaking; Jean-Marie Straub and Daniele Huillet, who have created some of the most materially tactile, intellectually rigorous, and downright beautiful cinema creations ever made, are in the series with their final collaboration (after the passing of Huillet last year), These Encounters of Theirs (Feb. 25 and 26); and a film I saw at last year's Tribeca Film Festival, Marwan Hamed's entertaining epic of Cairo history The Yacoubian Building (Feb. 21 and 24).

A busy season and much lack of sleep awaits me. For more info on the series, check here.