The Terrorizers


(Dir. Edward Yang, Taiwan, 1986)

Missed Connections

Before he diagnosed Taiwan’s tumultuous history through the eyes of teen street gangs with A Brighter Summer Day and captured the universality of the human struggle with Yi Yi, filmmaker Edward Yang served up another thoroughly explored microcosm of a narrative with The Terrorizers – this time to dissect a rapidly urbanizing, globalizing late-twentieth century Taipei. And, while the former pair of critical darlings has solidified his position as a modern titan of cinema as well as ensured endless comparisons to his contemporary Hou Hsiao-hsien, his third feature bears more resemblance to the works of the chronicler of urban malaise himself, Wong Kar-wai, than others considered a part of the New Taiwanese Cinema movement. The Terrorizers, then, is perhaps in one sense an anomaly in Yang’s canon, and yet on the other hand, given the versatility of his craft (the atypically historical setting of A Brighter Summer Day, the more direct comedy of A Confucian Confusion, or the uncharacteristic optimism of Yi Yi), it also fits in quite nicely amidst one of the most impressive, albeit tragically brief bodies of work in film.

Employing the network narrative structure championed in the second half of the twentieth century by the likes of Robert Altman, Yang’s film serves as something like a prelude to the onslaught of (mostly) terrible films like Crash and Babel that polluted the first years of the new millennium. Intertwining webs of strangers that collide in unexpected (and oftentimes unbelievable) ways is a fine metaphor for the struggle of human connection (or disconnection in today’s social media saturated world), but on this side of the still shocking Oscar win for Paul Haggis’ insulting fable chastising racism, it’s safe to say most thoughtful filmgoers have recognized the technique has grown stale. Viewing The Terrorizers some thirty years later, then, it’s surprising how fresh it still seems.

Even before the exhausting overuse of said technique had become cliché, Yang seemed to have already offered his own twist with The Terrorizers, which weaves three or four separate narrative threads together through coincidence and most often inference. This last point is crucial in understanding why Yang and Hou remain such influential figures in film; viewer participation is a must when engaging the art of either one. Though Yang forces his characters into each other’s spheres with one precipitating act, the specifics of these accidental connections remain alarmingly oblique and ultimately incomplete. In the film’s stunning opening sequence alone, we’re left wondering who delivers the scene-setting voiceover, who’s lying dead in the middle of the street, and who’s responsible for the shootout that sets each of these strands in motion. That Yang’s film never really answers any of these questions may prove frustrating for some viewers, but for others it’s all part of the fascinating puzzle he creates.

Yang judiciously cuts between a young voyeuristic photographer who stumbles on a muse that’s not his girlfriend, the subject of his camera, a reckless teenage prostitute who hangs around the wrong crowd, the bored police officer tasked with eliminating the threat of these gangs, and a professionally stunted doctor and his novelist wife who seems to have fallen out of love with her spouse at the same time she suffers writer’s block. For the first half of the film, brief encounters hint at some interaction between the different stories, but it isn’t until the teen – imprisoned in her room by her hot-tempered mother and a sprained ankle – takes to prank calling strangers that Yang prepares the violent collision of these characters. When she randomly dials the novelist’s number and pretends to be her husband’s mistress, the young prostitute sets in motion consequences that can’t be undone. Like his later works, these fragmented stories are wound together tightly until the compression results in an explosion of violence. Unlike those later realist works, however, The Terrorizers’ bloody finale may or may not actually happen. In the director’s finest foray into cinematic postmodernism, the pair of diverging endings could be taken as alternate takes on the same event or one the realization of the novelist’s fictional account of the dissolution of her marriage. The film is ultimately stronger for refusing to grant us narrative clarity.

For clarity is rarely the objective in Yang’s films. He frequently operates in the mode of elliptical storytelling, and The Terrorizers’ opaque, disjointed narrative brilliantly serves its theme mourning the effects of burgeoning urbanization. In short, the closer we get in physical proximity, the further away we actually grow from one another. The doctor drowns in the pressure of his work and fails to see his wife slipping away. The teenage prostitute sees only opportunity for monetary gain when she scans the sea of faces that dot the city’s bustling streets. The photographer creates a photographic shrine to the girl he captures with his camera only once, but the feelings an image can conjure are but a shadow compared to the real thing.

Yang would go on to assign significant meaning to objects to astounding effect in A Brighter Summer Day (notably Xiao S’ir’s illuminating flashlight), but here he hints at the power of these symbols as well. A phone, a camera, a pistol – these seemingly random objects bring characters together, tear them apart, and alter the course of their lives permanently. The same can be said of Yang’s depiction of the city as a whole. The full effect of such global urbanization has yet to be seen, but it’s undeniable that such a monumental shift in where we live has dramatically shaped how we live. The Terrorizers presents a disturbing, yet crucial view of the consequences of missed connections in the city, but fortunately we also have Yi Yi to cap an incredible filmic career to remind us that no matter how much the city pushes, the human spirit is forever resilient.





(Dir. Martin Scorsese, United States, 2016)

A Still Small Voice

“Behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind.
And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.
And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.
And after the fire a still small voice.” – 1 Kings 19:11-12

As the swelling chatter of insects and hum of nature’s white noise abruptly give way to the total absence of sound before an image even appears on the black screen, the central theme of Martin Scorsese’s latest film is made strikingly clear. Silence can be terrifying. And, when silence is the divine response to human faith, it has the potential to shake the devout to the core and test the very limits of that belief. Scorsese understands this tension well. He remains one of the few living filmmakers apparently brave enough to intelligently engage religion in his art. And, though the director’s Roman Catholicism has been a fixture of many of his films, it hasn’t featured this prominently since The Last Temptation of Christ. Like that film, the story of Silence – based on the novel by Shusaku Endo – gives Scorsese more than enough room to challenge the faith of his flawed characters.

In seventeenth century Japan, a Jesuit priest from Portugal has gone missing and is rumored to have apostatized during a time of extreme persecution of European missionaries and their Japanese converts. The film begins with Father Ferreira (Liam Neeson) witnessing the torture of his fellow padres at the hands of a merciless “Inquisitor” determined to snuff out Christianity in a scene that sets the tone for this bleak epic. Scorsese then cuts to Ferreira’s two former pupils Father Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield) and Father Garupe (Adam Driver) who, in disbelief, resolve to travel to Japan to discover the truth about their missing mentor. Both of them believe it to be impossible that Ferreira could have denounced the faith.

With a setup that seems to the promise the suspense and intrigue of the manhunt for Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, Scorsese quickly subverts expectations when the pair arrives in Japan, and the film becomes less about the quest for Ferreira and more about the inner struggles of Rodrigues. Led by their presumably unreliable guide, the drunkard Kichijiro (Yosuke Kubozuka), the two padres stumble upon a village of secret Christians in desperate need of a priest. Though they begin to administer sacraments and offer confession, they are soon faced with the dangerous reality of living as a Christian in Japan. After the village is exposed, a few of their most devoted followers are brutally executed, sparking the two padres to split up to protect the village from further trouble. Scorsese chooses to follow Rodrigues who is betrayed by Kichijiro and delivered into the hands of the one known as the Inquisitor, the local governor Inoue Masashige (Issey Ogata). The majority of the film, then, details Rodrigues’ time in captivity as this unwavering ruler seeks to break the young priest until he too gives up the faith.

Scorsese’s graciously paced film is both beautiful and brutal in its refreshingly nuanced portrayal of the Christian faith. Silence is a film of great richness – one that raises daring and complicated questions and then refuses to answer any of them. Is the Christian gospel universal? If so, are the foreign missionaries then justified in their insistence on spreading their message throughout Japan, against the wishes of the ruling authorities? Or is Japan, as one character states, a swamp where Christianity can never take root? Are the Japanese Christians true converts, followers of Jesus Christ, or mere followers of the priests they admire? Is Rodrigues arrogant in his refusal to apostatize though he frequently suggests that his followers do so that they may escape persecution? Is the Judas Iscariot-like Kichijiro past the point of redemption after his umpteenth instance of denouncing the faith? And, perhaps most crucial to Rodrigues’ progression as a character, is divine silence the same as divine indifference? Or was the naïve and haughty young priest finally able to hear the voice of God only when he went silent so as to catch that still small voice?

That Scorsese manages to wrestle with each of these questions in turn – not to mention touching the blurry line between religion and empire, the historic failure of Western missionaries to understand or learn the cultures where they preached, or confusion surrounding fundamental doctrines of Christianity that has produced divisions in the Church to this day – within the believable confines of one story is truly remarkable. The characters in Silence are equally as layered. Who are the villains here? The film’s promotional cycle would have you believe there’s no question that Scorsese’s in the corner of the missionaries, but the film is far too generous for that. The priests are beholden to the truth and care for their flock, but they are also arrogant. The governor and his men are often sadistic in their seeming disregard for human life, but then at times also appear reasonable and far more concerned with the future prosperity of Japan as a nation than the foreigners. And, to complicate matters further, the governor (and by proxy the apostate Ferreira) seems to understand the core tenants of Christianity better than the stubborn padres he opposes.

Given the depth achieved in this surprisingly balanced cinematic exploration of morality and faith, it’s a wonder Silence was not better received. A box office dud and inexplicably ignored during awards season, Scorsese’s long-gestating passion project was apparently too ambiguous for the American Christian market and too unapologetically religious for the liberal critic circles. I suspect that the film was either too quickly derided or dismissed altogether because it’s been sadly misunderstood. Of course, this is not to say I somehow “get” something that others much smarter than me don’t. But, I believe it to be a work deserving of much richer discourse and contemplation given the sheer number of significant questions raised that Scorsese brilliantly refrains from trying to answer. And, to those uncomfortable with a mainstream Hollywood production chronicling the historical spread of Christianity I say this: Scorsese’s decision to depict Christians as the victims here does not somehow implicitly absolve the entire religion of its own spotty history of violence and forced conversions. Instead, he sees what many in today’s mass pop culture are either unable or unwilling to admit: Christians are people too – with fears, flaws, and great stories to tell.

It would be a mistake to acknowledge the thematic achievements of the filmmaker’s greatest film in years without pointing to his superior skills at the craft, which he’s mastered over the past few decades. Though Silence is a far cry from Hugo or The Wolf of Wall Street, to name his two most recent acclaimed features, there are still enough Scorsese tics to separate this historical epic from the more traditional offerings in that genre. There are his unexpected camera movements and angles, a borderline cartoonish caricature to counter the story’s grim content, and more than a few visual pleasures courtesy of Rodrigo Prieto’s breathtakingly gorgeous cinematography. Too, the big name Western actors likely meant to draw apathetic American viewers to the theater were fine, as expected, but it’s the Japanese cast that truly shines. Scorsese has a knack for unearthing scene-stealing performances from his supporting actors (especially in the post-De Niro-as-leading-man era), and Silence is no exception. Asano Tadanobu as the governor’s eerily calm and collected interpreter and Kubozuka Yosuke as the padre’s untrustworthy and religiously confused guide Kichijiro are both fantastic, but the film ultimately belongs to Issey Ogata. As the Inquisitor Inoue Masashige, Ogata compellingly oscillates between extremes during the course of a single scene giving his hot-tempered philosopher with an undeniable sadistic streak remarkable breadth as a villain.

It’s particularly fascinating to watch when Scorsese’s visual artistry meets the film’s weighty themes. This is no more evident than the recurring image of El Greco’s portrait of Christ that Garfield’s Rodrigues repeatedly sees in his daydreams and even at one point in his reflection in a bubbling stream. The portrait’s final appearance occurs during a pivotal sequence near film’s end when a cruder image of the Christ begins audibly engaging the conflicted priest as he’s faced with denouncing his faith to save the faithful. This conversation with the savior of the world represents a hauntingly bold moment in modern cinema. Scorsese seems to assert that it’s only when the proud Rodrigues, consumed with his own piety, silences himself is he able to hear the voice of his God. So, is the film’s title a reference to an almighty God’s absence or, worse, indifference to his creation’s suffering? Or does it speak to the posture or place where humankind can finally hear the divine, who has been suffering alongside his creation the whole time? Scorsese’s Silence fittingly does not answer. But, I suspect as this great work’s impact deepens with time, we may still be asking these questions for years to come.


Black Girl


(Dir. Ousmane Sembène, France/Senegal, 1966)

Out of Africa

At one point during director Ousmane Sembène’s debut feature Black Girl, his protagonist muses that to her France is nothing more than the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom of the flat that enslaves her. The young woman from Senegal lives and works as a maid for a white bourgeois family, and she never sees more of the European country she’s always dreamed of visiting than the rooms she shuffles in and out of day after day. This beachside flat on the French Riviera is her private prison. Has there been a more unglamorous depiction of a nation so often romanticized in all of cinema? On the heels of a national movement that shaped the entire medium for generations to come (one decidedly marked by white filmmakers telling white stories of white characters and concerns), Sembène’s France is boldly filtered through the lens of a black foreigner.

It goes without saying that any French film released in the mid- to late-Sixties will welcome comparisons to the so-called New Wave, but aside from a shared social conscience in a contemporary setting, Sembène’s film represents a work with a distinctly African voice. (This is not to say, of course, that Sembène would shy away from his influences – the French title La Noire de… is an unmistakable reference to Max Ophüls’ best-known film.) And, it also marks the beginning of an exciting, decades-spanning career that helped jumpstart modern African cinema. It should come as no surprise, then, that a mid-twentieth century film hopping from Africa to Europe and then back again would be explicitly concerned with the aftereffects of colonialism on a ravaged continent.

And, make no mistake; Black Girl offers no subtle social critique. Its purpose is plain and its indictment pointedly scathing – but necessarily so. In simplest terms, Sembène’s film is about racism. And, there’s no dancing around a topic like post-colonial racism, especially when the hateful and harmful behavior on display here is this overt. The young Diouana (Mbissine Thérèse Diop) – at first determined and joyful – is completely drained of her humanity when she bravely leaves Senegal for France at the invitation of her unnamed white employers. Monsieur (Robert Fontaine) and Madame (Anne-Marie Jelinek) are cruel and uncaring in their treatment of the poor woman in their service. They frequently deny her requests to see the France outside the walls of their home, allow her no voice of her own (even when writing a letter to her own mother), and subject her to shocking acts of racism. In the film’s most egregious sequence, one of the couple’s dinner guests jumps up from the table to plant a kiss on Diouana’s cheek after claiming he had never kissed a black girl before. Later, Madame dismisses the man’s uninvited and degrading gesture as a lighthearted joke. Obviously, no one’s laughing.

And, while Diouana’s skin color is reason enough for her employers to treat her like a lower class human, she also serves as the embodiment of their condescending attitude toward Africa as a whole. The couple openly discusses how unsafe and uncivilized the continent has become in the aftermath of European reign with no regard for how these opinions might affect the young Senegalese woman living in their home. “We’re not in Africa!” Madame exclaims in one scene when she chides Diouana for sleeping in. The implication, of course, is that in Africa one might indulge in laziness or applaud a poor work ethic, but in Europe there’s no place for this type of carelessness. The couple’s total lack of cultural understanding that would clue them in to different perceptions of time (among other cultural signifiers) doesn’t, however, stop them from mindlessly consuming African culture. “Exotic” and “authentic” paintings and artifacts adorn the couple’s home in Senegal, and a tribal mask Diouana gifts them before joining them in France becomes one of the film’s major recurring images.

The mask, which later hangs on the white walls of the French flat, serves as the only remaining connection between Diouana and the home she left behind. It’s an artifact with no real meaning to these white folks, but when Diouana threatens to reclaim her heritage by snatching it off the wall, Madame aggressively stakes her own claim to an object that was never hers to begin with. Sembène creates a powerful visual metaphor in the image of the two women engaged in a war over control of the mask. Can Africa reclaim its land from white European dominance even in an era of supposed post-colonialism? Sembène’s film offers two answers. On the one hand, Black Girl tells the devastating story of one African woman crushed under the forces that oppress her. Tormented by the inhumane treatment she endures, Diouana slips into depression and tragically never sees her home again. Only in death can she escape.

And yet, the film’s finale suggests that Sembène has hope for the future of his people. Racked by guilt or fear, Diouana’s employer travels to Dakar to return the mask to the young woman’s mother and to offer her the wages her daughter never received. He throws money at a problem in the only way his privilege knows how. But, the pain of losing a loved one – just like the scars of colonialism that mar the face of Africa – cannot be easily alleviated by reparations. And, when Diouana’s mother dismisses her daughter’s callous employer, a local boy slips the returned mask over his face and follows the man out of the village. Increasingly paranoid over this living specter of an Africa he never understood, the man sprints past the throngs of locals until he reaches his car. The boy behind the mask ousts the white man and ensures that he’ll never return. Africa will be responsible for its own future, Sembène boldly asserts. Thus, Black Girl ends with a glimmer of hope. Diouana may fall victim to the oppression inflicted upon her and other Africans, but for her people the future may still be bright.


In Short: January 2017

Short entries on films I’ve seen for the first time or significant revisits in January


No Home Movie (Dir. Chantal Akerman, Belgium/France, 2015)

Like Bowie’s Blackstar, Akerman’s final film No Home Movie is destined to remain inextricably tied to the singular filmmaker’s death in all future discourse. A mere two months following the film’s premiere, Akerman was found dead – the media reporting it a suicide. Given this staggering filmic essay’s intensely personal subject matter, it’s no stretch to link Akerman’s passing with the inevitable, yet devastating outcome of this unplanned, unscripted work. From over twenty hours of footage shot over the course of the last years of her mother’s life, Akerman pieces together intimate filmed conversations between she and her mother Natalia. Most of these take place within the confines of Natalia’s Brussels flat, but Akerman also includes long distance interactions captured via Skype as well as marathon uninterrupted takes of barren landscapes or inert objects to underscore the pains of the passage of time as only she could. It’s fitting that her final film, then, is also expressly concerned with how time affects her camera’s subject, but it’s also shockingly intimate in its execution.

Clearly, the decline of Natalia’s health and eventual passing had a significant impact on what Akerman allowed No Home Movie to become. In a way, it plays like a welcome companion piece to News from Home – a film where Akerman reads actual letters from her mother over a collection of images of New York, her home away from home. Her latest is somewhat of an inversion of that earlier work. Before, those shots of a far-off New York served as the filmmaker distancing herself from her passive-aggressive mother who longed for her to return home to Belgium. Now, the claustrophobic camerawork that explores nearly every corner of Natalia’s flat reveals an individual who can’t seem to get enough time with a fading loved one. Perhaps No Home Movie is a reckoning? Or a document of the process of making up for lost time? It’s impossible to know exactly what Akerman felt as she shot, edited, and ultimately released this unique home video to the world, but it does seem to be a fitting and even satisfying end to a tragically stunted career of one of cinema’s most daring artists.


Letter from an Unknown Woman (Dir. Max Ophüls, United States, 1948)

Drama, drama, drama! Max Ophüls’ mid-career romance Letter from an Unknown Woman is full of it. And, though high melodrama – particularly from this mid-century Hollywood period – is a tough sell for this cinephile to begin with, I had high hopes for my entry into Ophüls’ work. While the elaborate camerawork is stunning with its dreamlike sweeps and lateral movements – certainly appropriate for this type of imagined flashback narrative structure – the film as a whole struck me as surprisingly forgettable. Joan Fontaine failed to woo me as the naïve Lisa who allows her entire world to shift its axis to rotate around a man she never properly meets. And, while I appreciated the trajectory of the film’s mature narrative that found Lisa growing up and accepting the marriage proposal of an older man out of necessity for her and her son born scandalously out of wedlock, I had hoped its finale would have taken a turn reminiscent of the one the parted lovers share in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. But, when Lisa throws caution to the wind for the last time for the man who can never really love her for who she is, it’s almost too eye-roll inducing to handle.


The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum (Dir. Kenji Mizoguchi, Japan, 1939)

Speaking of drama, nothing could have prepared me for the shattering experience of master Kenji Mizoguchi’s aesthetic-refining masterpiece The Story of the Last Chrysanthemum. Though Sansho the Bailiff remains my favorite of the filmmaker’s works, this Meiji period piece concerning performers of the highly regarded Japanese theater known as Kabuki has already become a close second since my first viewing this month. It’s difficult not to gush over this film, which totally blew me away with its virtuoso (though decidedly not showy) long takes, meticulously choreographed set pieces, and remarkably mature handling of its themes of honor, familial duty, and the sacrifice of women in a fiercely patriarchal society. And, I hope to dedicate many more words to this gem once I’ve seen it for a second time. I suspect I will uncover even more nuances in the character development and impressive compositions that serve the film’s tragic narrative.



(Dir. Kleber Mendonça Filho, Brazil, 2016)

House of Memories

The sophomore feature of rising critic-turned-filmmaker Kleber Mendonça Filho – and first of his that I’ve seen – is perhaps the defining film of the current transitional season between a globally destabilizing 2016 and a worryingly uncertain 2017. For this American (that is, a citizen of the United States) approaching Aquarius in the aftermath of a brutal election cycle, it’s difficult not to view the film as a particularly profound statement on political and societal upheaval in our divided nation. But, what’s perhaps even more astounding, then, is that Aquarius is a Brazilian film, resolutely concerned with the politics and culture of Brazil. It’s certainly a testament to the richness of Filho’s work that the implications are thus this far-reaching.

Filho’s protagonist, the indomitable Clara (portrayed with incredible depth and fierce command by the wonderful Sonia Braga), is an aging leftist intellectual and former music critic who refuses to sell her apartment to an aggressive development company keen on demolishing the historic structure to make way for a high rise of luxury condominiums. In this fight, the stubborn Clara stands alone. All of her neighbors caved underneath the developers’ lucrative offers, and in the retro blue beachside complex known as the Aquarius only she remains. On its most basic level, the film showcases an ugly battle of wills as Clara resists not only the company’s persistent offers, but eventually its increasingly disruptive threats as well. The units around her are soon boarded up and used for loud parties, while the halls and common areas are either smeared with excrement or crowded with construction crews. Even her grown children succumb to the pressure of a move they consider inevitable. If Clara is a symbol of a fading radicalism, then the corporation’s smug, U.S.-educated representative Diego (Humberto Carrão) is the juggernaut of neoliberal capitalism incarnate.

This political subtext bubbled to the surface explosively when the cast and crew of Aquarius staged a protest at the film’s Cannes premiere in May 2016. Placards that likened the imminent dismissal of then-President Dilma Rousseff and eventual rise of Michel Temer to a coup d’état plunged the film’s national release into controversy. Critics of Filho’s own leftist leanings condemned the film and even called for boycotts, but others took solace in Clara’s bold defiance. Before long Aquarius – though never once explicitly referencing the specifics of Brazil’s political crisis – became an emblem of a nation in turmoil. In the same year that the Western world endured Brexit and the rise of Trump, the thematic posture at the center of Filho’s film inevitably crossed international boundaries. In the U.S. liberal elitism came under fire throughout 2016, and Trump’s eventual defeat of Clinton (for many, the embodiment of that very elitism) seemed to signal the end of that ideology’s cultural reign.

One could argue Clara is cut from that same cloth. She emerged from a mid-twentieth century right-wing regime on top. In her sixties she’s well off, well respected, and in some ways blind to the privilege that status provides – such as when she casually dismisses a former maid in conversation for stealing jewelry from her family or when she fails to see how her decision to stay in her apartment affects her own children. Filho’s film is remarkably generous to this flawed individual who persists in her resistance till the very end. Those in Clara’s position may represent a dying breed, but there’s deep satisfaction in her refusal to compromise her convictions and that she’s strong enough to bring her opponents down with her.

It’s difficult to view Aquarius divorced from the political climate in which it was written and released, and it’s possible Filho intended its reception to so astutely reflect its time. As with all politically or culturally relevant works of art, however, it may very well threaten the film’s lasting impact. For now, it certainly stands as one of the year’s finest. Strip away the controversy it’s generated, and Aquarius is also a beautiful treatise on the power of memories. One of the film’s recurring images reminded me of Olivier Assayas’ equally affecting masterpiece Summer Hours. In that film Assayas’s camera lingered on heirlooms and paintings that served as capsules of a family’s legacy – a fragile legacy forced to weather generational changes as a matriarch’s progeny decide to transport these artifacts from their ancestral home to a museum, a decision imbued with implication but one Assayas refuses to judge.

Likewise, Filho’s camera frequently returns to a small wooden cabinet in Clara’s living room that has been in the family for generations. In the film’s 1980-set prologue, a startlingly intimate flashback ties this inherently insignificant piece of furniture to a character’s past. And, Filho’s insistence on revisiting this object as his camera delicately floats around Clara’s home as the action carries on off-screen reveals the deep connection between things or places and the memories associated with them. At one point Clara defends her home to the callous Diego by simply asserting, “It exists.” She draws his attention to his shoulder leaning against the solid wood of the doorframe. In one sense she’s referring to the Aquarius itself – in all its vintage glory – but she may also be defending the legacy the apartment complex preserves. And yet, the film’s wholly unexpected finale complicates this bittersweet visual metaphor. The cabinet and the apartment as vessels of memories are both durable and strong – the memory of Clara’s Aunt Lucia has shaped the very woman she’s become – but they are also incredibly vulnerable to those bent on demolishing the past to make way for the future. Clara’s final act of defiance is then all the more powerful. Her memories exist, even if the Aquarius won’t for much longer. And, no one ambitious developer can erase those.


An Autumn Afternoon


(Dir. Yasujiro Ozu, Japan, 1962)

The Tradition of Change

Director Yasujiro Ozu may not be as well known in the West as Akira Kurosawa – easily the most recognizable name in classic Japanese filmmaking – but his role in not only shaping the cinema of his own nation but also the history of the entire medium cannot be overstated. Those at least somewhat familiar with international cinema have probably heard of Ozu’s Tokyo Story as it rightfully and frequently appears on “greatest films ever” lists and possibly his earlier masterpiece Late Spring as well. But, from a career that produced over fifty films over the course of nearly fifty years that influenced countless filmmakers as distinct as Abbas Kiarostami, Jim Jarmusch, Claire Denis, and Wes Anderson, one might expect greatness outside just two signature films. And, if a curious cinephile were to probe much further into the director’s mighty canon, he or she would quickly stumble upon An Autumn Afternoon.

Next to Tokyo Story and Late Spring, Ozu’s final film serves as another obvious highlight in a career of so many. It features many of the director’s characteristics – floor-level camera angles, meticulously staged framing, familial and generational concerns set against the backdrop of a post-WWII Japan – and even reworks the central father-daughter relationship of Late Spring for its primary concern. An Autumn Afternoon, then, serves as a fitting swansong for one of the medium’s greatest masters. If viewers ever level a complaint against Ozu, it’s that his films are far too similar in theme and execution to possibly offer anything new with each subsequent release. To put it mildly, I find this reading of his work unfortunately dismissive. His films may not provide the thrills of Kurosawa’s samurai epics, but it’s undeniable that there’s meaningful art and great thematic depth in the director’s similarly constructed works.

His final film is no exception. Throughout An Autumn Afternoon, Ozu’s camera captures a rapidly changing Japan in painterly fashion as it marvels at the hallmarks of modernity – boisterous baseball stadiums, red-striped smoke stacks, sleek high rises, bright neon signs. It’s remarkable how much beauty Ozu can glean from the ugliness of industrialization. Its gorgeous, geometric compositions comprised almost entirely of static shots are like onscreen moving portraits. Too, the film wonderfully underscores the collision of East and West in a postwar Japan as businessmen in suits and ties sit cross-legged on the floor to eat, or as women alternate between kimonos and pencil skirts depending on the occasion, or as family members and friends, old and young, must grapple with shifting norms as the rest of the world threatens to leave behind those beholden to tradition.

It is from within this tension that Ozu unearths his story. Aging widower Shuhei Hirayama is a successful war veteran who has three adult children, two of which still live under his roof. As his loving daughter Michiko approaches her mid-twenties, he begins facing unexpected pressure from friends and colleagues to quickly marry her off before it’s too late. Though neither father nor daughter has any desire to rush the young woman into marriage – a decision likely to forever alter their close bond – the power of tradition compels this family’s patriarch to pursue the matter further. While Late Spring heart-achingly explored the same conundrum from the perspective of the daughter, An Autumn Afternoon primarily focuses on Shuhei and his own internal struggle as a parent.

The situation becomes more complicated when Shuhei and his old school pals run into a former teacher of theirs who reveals that he mistakenly never encouraged his own daughter to marry. Now, with his respectable teaching days behind him, the man lives a lonely life running a modest noodle shop with his forlorn middle-aged daughter. Meanwhile, Michiko’s older brother Koichi encounters his own struggles in marriage as he and his wife Akiko don’t see eye to eye on many things. Together, these simple stories paint a compelling and affecting portrait of the generational changes all families must face. Too, the film offers several weighty themes for its viewers to mull over despite its bouncing, carnivalesque music score. The film causes us to contemplate how the rise of modernity has also intensified materialism. It encourages us to witness the shadow of a great war that still looms over a nation with unknown lasting effects. And, it challenges us to determine for ourselves what of tradition is worth clinging to and what is acceptable to let go of with the passing of time.

Yasujiro Ozu’s An Autumn Afternoon is not likely a film for everyone. It moves along at a gentle, careful pace and leaves most of the story’s major events off-screen. But, in doing so, it most certainly offers a welcome alternative to standard Hollywood fare for those looking for something a little different. It’s a film that refreshingly favors inference over exposition. For instance, in its final act when Michiko prepares for her wedding, Ozu chooses not to show us the ceremony or celebration and instead cuts to a series of shots of the family’s empty house. Though Michiko’s marriage is likely to bring her and her family a lot of future happiness, Ozu forces us to meditate on all of the other emotions that also come with such a major life change. This, then, is the appeal of the wondrously subtle, wholly unique filmmaking of one of cinema’s greatest directors.

[This evaluation was originally written for film site Reel World Theology.]


2016: My Year in Film


Since I don’t see enough new movies each year to justify a top ten list, I thought it’d be more fitting to put together a diary entry of sorts to close out the year 2016.


A lot happened in 2016 – personal and otherwise – but I didn’t sit down to watch many movies. At least, not as many as I did in 2015. And, that is perhaps my first observation about 2016. There just didn’t seem to be as many films that I wanted to see. Last year saw three of my favorite working directors release mid- to late-career masterpieces (The Assassin, Cemetery of Splendour, Taxi), which served as my favorite films of the year. I rediscovered the works of Tarkovsky and tracked down a lot of Hou films I had missed. Overall, in film at least, 2015 was greater than 2016.


Thus, it would only stand to reason that some of the most exciting filmic moments happened outside the confines of the traditional theatrical release. The most unexpectedly cinematic film of the year wasn’t really a film at all, but rather a “visual album” from one of the music industry’s most enthralling artists. Beyoncé’s Lemonade is not only a great pop album, but its accompanying short film/extended music video/visual essay is great art indeed. A team of directors seemingly channeling Terrence Malick creates an arresting collage of images that serve Beyoncé’s overall themes of beautiful black femininity and personal redemption.


The best film released in 2016 that I saw would have to be Kirsten Johnson’s staggering Cameraperson. With “leftover” footage culled from other documentaries that she worked on as cinematographer, Johnson crafts an unusually personal memoir with her camera pointed everywhere but on her. The film, then, is one of indelible images – two Bosnian children fiddling with an axe, a newborn baby taking its first breath and granting us relief, heart-wrenching shots of Johnson’s own mother suffering from dementia, and, of course, those fumbling hands of a young woman on the verge of a major life decision.


The year’s most pleasant surprises came in the form of Whit Stillman’s Love & Friendship and Albert Maysles’ final film In Transit. Stillman’s Jane Austen adaptation ditched the hyper romance that previous filmic versions of her famous works have zeroed in on in favor of the author’s wit. The film, then, is quite hilarious with two head-turning performances by lead Kate Beckinsale and scene-stealing Tom Bennett as the ridiculous Sir James Martin.

Maysles’ surprisingly moving documentary In Transit chronicles the journeys of different passengers aboard the Empire Builder, one of America’s great train routes. Unfamiliar with Maysles’ work, I was struck by the light-hearted humor and tenderness with which he captures his subjects. The film is both a heart-warming portrait of everyday people and an ode to the great American landscape.


The biggest head scratcher of the year was Hong Sang-soo’s lauded Right Now, Wrong Then. I caught it at the Milwaukee Film Festival a few months ago and was as equally bedfuddled as the impatient audience I watched it with. A lot of film critics and fans of the idiosyncratic, highly prolific director claimed Right Now was a good entry point into his work. If that’s the case, I won’t be quick to hunt down his other difficult-to-find films or queuing up for his latest. Apparently, boredom is a sin that cinephiles don’t like to talk about, but I will freely admit I am one not immune to it.


For films released prior to 2016, my favorite discoveries of the year were Stanley Kwan’s Centre Stage which surprisingly served as a gorgeous period drama, a self-reflexive exercise in debt to Kiarostami, and a vehicle for one of cinema’s finest performers to give her finest performance to date. Maggie Cheung was a magnetic presence throughout. I also explored Lubitsch further than Trouble in Paradise, which I already knew and loved. Both The Shop Around the Corner and To Be or Not to Be were incredibly hilarious and winsome. I had the pleasure of watching Satyajit Ray’s final film The Stranger – another late-career delight. And, finally, I got around to exploring the Dardenne brothers’ catalogue having only seen The Son. While that film remains their opus in my mind, I was particularly struck by The Kid with a Bike and Two Days, One Night.


My favorite rediscovery of the year would most certainly have to be Syndromes and a Century. Before 2016, I would have placed it below Tropical Malady and Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives in some crude ranking of the filmmaker’s works, but after three (!) re-watches this year it’s skyrocketed to the top of my favorite Weerasethakul films. There’s so much nuance, subtle humor, and beautifully ambiguous metaphor that I think I could get something different out of it with each subsequent viewing. It’s a film I’ll never tire of.


Exploring the canonized films of revered filmmakers Agnès Varda and Jim Jarmusch would sadly constitute the year’s biggest disappointment. Aside from the excellent Cléo from 5 to 7, I found nothing particularly remarkable in Le Bonheur or Vagabond. Unfortunately, it’s kept me from digging further. Someday I hope to get around to The Gleaners & I. The same can be said for Jarmusch’s classic output. His minimalist, proto-hipster take on what would become “indie” cinema truly aroused little to no feeling in this viewer. I don’t remember a single shot or memorable moment from either Stranger Than Paradise or Down by Law. The mid-90s cult hit Dead Man faired a bit better. I was at least interested from start to finish. This doesn’t bode well for my current interest in Paterson – what critics have been hailing as another non-urgent masterpiece.


The year’s most interesting pairing would have to be seeing Jacques Demy’s The Umbrellas of Cherbourg for the first time followed by Damien Chazelle’s hyped La La Land only a few weeks later. While I certainly appreciated Demy’s subversion and fitting adaptation of the American musical, Umbrellas just wasn’t for me. Musicals are a hard sell for this cinephile to begin with, so an entirely sung film with few melodies and no eye-popping dance numbers wasn’t likely to win me over. Enter La La Land, a film unabashedly inspired by Demy’s classic. Chazelle is a determinedly competent filmmaker, but like Whiplash his latest future Oscar winner left me wanting more. As one critic put it, the stakes of the central relationship that pits romance against artistic integrity are shockingly low in comparison to the grown-up decisions the characters make in Umbrellas. It’s a valid point. One film, though bursting in Technicolor with each line sung, is more grounded in reality than the other. La La Land is just that: a trip through some imaginary land where things look and sound nice, but you’ll probably forget about them a day or two later.


The film I am still processing months after my first viewing is Malick’s derided Knight of Cups. Most critics wrote him off as a self-parodying hack after the release of his seventh feature. And, while my loyalties remain with one of my favorite filmmakers, his latest did leave me a bit conflicted. How can one top The Thin Red Line or The Tree of Life? In short, he probably never will. But, To the Wonder showed promise with possible new directions for the visual storyteller. Knight of Cups does the same. Malick forces conventional narrative as far into the background as it will go, emphasizing his Lubezki-shot visuals and voiceover contemplation. There are moments of rapturous beauty throughout, but as a whole the verdict’s still out for the abstract Knight of Cups.


In 2016, the limitations of my small-town cinephilia were felt more than ever before. I still haven’t seen Aquarius, Certain Women, Manchester by the Sea, Moonlight, No Home Movie, Silence, or Toni Erdmann. And, while it’s foolish to try to assign significance to any given film before one sees it, it’s difficult to reckon with the reality that most of my (likely) favorite films of 2016 will be viewed for the first time in 2017.


And, finally, 2016 will sadly be remembered for the passing one of the medium’s greatest artists. Though he’s gone from this earth, his works will live on as long as people still care about cinema. RIP Abbas Kiarostami.