San Francisco International Film Festival 2004:
Reviews
First, three memories from this year's SFIFF that don't
necessarily have anything to do with film, but have everything to do with festivals:
1. The pre-festival gathering held by the San Francisco Film Society where
we were given the rough overview of this year's events: During the QA session,
more than a few members raised a stink about discrimination against "single"
filmgoers, who weren't afforded some of the discounts available to "couples."
The Film Society folks on stage tried to defuse the situation, but the patrons
were good and indignant, and were hungry for flesh. A Film Society organizer said
after a fruitless five minutes of back-and-forth, "We've had that conversation."
(Read: There's nothing I can do about your complaint, so I'm sidestepping this
entirely.) The film society member retorted, "It's not a conversation
when you're not listening." (Read: I'll only be satisifed if you do exactly
what I want you to do, and right now.)
2. B. Ruby Rich on the State of Cinema: The annual SFIFF lecture, held
just before the showing of "Habana Suite," wasn't the most inspiring
affair, although Professor Rich built up a good head of steam as she commented
on how mainstream U.S. cinema is all about the "rated R" -- Revenge,
that is. "I look forward to the day when the 'R' in the 'R' rating can stand
for 'remorse,' or 'regret,'" she quipped. She was less successful when it
came to her laundry list of how film festivals have historically been sites of
political machination and controversy (three examples are fine, but ten -- in
exhaustive detail?). Her reading of the Lord of the Rings trilogy as some sort
of Wagnerian fascist call to power was also a bit much. However, nothing she said
seemed to merit the response of a good portion of the audience. "Get to the
point!" was yelled on more than one occasion, and at the conclusion of the
speech, more than a few boos were in evidence. Apparently folks didn't realize
they were in for a lecture when they read about it in their program.
3. Sitting in the theater, 30 minutes before the start of "Manhole":
Behind me, a man said to another man, "Do you know you're talking the loudest
of anyone here because you're on the phone?" The man on the phone replied,
"The movie hasn't started yet." The complainer snapped, "It doesn't
matter." For the record, the man on the phone wasn't that loud.
All of the above crystalizes the joys and pains of watching movies in San Francisco.
Here we are in one of the most cinematically diverse cities in America (not a
major achievement these days, but still), and yet I grimace at the backbiting,
the intolerance, the snobbery, my way or the highway. And we deal with that on
top of the multiplex uniformity and cell-phone yappers that the rest of the nation
must contend with. There's nothing like going to a movie in San Francisco to remind
us of the smug righteousness that afflicts liberal and conservative alike, like
peacocks showing off their feathers before they're shot.
But on to the movies. B. Ruby Rich got it right in her speech: we have an interest
for foreign movies because we have a thirst for other viewpoints, fresh perspectives,
cultural frissions, difference. Some can read it as a superficial taste
for exoticism, others as a frou-frou badge of honor (Oh, he's high class --
he watches foreign films, you know), but regardless, films are communication,
whether they be across political, artistic, or personal lines. Many of the films
I saw at this year's festival are works in progress, which is not to say they
felt incomplete or rushed -- rather, they point down roads, indicate general directions
on the compass, even stare down their own dead ends. Where everything around us
is prepackaged, preordained, and presold, at their best these films leave the
awesome, thrilling aftertaste of possibility. Which is just as well, because chances
are this will be my last SFIFF for a while. My San Francisco Film Society membership
has expired, and without it, it's just not financially viable to attend future
festivals.
"Policier"
Memories of Murder (Korea)
There's no doubt about it -- South Korea is currently
providing the most thoughtful, multilayered, and crowd-pleasing films in Asian
cinema today. Hong Kong is content to regurgitate past myths, and Japan offers
good shock value and twists on standard genres, but Korean movies are earthy,
substantive concoctions. Visceral drama in abundance, polished production values,
bawdy humor, naturalistic acting, and passionate sentimentality -- it's a delicate
balance to maintain, and sometimes the fine line is tripped over (take many of
their weepy soap opera dramas, or Shiri, which despite its calculated cruelty
is nothing more than a Jerry Bruckheimer movie writ large with a topical political
hook). But when it works, the results are unique, such as they are with this film.
Most mysteries revel in the solution, the parting of the veil: Memories of
Murder revels in suspension and ambiguity. Loosely based on a true detective
story from 1986, the film follows the investigation of serial killings in a naive
country town. In a classic mismatched-buddy setup, the town's top cop, Inspector
Park (Song Kang-ho), who isn't above manufacturing evidence, beating suspects
to force confessions, or consulting local shamans for clues, is paired with Inspector
Lee (Kim Sang-kyung), the more deliberate, scientifically-oriented detective from
the big city. Together, they investigate, cajole suspects, stumble into blind
alleys, and pursue the killer, who may or may not be a young man with a soft features
and a haughty manner.
As in the real-life case, the investigation is a failure, the crimes never solved.
But Bong Joon-ho's film is less about the events of the case and more about a
place and time. Through the accumulation of humor and small details, we're afforded
a panoramic view of Korea in 1986, with its rough-hewn people, the constant threat
of student riots, the atmosphere of violence that seems to hang like mist. We
become intimately familiar with the people and geography of this village: the
outcasts and schoolgirls, the throb of coal mines, a nurse who also happens to
be the town prostitute, students arguing politics at the local noodle shop, a
lonely cottage on the hills where the grass waves and a victimized woman lives
alone. Bigotry, abuse, and sexism are present, although they are never harped
on, merely another color in the palette. We walk the fine line between awkward
affection and repulsion for these country folks, particularly Inspector Park and
his "torture first, ask questions later" partner, and our sympathy for
the city slicker cop eventually gives way to the grim recognition that he, too,
has the capacity for bottomless rage and violence.
Heavy ideas, but surprisingly, the movie is also light
and often laugh-out-loud funny. The locals are singularly unequipped to handle
crime, and much of the humor comes from their bumblings. You wouldn't think a
scene in which an innocent man is beaten into a confession would have humorous
overtones, but Bong has a deft way of underlining the ridiculousness of abuse,
and the ignorance of the abusers. The mystery may not be the thing, but Bong also
expertly ratchets up the tension with beat-the-clock suspense, gritty chases on
foot, and a memorable climax on a railroad track drenched with rain. The plot
may be a little telegraphed -- when Inspector Lee proclaims his mantra "Documents
never lie" not once but three times, you know he's in for an eventual letdown
-- but the film casts a fuguelike trance, veering effortlessly between humor,
drama, and sadness.
The film overstays its welcome a bit -- some of the interrogations become repetitive,
and there are a few longeurs -- but the final scene, in which a middle-aged man
comes face to face with a child and his own mortality amid a scene of simple pastoral
splendor, unable to escape the memory of the crime committed there, is glorious.
It's sometimes difficult to encounter genuine feeling in Asian movies, which often
use emotions as plot agitators, but Memories of Murder has messy feelings
dripping from its every pore, and is all the better for it.
Burning Dreams (Taiwan)
American cinema 2004 may go down in history as the Year of the Documentary. At
least, that's where the focus and controversies are thriving. Michael Moore, Super-Size
Me, Control Room, The Fog of War -- more than ever, documentaries have become
battle sites of dogma and philosophy and method. What to make of commentary in
a documentary? Is it really possible to be "objective" in a documentary?
Where does the reportage end and the art begin? Are they inseparable, complementary,
or forever at war? Age-old questions.
And then we have this odd little documentary from Taiwanese
director Wayne Peng. Ostensibly a simple story about Dreams 52, "Shanghai's
only modern jazz dacing school," it dives into the lives of the school's
master, wizened yet irascible Liang Yi, and his charges. Some of them, like his
protege and fellow teacher Yang Yang, are thirtysomethings braced on the precipice
between promise and unfulfillment, but most are still in their teens, flush with
their first stab at individuality, even if it is within the painstakingly choreographed
confines of dance classes. We observe as these young spirits sit in a circle and
expound on their dreams of love, of freedom, of something better than they are,
and we cannot help but reflect on similar talks decades ago, and revolutions laid
to dust. We watch as they laugh and play and exult in their routines, and while
none of the dancing here will transport the viewer, there is no denying their
enthusiasm, their lust, their focused energy.
Filmed in gorgeous black-and-white cinematography (Peng is best known as a director
of commercials), and fueled primarily by a big-band soundtrack, Burning Dreams
leans more towards intimacy. Modern Shanghai is a backdrop, but apart from some
soaring vignettes of dancers tapping their way across the tops of skyscrapers,
the city's presence is curiously muted. Instead we're treated to close-ups of
nubile bodies, faces lost in thought or delight, cramped cafes at night, outdoor
auditoriums with bad sound systems. [To be concluded]
"Total Recall"
Sky Blue (aka Wonderful Days, Korea)
This was supposed to be the big one -- Korea's first major animation project,
put together by many of the same people who breathe life into Japanese and U.S.
animation. A film seven years in the making. Based on the short trailer and scant
production stills I had seen, I was anticipating a somewhat derivative but zesty
cybperunk thriller, with some of the distinguishing characteristics of the best
Korean cinema (see "Memories of Murder" above).
I should note that I viewed Sky Blue (original
Korean title: Beautfiul Days) under less than perfect conditions. Expecting
to see the film in its original Korean language, I instead was exposed to a typical
English dub job, where actors wheeze and sound like they're trying very hard not
to crack up. It was also evident that the print of the film we viewed came from
a pixillated video source. But setting aside the assault to eyes and ears, it
was also clear that Sky Blue is a mess. Undernourished yet overblown, po-faced
and perfunctory, it is a copy of a copy. Taking its cues from the usual suspects
-- Aeon Flux, Blade Runner, Ghost in the Shell, Star Wars, and even Disney
(check out the Bambi eyes on the kids) -- Sky Blue is a smorgasboard of
influences lacking distinctive characteristics. The story centers on a utopian
city that hogs the resources of the land, and a ragtag band of rebels that must
free the energy in the city's main reactor, only it turns out the hunky leader
of the rebels was once involved with a ballsy yet beautiful security woman from
the city, who ... oh, what's the point?
The seven years spent obsessing over this film shows;
it has the planned-to-death inevitability of a shoot-em-up arcade game, the characters
sucked of all life. Some of the images are pretty, particularly the silvery spires
of the city, the kinetic motion of gliders and ground speeders, the muddy remains
of half-sunk battleships. But you've seen or heard it all before in any half-baked
Japanese animated film, and it goes to show that the monolithic presence of anime
is hard to shake in the East, just as Pixar's computer animation is becoming a
fact of life in the West. It's too early to tell whether Sky Blue should
be considered a baby step in the development of a Korean animation tradition with
its own identity, or a dead end (like Tsui Hark's ill-fated Chinese Ghost Story
was for Hong Kong animation back in 1997). One thing is for sure: more dyspeptic
dystopias like this, and Pepto Bismol will be required.
"Day in the Life"
Suite Habana (Cuba)
"When you love the way I do,
it's impossible to be widely apart."
The festival's most memorable entry for me was this film, and for once the hype
is justified. Thanks to the lovely folks at the U.S. State Department, the director,
Fernando Perez, could not come to the U.S. to attend. Throw that on top of our
nation's ongoing love affair with the contradiction that is Cuba -- Oh, those
lovely vintage cars! That fantastic music! The charm and innocence of the people!
-- and you had a ready-made recipe for a boffo critical reception at an international
film festival. It's a burden that no film deserves to carry, but against all odds,
Suite Habana, in its disarmingly elegant story and presentation, renders
expectations moot.
The film is an urban symphony, following various inhabitants
of Havana as they go about their daily routines and hobbies. The cast of over
a dozen characters range from a mentally handicapped boy being cared for by his
father, to a doctor who moonlights as a party clown, to a railway worker who morphs
into a gospel jazz saxophonist at night, to an old woman on the street, all dreams
lost, the sugary snacks she sells the only activity that occupies her consciousness.
It would be easy for hamfisted social commentary, for pathos overload, for any
one of a thousand canned emotions, but Perez adroitly sidesteps all of these.
From its deathless opening, in which a lighthouse signals the coming of dawn,
to the closing of the day, in which a solitary statue of John Lennon in the city
park cries under a thunderstorm, Perez presents each individual story with a minimum
of affect. The movie is composed of happenings, comings, goings, the daily routines.
Characters ride to work on bicycles, while others leave for America on a jet.
A high heel is mended by a shoemaker with meticulous precision, while a railroad
track is disassembled rivet by rivet. There is slow pleasure, an almost Zen-like
acceptance contained in these events, even something as simple as the making of
a breakfast, or the building of a house under the hot noon sun. Nearly wordless,
the film is driven by the ambient noises of Cuba, sleepily calm during the day,
raucous and less inhibited at night. At various points Perez injects mournful
musical interludes, enhancing the natural rhythm of the piece as it progresses
from morning to night.
The word "magic" is not a term to be bandied about lightly, but that's
what Perez accomplishes here. In its refusal to be artifically "dramatic,"
its understated but stunning cinematography (which captures Cuba's beauty and
poverty better than any film in recent memory), its calm concentration on these
characters' lives, the film's power accumulates. We become observers of life,
stripped down to childlike apprehension and appreciation. Just like the waves
that crash mercilessly on shore at film's beginning and end, we become aware of
the daily routines and the tidal changes they bring, even as they repeat themselves
endlessly.
It seems highfalutin or even silly to describe a film as a spiritual experience,
but that is indeed what Suite Habana provides. Words cannot describe its
achievements, and that's a tribute to cinema and its ability to express the ineffable,
to provoke emotion, in the most economical means possible. Not a bad reminder
to take away from this festival.
