The Night is Short, Walk on Girl (2017)

For the film itself I will say this, the pared back design is nonetheless effective and arresting, the episodic storytelling is so non-stop and manic it's impossible to get bored with the on-screen action, and the music is deliciously whimsical, adding to the general air of ebullience, romance and playfulness that underpins this feature length anime.

The only critique I could level at this film is the rather superficial nature of the characters and narrative; there are no great psychological insights into anyone on screen and the story is more or less frivolous - despite the rapidity and convolution of it's twists and turns.

Now, don't read past this point unless you want a window into my harried psyche and existential frustrations, when my mind refuses to shut the fuck up at 1.30am Australian time during a working week. This is not for my Letterboxd friends, this is simply for me. However, Those with morbid curiosity may proceed.

A large part of why this film captured me (Even if I suspect I diluted a great deal of its impact by breaking it up into piecemeal viewings in between my ever demanding ESL work) is that the graceful, sweet exuberant lead character, Otome, reminded me of a female Chinese friend of mine who I've more or less fallen head over heels in love with over the past week.

Objectively plain, a tad scattered and ditzy, and possessing qualities that would often make her a pain in the arse as a girlfriend (For example, giving her boyfriend the silent treatment for two days or more as punishment for forgetting something she mentioned to him - even though she herself often suffers from lapses of memory), to me, presently, she is the most beautiful person on earth.

Every time I am with her her soul speaks to me. The unfettered joyfulness of her Life Path 3 spirit stretches out from her and suffuses me in a warm aura of hope and wonder. She is surprising, spontaneous, unexpected and almost completely fearless in her attitude towards life and people. She will approach anyone to ask a question (And in fact her friends often prompt her to when they're feeling reluctant) and find out something new about the world. She will impulsively leap into the splits at the Botanical Gardens, heedless of anyone watching or the fear of duck shit muddying her pants. She will join me in St. Kilda, even though we'd already cancelled the event due to bad weather, because quote "the sun had come out in the CBD!" I've never been happier to stand in such charged (for me at least) close proximity to another human being, sheltering beneath an umbrella as rain pelted the face of iconic Luna Park's clown face entry, wishing wildly I could draw her closer to me but not daring to ruin so rewarding a friendship. Due to her charmed life and luck, the rain stopped, affording us a long walk north along the beach, where I got to find out more about her life and how her mind works. Despite several hours of conversation, she still remains largely a mystery to me, both simple, straightforward and yet somehow unknowable. The truth of her lies in her spirit, not necessarily in her words.

Alas, she has a long term boyfriend back in China, and although uncertainty lies in whether they will remain together (His family is pushing for an American visa) P is a dedicated girl, a good soul (And a steadfast Year of the Ox person), and I doubt she would betray his trust for me. Even though at this point, moving into my forties, I no longer suffer from such illusions of "honour" providing rewards or solace in the never-ending drudgery of creation. It is not honour but a fear of losing her forever that prevents me from telling her my feelings. And I would have to hit this girl over the head with a brick to get the level of my passions across. I even dared to brush hair away from her face, to openly tell her I'd always found her "cute and beautiful"; both of which she either ignored or dismissed the real significance of.

In John Cleese and Robyn Skinner's book, "Life and How to Survive It", the two men go into how most "average relationships" work. Generally, people fall in love with each other because they see qualities in the other person that they themselves lack. In P, it is the exuberance and happiness of her soul that I desire and lack within myself. For P...at present she probably just thinks I'm funny, a nice person to talk to and learn new English words from.

But basically, like the Vietnamese Life Path 3 woman I mentioned moons ago, I feel more alive and more connected to life when I'm around P. I feel closer to the long distant memory of happiness and hope I used to experience before I hit my twenties. She just feels good to have near you.

What I want is to have her lean back into my body as we lie together on my couch, watching The Shape of Water (Which I was impressed she suggested we watch when with a fellow friend) or Wall-E, holding her snugly into me while lightly kissing her neck. I want to tell her:

"I have fallen in love with you, P. I have fallen in love with the energy of your spirit and the kindness of your soul. Every moment I am with you - though I am filled with frustration and pain at not being able to claim you - I want nothing more than to cherish you, and surround you with love till the end of our days, or for however long we are meant to be together. I want to explore life with you and share the wold's experiences with you; because without the ability to share these things with you, they are merely grey and tuneless distractions in the every growing cacophony of existence. But when I can share them with you, when I can see them reflected in your eyes, they come alive with a vibrancy I can barely express without breaking up. I want to share everything with you. All the best parts of me, my hopes, my happiness and dreams, I wish to gift to you, because I only want the best for you, in all things. I want to love and protect you and let you cry and share your feelings with me. And when I need to break I want to break in your arms. I love the tenacity and mischief of your beautiful spirit and I want nothing more on this earth than to claim you and love you, utterly and completely and without apologies."

What of course I will end up doing is saying goodbye without ceremony via text message or during a friendly catch-up. She leaves for China next week, will be gone for the entire month of July and by the time she returns in August some development between her and her boyfriend will have ultimately sealed her fate, and I will most likely have moved to a different part of Melbourne or accepted (with resignation) a move to do ESL work in Thailand - due to Melbourne's ridiculous rental market. That is the dull reality of existence for me, the Year of the Dog person whose fate is always to make sacrifices for others, while my own heart and talents remain undeveloped. Fuck the Chinese zodiac, man.

I am unconcerned with P finding this message. There is no chance she's a Letterboxd user and the likelihood of any of MY LB contacts having a direct (or even passing) relationship with her are slim to none. I merely write this to expunge myself of my feelings, to provide some record of my ever thwarted love life to then wryly or bitterly smile at some months or years down the track - laughing at how I used to feel, how my feelings have changed (once again) or ruminating on how it all went sour.

But presently P is one of the healthier relationships I have in my life, and I have to work hard not to sabotage a good friendship with my need and desire. I fear I will self destruct something beautiful and I really don't want to. But it's hard when your heart aches for a meaningful connection and someone wonderful is standing right in front you.

They say love is meant to be patient and kind, but I truly wonder now whether I'll ever find a P who is free to share their life with me.

"Revenge of the Gweilo" (2016) - In case Letterboxd takes my review down

When someone is witnessing the birth of a new kind of cinema, words fail. When an auteur arrives who truly eclipses all who have come before him, no superlative adjective seems apt. In the eons to come, when “Cassavetes” devolves into a cheap by-word for glorified home movies, when “Tarantino” is reduced to an ugly slur for violent podiatrists, and “Kubrick” is crudely scrawled above glory holes to invite multiple takes, there will be one director left standing, one name that will stay carry greatness. That man’s name…is “Nathan Hill”.

Who is this God who has graced us mere mortals with his presence? What wunderkind of cinema now walks among us, reshaping everything we thought we knew about movies?

So many of us have blithely come to accept that film audio needs an atmosphere track in the mix, to kiss over environmental sounds recorded in the dialogue. Not Nathan Hill. So many cinematographers have blindly capitulated to dynamic lighting that creates contrast, highlights and visual interest. Not so, Nathan Hill. Every shot in this film is adequately or blandly lit. The effect is mind blowing. You’ll scratch your head, wondering, “Why has no one thought of this before?” Not since Welles has a film maker forced me to reconsider everything I took for granted about film technique.

Consider the protagonist of an action film. Hill has, and broken new ground by doing so. Many might consider that an action star should have charisma, physical fitness and an intense knowledge of and background in martial arts. Jet Li is a former world champion. Schwarzenegger is a Mr. Universe winner. Nathan Hill has taken karate lessons. There is a lesson here and that lesson is, “less is more”. I’m sorry, James Cameron, but you were wrong. We all were, about everything.

When watching Hill in action, many might come away with the perception of a delusional narcissist with the gaze of a serial killer and the sexual magnetism of Toby from the U.S. version of The Office crossed with a sack of potatoes. But those viewers have failed to see the greatness in every flat footed step that this dad bodied Adonis occupies the screen with. Nathan Hill is the new zenith of action stardom and we should all be thankful to have him. Iko Uwais? Sure, he’s fine if you’re into exposed shin bones. Tony Jaa? Great, let’s all break our elbows for the sake of entertainment. Nathan Hill delivers a head blow to a Sumo that could cripple a throw pillow. This is the new standard by which all filmed martial arts will be measured.

What is profoundly evident in this revolutionised cinema is Hill’s love for Asian women. His passion and respect for them is palpable. Where lesser film makers might have chosen actresses based on talent, ability to emote or skill with dialogue, Hill crams the screen with alternatively wooden or over acting women whose merits consist of physical beauty and how sexy they look in latex outfits. Watching Asian actresses garble English dialogue with the oddly stressed intonation you’d expect of Short Round attending a lower tier EAL class was one of the most empowering things I’ve seen for Actresses of Colour. They were not dehumanised, objectified or made to look like fools; Hill has raised these women to the level of steamy, Oriental Goddesses occupying a Rice King’s wet dream. They almost occupy the same Olympus-like playing field that Hill inhabits. Almost.

This kino prodigy can’t help but overhaul notions of plot and narrative either. Not for a moment was I ever confused as to what was happening or where the story was going. The odd diversions like Hill’s angry conversation with his attractive, bewildered next-door neighbour - who is never addressed again - or the strange middlemen who dance with black women, were never confounding. They all feed into Hill’s overall aesthetic, and that is: have you noticed that Nathan Hill is on screen? Everything else is secondary. And when Hill and his dead wife’s sister unexpectedly carve up a dead villain in a bath tub, in what is presumably meant to be viewed as a bad-ass, cathartic act of revenge, but comes across like the masturbatory fantasies of Ed Gein; I was not disturbed, I was dazzled by the filmmaker’s audacity and invention. This film is never dull. Not in the part where a “grief-stricken” Hill talks to his Dad via Skype, not in the bits where the overacting Asian crimeboss berates her underlings. Not even in the long stretches where we stare at Hill’s back while he looks across the city - allowing us to really take in the authentic, third world stitching of the scorpion emblem on the Drive jacket Hill purchased for the shoot. (The allusions between Ryan Gosling’s character in the aforementioned film and Hill’s own plain, rodent-faced protagonist are so subtle as to be invisible. Only the keenest of cinema watchers will pick up on the references) The propulsive pace of this film is like being strapped into a motorised wheelchair. It will force your body to react in ways you never expected. Despite myself, I yawned.

I am truly gobsmacked that this treasure of cinema is not spoken about in the same breathless tones as Citizen Kane, The Godfather or Parasite. The only other rare gem I know to compare Gweilo to is Gramps Goes to College. Why has Hill; this important figure of cinematic excellence, gone virtually unrecognised and unnoticed by the wider film community? Why is he not spoken about here on Letterboxd with the same reverence as Scorsese or Lynch? Where are the dissertations and essays breaking down the complex nuances and revolutionary techniques employed across Hill’s oeuvre? Think of any great name in cinema, and Hill will trump them. Wong Kar-Wai, Kurosawa, Chan Wook Park? Assclowns. Spielberg? A fairground carny who occasionally craps out the odd Holocaust winner. Paul Thomas Anderson? A grandiose, weepy Grandmother obsessed with nutters. Hill doesn’t just merely make films about men like Daniel Plainview; he is Daniel Plainview! Nathan Hill is the third revelation! He has bedded and discarded more dead Asian prostitutes in barrels of acid than women you’ll ever have the courage to approach in your lifetimes! This man is an Uber Alpha, natural born dominant who wipes his arse with beta cuck “arthouse” film makers like Aronofsky or Winding Refn. He eats upstarts like Tarkovsky for breakfast. He uses Hitchcock and Coppola as throw rugs in his living room. He kicked Fincher in the dick and Fincher had a little cry about it. Hill puts out his cigarettes on Ridley Scott’s face. He told Nolan that “No one likes a smart cunt”, and then also kicked him in the dick.

Nathan Hill is nothing short of a living cinematic deity, and if there is any message to take away from Revenge of the Gweilo - and many philistines might argue for its value purely as jerk off material for an ill guided fantasist - it’s this: Hill is here, Hill has arrived; All hail to the King!

Heart of Glass - transparently mesmerising

Werner Herzog personally hypnotized every actor in this film before each take, with the exceptions of the prophesier and glass blowers. Apparently many of the cast were non actors and while hypnotized Herzog would feed them their lines for the scene before rolling. What appears on screen then is a mass of haunted looking actors, some remote, others looking like they may fall asleep. Every action and gesture is this film is loose, dream-like, uncensored and surprising.

There are few directors who are able to depict nature with such power, mystery and danger as Herzog. Even the art of glass blowing becomes a kind of magic before his lens.

I essentially understand nothing of what this film is "about" but Herzog at his best always transports me to different worlds, to the brink of madness or revelation or human beings striving for the impossible. My favorites so far are The Enigma of Kasper Hauser, this, Woyzeck and Fitzcarraldo. Like Harmony Korine, Herzog has the ability to show me something I've never seen before, and for that I am eternally grateful for his films.

Reality - Burning Rubber

I'll preface this review by saying I wasn't a fan of Quentin Dupieux's Rubber back in 2010, I thought it abused a high concept (The impossibly sentient tire who just as inexplicably kills people) by acknowledging the fourth wall and having a gang of spectators observe and comment on the tire from afar. I felt the latter was unnecessary dressing and that the central concept was engaging and absurd enough to sustain a film on it's own. The observers actually took away from my pleasure of seeing a simple horror trope playfully skewed.

Both Wrong (2012) and Wrong Cops (2013) escaped my attention, I didn't even know the director had followed up Rubber until I found out about this latest effort from a film site I frequent.

Thankfully, in Reality the central conceit is acknowledging the fourth wall and playing around with cinematic conventions, so their inclusion works for rather than against the film.

I was initially frustrated by Dupieux's reluctance to settle on a story thread: is our tale about Jon Heder in a rat suit possessed by delusions of eczema, or the little girl who spies a mysterious blue video tape in the disemboweled entrails of a hog, or the aspiring film director (Jason played by Alain Chabat) charged with recording an Oscar-winning scream to secure funding for his feature film? Dupieux does finally settle on the third thread as our main line of inquiry, but not before confusing the little girl story by calling her "Reality" and having her as the subject of a film being screened for the producer who has promised Jason film funding.

Once you realize that the film is a deliberate play on confusing reality, dreams and cinema, you simply relax and enjoy how skillfully Dupieux surprises and plays with these various levels. At one point Jason calls the Producer of his film during an earlier meeting between the Producer...and himself. The earlier Jason tells the Producer to assure later Jason that he is simply having a nightmare and will wake up soon. In another section Reality is sitting before the Principal for attempting to play the tape at school. The Principal asks for the tape and Reality threatens to tell everyone the Principal dresses as a woman and drives around in an army jeep - but she couldn't possibly know this, because this was a dream the Principal had. She only featured in the dream, she couldn't possibly have been there for real, right?

Nothing is properly explained or tied up by the film's elliptical end but this, like Holy Motors, is one of those rare surrealist/absurdist films where the ride is so enjoyable you don't really mind if it doesn't make sense.

It loses a few points for being a little bit full of itself and not being particularly profound or insightful.

I Come with the Rain - bit of a wash out despite beautiful ambition

Despite a reviewer on Letterboxd suggesting this film fails due to an overuse of style by the director (Tran Anh Hung), I disagree, his typically sensual style and lush, saturated color scheme works well, its simply that this film tries to do too much with it's narrative, symbolism and philosophical questions.

Hung wants us to invest in a story where not only do we have an ex-cop perusing a missing son (Said ex-cop related too much to the serial killer he pursued, becoming "contaminated" in the process), a ruthless crime boss with a sincere and consuming love for his drug addict girlfriend, but we also have to suspend disbelief for a man who can absorb the wounds and illnesses of others and recover from them (and who later becomes a literal Christ figure). Even accepting a potential audience in people like me who adore watching weird cinema and are prepared to take faithful leaps into new territory, this is a lot to demand of an audience for one film, especially one that by and large adopts a naturalistic tone. The Cop becoming killer aspect alone would be subject enough for one film, never mind the miraculous aspect of the healer he's charged with finding.

The Cop's descent into madness comes across as forced and out of place and is hindered by the uninvolving Josh Hartnett (Who I've never rated and can't think of one performance where he's "wowed" me). The actress who plays the crime boss's lover is also a bit weak, you just don't care when she experiences trauma, she doesn't draw you in to empathize with her.

When in the final third of the film Hung attempts to get us to buy into Biblical stories recreated by our leads, it just feels like too much of stretch. It almost works but doesn't quite gel, which is a shame because the level of ambition here is admirable and I will always a praise a film maker trying to show us something different.

It's difficult to work out who this film was aimed at, presumably with an American lead, the detective tracking down missing persons plot and the Asian actors speaking English (often jarringly), Hung and the producers were looking for some kind of crossover appeal and mainstream success. But when you throw a "relating to serial killers" theme and Colonel Kurtz-esque figure into the mix, along with the healer and biblical references, you immediately alienate anyone who wont sit through anything weirder than Gone Girl. The violence is extreme (I.e. beating a homeless man to death with his dead dog) but no more so than the majority of Asian crime cinema.

Ultimately this film is about the beauty of human suffering (Said as much by the serial killer, a solid and typically creepy Elias Koteas), that we all suffer despite our various stations and their is profound humanity and complexity behind our suffering. Pity the film handles this statement rather clumsily.

As the Gods Will - Miike back in fine form!

"As private parts to the Gods are we, they play with us for their sport". Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett , Blackadder 2.

This got a pretty meager rating on IMDB (6.5) but to my mind it's Miike at his best: imaginative, disturbing, darkly comic, brutal, unusual and deeply philosophic. If you're looking for gore and weirdness, this is up there with Ichi and Gozu. It's kind of like Battle Royale with deities. A stunning return to form for Miike after the rather dull and tepid 13 Assassins. It also features the best and most consistent use of CGI in any of his films.

Strange Colors fail to mix

The Strange Colors of your Body's Tears is a truly beautiful film whose unfortunate use of aggressive stylizing ultimately distances you from being engaged with the story. Don't misunderstand me, the constant close-ups of eyes (which elicit a paranoiac response in the viewer) and oblique action combined with the detailed soundtrack keep you constantly on edge - it's an unnerving experience throughout that attacks the nervous system - but these devices don't make you care about the lead much less remain interested in what's happened to his absent wife.

That the film's narrative doesn't coalesce until the last half hour makes following this particular plot point very tedious indeed. Much of the film is taken up with experimental images and editing, and there are quite a few story deviations (From the mysterious old woman upstairs, the detectives recounting of an earlier case) before we pick up the threads of the wife's disappearance. They are fun but ultimately distracting.

As pure execution of style, in terms of photography, framing, color, set design, lighting and editing, the film could well be peerless. This is a dizzying and intoxicating visual feast, it's simply that much of it doesn't serve the story. The film's look, editing and sound design is quite obviously a homage to 70's Giallo horror films and fittingly an atmosphere of dread, of something lurking nearby is palpable throughout.

The film ultimately seems to be about a resident who develops some sort of fear/fixation with period blood on a young girl he meets in childhood, which leads into sadomasochistic exploits with women and ultimately murder. One of the women he exploits apparently becomes a killer herself. At least that's what I took away from the film's bizarre conclusion.