***1/2 (Excellent)

Journey to the Shore could have gone in radically different directions with its intriguing premise, that of ghosts who appear to be humans for all intents and purposes. But Kiyoshi Kurosawa chooses the most counterintuitive and difficult of them all: the romantic drama. The film stays solidly grounded in the relationship between the two main characters, Mizuki (Eri Fukatsu) and Yusuke (Tadanobu Asano), using it as the basis for the more eerie or “genre” elements that Kurosawa occasionally hints at. But even in this regard, the romantic aspects are consistently elided; though the ghosts seem to have the exact same physiology as regular people, Mizuki and Yusuke almost never touch throughout the narrative, instead conveying their romance through discussions of the past, when the two were married before Yusuke’s death, and longing glances as their subdued chemistry shines through.

From the very beginning, Journey to the Shore is clearly playing by completely different rules, refusing to conform to any familiar narrative structure. After a short scene introducing Mizuki teaching piano to a young girl that will not be seen again, Yusuke shows up in her apartment without warning, having been gone for three years. Only as the scene goes along does the viewer learn that Yusuke has been dead (a fact unknown to Mizuki) and reincarnated, but it is left unexplained why Mizuki reacts with such composure. Indeed, the opening of the film is suggested to be a dream for a few moments after the couple’s reunion, an otherwise superfluous occurrence that reinforces the odd, unpredictable nature of the film.

Otherwise, Journey to the Shore proceeds in a relatively straightforward manner, staying with its two main characters as it adopts an almost episodic, road-trip style structure. For the most part, the movie revolves around a handful of extended encounters with people connected in various ways to Yusuke, all of whom he met after he became a corporeal ghost. Kurosawa never reveals their true state of being (whether it be alive or dead) until after their initial introductions, aligning his film’s viewpoint squarely with Mizuki and doling out information about the nature of the afterlife in pieces. Perhaps not coincidentally, some of the most powerful scenes in the film come at the climax of these individual encounters—one of Kurosawa’s greatest strengths in this movie is the skill with which he slowly builds the emotion of a section, unleashing it in one scene, then letting it recede during a short traveling sequence before escalating once more, matched by his impeccable use of long shots.

After a rather unexpected rupture at just past the halfway point, the rest of the film takes place in a village where Yusuke taught for a while and became acquainted with most of the inhabitants. The supernatural aspects here are most apparent, featuring a hole where the dead purportedly pass from the underworld to humanity (an idea shot down by Yusuke) and a conversation between Mizuki and her dead father, but Kurosawa ultimately leaves this all behind, focusing on the love of the central couple before things must inevitably come to an end. It is, in the end, an unbearably romantic movie, reserved but inexorable, and above all beguiling in the most mysterious and wonderful way.

***1/2 (Excellent)

It is always an interesting case when the original and English titles of a film differ, and the ones corresponding to Our Little Sister are especially instructive. While the English title puts an emphasis on both the eponymous character, Suzu, and the three sisters that perhaps form the emotional core of the movie, the original Japanese title, Umimachi Diary (the name of the manga that the film is based on), is even more illuminating. Umimachi means seaside town, and of course seafood and boats play a not-insignificant part in the narrative, but what really interests is the pointed inclusion of “diary” (spelled out on screen, as in the original manga). The film does not adopt the day-by-day approach suggested by this word, taking place over the course of a year, but there is an unmistakeable intimacy that feels as if the viewer is reading a diary written in tandem by these four charming young women, one that is willing to go into minute detail on the most seemingly insignificant of events. The days may pass with abandon, but nothing seems too frivolous to cherish and preserve.

Our Little Sister concerns itself with a great deal of human interactions, and the one that embeds itself in the film’s core is the unshakeable bond of the four sisters. Thankfully, Kore-eda pointedly resists creating conflict (of almost any kind in the film, but especially here) between the three sisters and Suzu, as they quickly adopt and care for her with nothing but deep genuine love—though at one point Sachi (the oldest sister) is accused of adopting her for ulterior motives, it is evident that this is hardly the case. Much of the joy of the film is in observing how various configurations of the four pinball off of each other. There is a remarkable and irrepressible chemistry that exists between all of the actresses that seems to rise to the surface in almost every occasion, whether it be a playful argument, an explanation of an old custom, or idle chatter at mealtime.

As many have noted, in both praise and derision, Our Little Sister is an extraordinarily nice film; there is almost no conflict to speak of, and the one scene that does devolve into an actual confrontation is quickly followed by a pleasing resolution. But at least for me, this is a merit, all the better to immerse the viewer into the atmosphere of Kamakura. Kore-eda’s style is ideal for this feeling, using careful, slowly moving medium shots and precise to cover all of his subjects and subtly changing his method for the ever-so-slightly more important areas—the confrontation is shot in a sharply edited and direct way, a ride through a tunnel of cherry blossoms is in slow-motion.

And through it all, the unmistakeable idea of heritage is preserved. Kore-eda is clearly optimistic about the past as it becomes further and further from the present, as the sisters continually talk about the people they had loved and lost and dutifully perform rituals with sincerity. The continually rotating supporting cast carries this torch as well; only a few persist throughout and many only appear for a few scenes, but there is a sense that, even as society becomes more and more modern (a cell phone here, a pair of jeans there), things will stay the same for the better.

It goes without saying that all four actresses are superb, but it is worth noting that each fulfills a clear-cut role and never strays far from it. Sachi (Haruka Ayase, in a remarkably empathetic performance) is the lead, if such a distinction can be applied to an ensemble film, and she is a kind of emotional anchor—as the least mercurial and oldest of the sisters, she frequently serves as the mother and carries the strongest connection to the house in which they all live in, even to the point of denouncing their estranged mother for the suggestion of selling it. A kind of middle ground between Sachi and the two younger sisters, Yoshino (a wonderfully down-to-earthMasami Nagasawa) is one of the trickiest characters to fully grasp, even though the movie begins with her character, establishing her as a sort of audience surrogate. Chika (Kaho, perhaps the best performance) is immensely joyous, an absolute pleasure to watch as she somehow manages to be even more nice than the film surrounding her. And the catalyst of the film, Suzu (played by Suzu Hirose with magnetic charm) handles herself with poise—though she is perhaps not the most mature of the sisters, as the other three claim, she is undoubtedly grown-up, though she still is clearly a young girl going through the standard ups and downs of a teenager’s life.

Of course, even after a not inconsiderable amount of scenes that could conceivably serve as endings, the film concludes with the sisters together. Our Little Sister is sweet to the end, like the plum wine that conjures up a surprising amount of meanings throughout the movie (comedy, a connection to the past, a gesture of reconciliation), but it never once becomes saccharine. Kore-eda believes in his characters too much, imbuing them with so much life, to ever be anything but genuine, and in doing so he brings the viewer along, making them believe in Sachi, Yoshino, Chika, and Suzu.

***1/2 (Excellent)

The most dangerous trap a filmmaker can fall into while making a movie concerned with racism is losing a sense of balance. Whether it be stacking the deck in favor of the black community by making the white people little more than caricatures, or treating the white people with too much ambivalence, a lack of balance can and will destroy any sense of true meaning and consideration behind the film’s craft and message. So it is immensely gratifying to see the triumph of The Glass Shield, a film that carefully creates its environment to issue a condemnation of police corruption while elucidating how all involved, to some degree, contribute to this climate for good and ill.

The main gambit that The Glass Shield uses is that it is not truly about the protagonist, Deputy J.J. Johnson (Michael Boatman) at all. Though he is the most active force throughout the movie, after the first act or so Burnett largely breaks from his viewpoint, moving to focus on the main narrative: the trial of Teddy Woods (Ice Cube), a man who has been purposefully and wrongly charged with the murder of a white woman. But this first act is vital in its lucid development of the police force and its effect on J.J., laying out his indoctrination as a domino-like series of events. Crucially, the film quickly drops any attempts to make J.J. a clear, defined martyr or a perfect individual. He is shown as perfectly willing to initially become a better and more efficient individual, subjugating himself to the corrupt machine. Boatman’s performance also undergoes a metamorphosis, as the perpetually smiling rookie becomes a serious man before the viewer can even register the change.

But as mentioned before, this is much more than the story of J.J. Johnson, and the surprisingly robust supporting cast is weaved seamlessly into the narrative. Burnett manages a wide assortment of narrative strands, sometimes teasing out each one in small fragments that, at first blush, seem entirely disconnected. Most notably, the character of Deputy Deborah Fields (Lori Petty in a confident performance) acts as an unexpected corollary to the film’s focus on racism, illustrating how the police environment is a place of widespread discrimination as well as providing a strong, caring ally in Johnson’s investigation. In the court, the defense lawyer James Locket (Bernie Casey) and Justice Lewis (Natalija Nogulich) are perhaps the most morally good of the main characters, both dedicated to their professions with no small sense of professionalism and fairness.

Aside from the comic book opening that illustrates Johnson’s idyllic fantasies of being a police officer and some noticeable forward tracking shots, Burnett’s approach is relatively simple here, albeit stunningly shot by Elliot Davis. The Glass Shield is largely in tight close-ups that never feel suffocating, heightening the intensity while still remaining balanced with some of the incredible silhouette-esque shots that Burnett sprinkles throughout. Special attention is paid to the camera angles, which consistently look up at the authority figures, whether they be the higher ranking police officers or the people of the court.

The Glass Shield is by no means a noir, as it is perhaps too spread across various points of view to create a true sense of paranoia and distrust (especially in the scenes that follow minor characters). But it is unflinching in how it both shows the nastiness of the antagonists, which is conveyed often through a single word or phrase in their conversations, as well as their human side, most notably a birthday celebration and the attempts to save the life of one of their own. In the end, the film ends on a melancholic note, yet one with a sufficient and cathartic amount of hope. The Glass Shield never once steps wrong in its pursuit of a certain brand of truth.

**** (Great)

It is perhaps tempting to name Mildred Pierce strictly as a film noir. Based on the novel of the same name by James M. Cain, one of the progenitors of hard-boiled crime fiction, and shot in gloriously shadowy black-and-white, it rightly bears the hallmarks of that most hallowed of film styles. Yet it feels like something more, owing as much to melodrama as to noir in the hands of Michael Curtiz while still remaining refreshingly down-to-earth. More than anything, it is a devastating blend, using each genre’s strengths in order to develop its wrenching tale of a woman undone by the people around her, fatalistic yet hopeful.

It perhaps goes without saying that the most noir-inflected scenes in Mildred Pierce are confined to the framing scenes. Jarringly, the film begins in medias res at the film’s very end, and while this is perhaps a concession to the conventions of noir, it conveniently allows for Joan Crawford’s superb, part-satisfied-part-wistful narration to supplement the story—the film’s tone isn’t the most consistent, and the narration helps to smooth over and remind the viewers of the tragic conclusion to come. In tandem, the police station where Mildred relates her “confession” is almost preposterously shadowy, complete with a glaring lamp, shuttered windows, and a haze of cigarette smoke, which only makes the fade back to the past more astonishing.

The mood of Mildred Pierce quickly pivots to a much more sunny, and perhaps more emotionally involved tenor, following Mildred from practically the moment that she makes the pivotal decision of her life—separating from her husband Bert (played by an admirably stolid Bruce Bennett). The shadows from the aftermath of a crime are replaced with a sunny, domestic situation, but if anything the emotions and broiling tension are accentuated. Even here, the narrative begins at the end of one stage of life, but Mildred’s character seems almost fully formed from the start, such is the magnetism of Crawford’s confidence and poise.

Crucially, Mildred is conceived as a remarkably well-rounded character, possessing in equal amounts ambition, care, and a strong work ethic. Despite her pampering of her daughters, especially Veda, she is never blind, and works as a waitress even while Veda disparages the profession in order to support them all. But the filmmakers take care to show that, no matter how successful she gets as an improbably profitable restaurant owner, she will never achieve a true sense of happiness; her two marriages fall apart, Veda looks down on her mother and her work while becoming more and more ingrained with the upper class, and she eventually has to compromise her own principles to satisfy Veda, sending her life into a downward spiral.

All of this isn’t necessarily novel, but what distinguishes Mildred Pierce is the cumulative force that imparts practically every single scene with a sense of importance. As mentioned before, the voiceover plays a large part in sustaining the momentum of the film, but the two most important parts are the performances of Crawford and Ann Blyth as Veda. The two clash frequently, but the relationship becomes almost one-sided as it is clear Mildred cares about Veda more than anything in the world, a fact which Veda exploits. The film is fundamentally about a daughter’s betrayal of her mother, and Blyth is as cruel as Crawford is desperate, a potent combination that comes to a head in the devastating climax.

Mildred Pierce is a film of power, more concerned with emotions than anything else, but nevertheless everything in the film is done to perfection. After the narrative inevitably boils over, it ends on a note of surprising optimism: Mildred and Bert silhouetted against a glistening skyline. The world is theirs, though the shadows still linger.

***** (Masterpiece)

If one had to choose the trait that defines all of Michael Mann’s oeuvre, it would very likely be his dedication to depicting professionalism, whether it be that of DEA agents in Miami Vice, master thieves and the LAPD in Heat, or even the Nazi military in The Keep. Manhunter is very likely the apex of this ethos, a compact film where nothing is wasted in depicting both the thrills and frustrations of the chase, matched by Mann’s impeccable perfection. It is Mann’s most perfect film, a cold, gleaming diamond burnished by the highest craftsmanship possible, yet, especially in the development of Francis Dollarhyde, there is something more, a genuine beating heart that only serves to accentuate the power of this truly consummate film.

Manhunter‘s first two scenes provide a look into the impulses that will drive the images to follow. The first is a shakily filmed, low-res affair that looks akin to a home movie, moving up to the bedroom of a darkness-shrouded house. Underscored by shimmering synth music, it ends in ambiguity as the title card blazes onto the screen. The second scene, after the opening credits, is much more indicative of the overall style of the film, staged in immaculate frames by Spinotti’s incredible cinematography that, after the initial shot, takes place in relatively simple shot-reverse-shot. Yet, despite the charge of the dialogue that manifests itself throughout the film, it and the next few scenes are set in an idyllic location, a sunny beach house removed from the perils of the city and of suburbia. Manhunter seeks to unite these two extreme contrasts, taking place largely in cramped, dark locations but shot using intense, immaculate medium shots.

Much of the pleasure in viewing Manhunter is observing the pieces come together, as Will Graham and his associates calmly but urgently search for clues to capture Fracis Dollarhyde, alias The Tooth Fairy. From lab work to viewing home videos by the deceased families to visiting the homes, Graham observes all, voicing his deductions in an analytical but never detached voice, conveyed by an intensely committed and forceful performance by William Petersen that remains consistently mesmerizing both in stasis and in motion. In turn, Mann observes Graham and company with the eye of a lab worker, using an extraordinary amount of camera angles (but preferring straight-on, slightly off-center compositions) to capture every aspect of the investigation. He withholds nothing, lying in wait to accentuate every development with minute curiosity, often providing quick close-ups on various objects including photographs, documents, and especially the home movies in order to emphasize the tactile, vital nature of these items towards the investigation (epitomized in the brilliant forensic scene with Dollarhyde’s letter).

Of course, Manhunter is perhaps best known for being the first Hannibal Lector (or “Lecktor” here) movie. But his appearance is both well-integrated yet subtly set aside from the rest of the film. He is far more divorced from the action here than in The Silence of the Lambs, and there’s no doubt here that Brian Cox is very much a supporting character, but his menace is clear and apparent, though he only appears in three short scenes, two of which are within the first third of the film and only one in person with Graham. Lecktor is encased in a spotless white cell, itself housed in a building seemingly made entirely out of glass and white blocks. The color of white is robbed of all of its innocuous connotations and replaced with a sickening, overbearing feeling that Lecktor seems to harness with his dismissive sneer, forcing Graham to run out of the building to regain his composure. His forbidding sense of calm extends to Cox’s use of body language: even though he’s always sitting he seems to be hunched over Graham, his eyes glaring hungrily as he dissects him verbally.

By the steady pace and continual suspense of the first two-thirds or so, Mann could have continued in the procedural vein for the entirety of Manhunter, but he decides to make a daring and quite possibly more successful gambit. First, he upstages the investigation in spectacular fashion, using Lecktor to introduce both a suddenly urgent menace and to flesh out Graham’s relationship with his family more, in a series of truly touching conversations that enhance his core humanity even in the face of so much bloodshed. But then, after an intense monologue by Graham staring at his rain-soaked reflection, the film suddenly switches to the perspective of Dollarhyde, who had been heretofore seen only briefly, albeit in an extraordinarily creepy introduction. As the Tooth Fairy, Noonan is both an imposing and astonishingly uncertain presence, as his killer channels his considerable awkwardness into bloodlust, his obsession with William Blake’s The Great Red Dragon paintings offering some way of escape. Graham appears sparingly in these parts, allowing Mann to craft a strangely primal romance between Dollarhyde and his blind co-worker Reba. From the strangely soothing appearance of a drugged tiger to one of the only displays of emotion on his part, Noonan makes this seemingly disconnected section work, connecting his character to Graham’s displays of affection for his own family while still remaining distant.

Of course, this section can’t last forever, and after perhaps the two most startling moments in the film (an imagined kiss that is scorchingly backlit and set improbably to The Prime Movers’ “Strong As I Am” and a shocking vision of one of the deceased women with her eyes and mouth replaced with blank spots looking at Graham), Manhunter resumes its procedural mode for a short while before the final confrontation at Dollarhyde’s home. At this final scene, scored supremely to “In-A-Gadda-Vida” by Iron Butterfly, the film seems as if it shatters into pieces with the window that Graham jumps through, blatantly using slow motion and jump cuts (often to events that had taken just seconds before) in order to create a sense of disorientation. The action itself is quick and straightforward, but it feels punchier, more brutal this way.

Manhunter‘s magnificence is difficult to describe, as it and all of Mann’s films work best in the moment, as they carry off the viewer in their sensual pleasures, but the best way is to talk about the feeling aroused in the viewer at the end of the film. It is one of irrepressible catharsis, as Graham finally gets what he saw in the vision in roughly the middle of the film. As he stares out into the ocean with his family, he and the viewer feel relief, with Red 7’s “Heartbeat” soaring and the sunniness shines over all. It is an affirmation that there is some semblance of good, and if it is one of Mann’s most unambiguously positive endings, it comes only after a dark, immersive plunge into the chase and all that comes with it. That is the Mann ethos, and it comes in its purest, most perfect form in Manhunter.

**** (Great)

When I first heard about the significant buzz surrounding Cameraperson, it seemed heavily reminiscent of Sans soleil, Chris Marker’s 1983 magnum opus that I regard as the greatest film I’ve ever seen. The description, detailing how it was comprised of outtakes from various documentaries all shot by the same cameraperson, Kirsten Johnson, was intriguing, only slightly removed from the other film’s freewheeling examination of the human condition and memory using footage shot mostly in Tokyo, Guinea-Bissau, and San Francisco. But it took me more than half the runtime to realize that the film is not Sans soleil, and that it was just one of the many, many aspects that makes Cameraperson the stunning, quietly revolutionary work that it is.

It begins in a manner that both boldly announces its intentions and introduces the sensitive intimacy that defines the film to come. After an opening intertitle that describes the following images as Johnson’s memoir of sorts, with the striking line “These are the images that have marked me”, Johnson cuts to footage of a Bosnian shepherd on horseback leading sheep. Without context, this shot in and of itself holds little tangible meaning, but Johnson (in the moment, as the cinematographer) unexpectedly breaks the camera’s line of sight, plucking a few blades of grass out of the way so she can better capture the sheep trundling down the path next to her. This, coupled with the next shot, as Johnson first gasps at a lightning strike she is filming and then sneezes, are perhaps the clearest sign of Johnson’s presence in actively changing the shot, but they come significantly just before the title card.

Johnson’s primary concern in both the construction of Cameraperson and in her general cinematography seems to be one of sensitivity. Even though the most apparent signs of Johnson’s presence off-screen (for example, in the aforementioned shot changes) are confined to the first half, the viewer never loses sight of her active role in crafting the situations she is in. From her incisive but gentle questions to the often intimate framings, Johnson never gets so close as to be intrusive but always maintains the exact level of remove that is required, both in the footage she shot on assignment in some of the most traumatized regions of the world and in the “home movies” of the most seemingly inconsequential occurrences in day-to-day life.

Here, perhaps, is the greatest point of divergence with Sans soleil, which conducts its dialogue with its subjects entirely through visual means. Marker seems to reject an overtly personal bent, seeking to diminish his directorial presence in favor of offering his vision of the world, whereas Johnson seeks to strike a more tenuous balance. Of course, there are many other differences. For starters, Sans soleil utilizes an extensive narration, supposedly made of letters written by a separate filmmaker. The letters (written in actuality by Marker) in turn both establish a level of remove and a partial explanation of the sometimes inexplicable images that are appearing on the screen. Cameraperson, on the other hand, forgoes this tactic. Though the images are never remotely abstract, Johnson never feels beholden to explain the context or even the original purpose of the footage, instead putting an intertitle stating the location where the footage was shot and the occasional chyron with the name and occupation of the person being interviewed. For me, this idea took some time getting used to. As I was expecting the whirlwind of information in Sans soleil, I felt slightly alienated by the stop-and-start rhythm of images that at first glance seemed to be banal and “ordinary”, and the locations seemed too disparate for Johnson to return to (in contrast to the localized repetitions of Marker’s film).

But Johnson is operating in an entirely different mode of communication, one of astonishing patience and power. Aside from two essentially stand-alone montages, one of people walking and the other a stunning display of sites of massacres and murders from around the world, including such disparate locations as Ground Zero, a church in Rwanda, a school in Bosnia, and a truck in Texas, Johnson sticks to the vignettes of footage that, in some way, all come back to the idea of the shared humanity and its effect on the cameraperson. Johnson never lets the overarching themes become apparent, but in the little moments that rise out of everyday life, such as Jacques Derrida commenting on her tripping as she is filming him, or her capturing a sudden snowfall while she is shooting a woman whose mother killed herself, she makes it clear that the cameraperson is human, and that it is in some way her responsibility to capture humanity not as it should be, but as it is.

Nowhere is this clearer than in the home videos of both Johnson’s children and her mother, who died of Alzheimer’s. In this showing of people both at the beginning and at the end of their lives, she makes a statement that is at once both universal and personal, and ties it back to other footage that surrounds it. For instance, she implicitly connects footage of a Golden Gloves boxer being comforted by his mother (one of the most notable examples of Johnson returning to footage) to her mother brushing Johnson’s hair in the only moment where she can be seen on camera.

However, what may be the most striking is the extraordinary breadth of life that Johnson has captured. From a lecture in Queens to a Michael Moore interview to a premature baby being born in Nigeria, the subject matter and tone frequently change in a single edit, but the unmistakable vitality that Johnson brings out of her subjects and images remains constant. Johnson most frequently returns to a family in Bosnia that is recovering after the war there, and emphasizes both the injustice that has been done and the family’s will to live on. Cameraperson is an optimistic film that never shies away from the truth, and throughout, Johnson’s will to document is paramount. It is a noble thing to document all of this life experience, and the skill with which Johnson and editor Nels Bangerter have constructed this supremely monumental film is evident in every transition, every moment. Cameraperson is a great film in every sense of the word, and one that I’ll be grappling with for years to come.

***1/2 (Excellent)

The Keep is a mythic film, perhaps doomed to its reputation as a film maudit by its flawed, incomplete ambitions. Much like David Lynch’s Dune, it is a fantasy/science-fiction film that both directors disowned for various reasons, but unlike Dune, where Lynch’s presence can be felt in many, many sequences, The Keep carries little in the way of Mann’s trademarks. Besides the procedural The Insider, this is Mann’s only non-action film, despite the heavy and vital presence of the Nazi German military, and of course it is the only Mann that is almost entirely divorced from the real world. And yet these differences cannot be taken as weaknesses; though the film does not hang together as well as his other works, Mann uses these differences to craft a film that, at its core, is obsessed with the battle between good and evil, that most universal and iconic of conflicts.

The narrative of The Keep is perhaps unnecessarily convoluted, but it naturally settles around the titular structure, an imposing cavernous environment with only some pools of light to illuminate the shadows. Its look feels utterly alien, a strange mix of the ancient and the modern that mixes all too well with the military equipment that inhabits its spaces, and the “nickel” icons that gleam from the walls appear even more ominous. Aside from the villagers and Eva, all of the characters gradually seem to become a part of this crypt, whether they resist its pull or not. Simply put, the keep is a battleground, where evil lurks and festers, and even the ultimately good are in some way corrupted or as distant from humanity as the other side.

Of course, as in many films so deliberately black-and-white in their morality, the two opposing forces are supernatural in nature. Scott Glenn’s Glaeken may appear human, and he does have a brief romance with Eva (the only aspect I could discern that was significantly cut), but his performance is perhaps even more cold than the clearly inhuman Molasar, who possesses some strange degree of charisma, especially in his interactions with Dr. Cuza (Ian McKellan, in a fiery performance that in the end calls to mind his interpretation of Gandalf). The implicit statement of casting Nazis as the main characters is not lost on Mann, who chooses to separate the group into two factions, with the “good” (relatively speaking, of course) side being led by Jürgen Prochnow’s Captain Woermann. Dr. Cuza may be the ostensible lead of the movie, but Woermann is its heart, bringing to the surface the ideas about religion and elemental power that form the film’s substance.

It may be easy to dismiss The Keep for being a tad too poorly paced or far-fetched, but it is the kind of film that demands consideration, so strong is its sincerity and commitment to this fundamental tale. To borrow Neil Bahadur’s point, I felt like Eva does in the final shot, staring in awe at what had just transpired as the swirling Tangerine Dream score reaches its peak; it is a film that may not necessarily engage the viewer’s emotions, but it has a pull all the same, as nebulous the dark shape at its center.

Copied and pasted the four reviews I posted on Letterboxd of four different shorts to see how well they would cohere.

“Rehearsals for Extinct Anatomies” is almost frustratingly enigmatic, stubbornly refusing to adhere to any one narrative throughline. If there is any common aspect that unites the disparate parts of the short, it is the craftsmanship of the Brothers Quay; the smooth and surprisingly intricate camera moves and framings settle into static tableaus, from which all kinds of eerie, disfigured figures can appear (and on many occasions, items seem to flicker in and out of the frame). The only possible idea I can seem to untangle from this short is perhaps a kind of entropy; as the principal character scratches the bump on his forehead, the world of the short begins to unravel. Though this does not necessarily explain the scene change to the two larger men and the hands holding quills, the menacing lines seem inexorably linked to this inciting motion. “Rehearsals for Extinct Anatomies” is rather gripping, if ultimately too surreal for its own good.

In some respects, the titular comb is a bit of a red herring; it is only featured in a handful of shots and only takes on any sense of significance in the final minute or so. But it forms the perfect gateway into the mysterious world of “The Comb”, as the seemingly ordinary takes on a sinister quality. Throughout the short, continually alternate between blurry black-and-white live-action and vivid, fantastical stop-motion. The stop-motion footage’s environment feels like a strange mixture of a fairy-tale landscape and castle and an industrial wasteland, and the Brothers Quay do a surprisingly good job of mapping out where exactly the camera is in relation to the various subjects of the frame. More importantly, most of the short focuses on one subject at a time, even while the Brothers constantly cut between the “real” world and the dream world. Whether it be through extremely long shots or startling close-ups, there is an undeniable purpose to each shot. Though the more specific aspects of what exactly transpires is unclear, as befitting a film so rooted in dreams, the mysterious atmosphere is just a joy to witness.

“Anamorphosis” may not have the personality of the Brothers Quay’s usual shorts, as most of the action is done through visual analyses of existing works rather than their uniquely unsettling stop-motion figures, but a similar mood is maintained throughout. Whether it be through a eerie score or the frequently jarring visual alterations (in the form of quick camera moves or stretching to illustrate the anamorphosis phenomenon, to say nothing of an unexpected vividly shot live-action sequence), the Brothers ensure that the short is no ordinary documentary, but also an examination of their own body of work. By casting one of their signature figurines as the observer, it provides an extra conduit for the viewer to ponder on the phenomenon, and the capabilities it holds for not just artists in the traditional sense, but on a cinematic level as well.

If there is one aspect that truly defines the shorts of the Brothers Quay, it is their unsettling atmosphere, and “In Absentia” is an exemplar of this ideal. Most of the short is presented in a manner that can be best described as uncertain, as even the scale of the sets is distorted, appearing as neither fully stop-motion nor fully live-action. Despite the frequently moving and occasionally blinding beams of light that traverse the various shots, they deliberately do little to provide any sort of added perspective on the murky depths of the short. This is most apparent in the set seen in the opening shot, which the short returns to several times but still appears entirely divorced from the ostensible central storyline and additionally is indecipherable, filled with unidentifiable structures that might form a roof or a landscape or something stranger. And this is all without getting into the surreal narrative, which is presented in jagged, equally inscrutable close-ups of dirty fingers, broken lead, and an inexplicable stop-motion puppet (the only one in the short), along with swinging, possibly disembodied legs. Even the possible presentation of an explanation in the final title card does little to account for how strange this short gets. Above all, Stockhausen’s score rumbles and wails with disembodied cries, whispers, laughs, and moans, plunging the Brothers Quay’s atmosphere into further disarray. “In Absentia” is beguiling and bewildering in the best possible sense.

***1/2 (Excellent)

It could be reasonably argued that one of the worst tendencies of films set in the world of the military is the temptation to glorify the soldiers, to make them heroes or martyrs whether it be because of or in spite of their surroundings. It is thus truly impressive that Joint Security Area avoids this trap and many more. Part mystery, part political rumination, and quite unexpectedly, part ensemble comedy, the film is accordingly divided into three sections, complete with admittedly ostentatious segment titles in the form of the reverse of the movie’s title (Area, Security, Joint).

Joint Security Area‘s main pleasures lie in its central and best section, but even before the reveal, Park does a fine job of crafting the world of the DMZ. One of his most brilliant gambits is in his choice of investigator, a Korean that has never set foot in either Korea before. This amount of ambiguity is further compounded by the continually shifting actions (though not motivations) of each side. As the Major looks closer, the stories only seem to become more and more divergent, until one of the characters reaches a breaking point.

At this moment, Joint Security Area takes an altogether unexpected turn, and devotes almost half of its running time not to the mystery-thriller that one might expect from the setting, but to a four-hand flashback that, though it takes place over several months, is situated primarily in a North Korean border house. Most of the time, it is practically comedic, first in the way that the people first meet, and then as it observes these four men from different sides of the stalemate getting to know each other through games, drink, and relaxed conversation. However, there is an unmistakably melancholy that runs throughout, as a result of both the viewer’s knowledge that this will end in the deaths of at least two and the Romeo and Juliet-esque division that divides the two groups. On the one occasion that this topic is broached, the mood quickly becomes contentious, and though it dissipates, the idea still lingers, and is emphasized by various training exercises and potential attacks that recur throughout the segment.

When Joint Security Area returns to the present, the mood still persists, as both the soldiers’ and the investigator’s efforts seem to be stymied. But all comes to light in the cleanest and most efficient way possible, and if the conclusion of the investigation seems a bit too clean, the conclusion of the film itself is anything but. It evokes the all too human traumas that are caused by the politics of war, where the symbol of shared cigarettes can be obliterated by a single misstep. Park’s style reflects this, using both 360 degree pans and an astonishing amount of striking close-ups where the subjects look into the camera to heighten the subconscious intensity of the film’s most crucial moments, to either link or break apart the two factions. (The bold transitions and camera angles are an extension of this.) Joint Security Area ensures there are no heroes, only young men trying to be themselves in perilous circumstances; with one gunshot things will never be the same.

**** (Great)

Looper wastes no time in thrusting the viewer into its dystopic, almost lawless future. The first section of the film could be described in and of itself its own, self-contained short film, presenting a future as divided as our own in the urban malaise and class divisions, with violence ready to spring from every corner. It is an evocation of so many attitudes and moods, but paramount among these is ennui. From the noir-inflected narration that somehow transcends exposition in its efficiency and bleak outlook to the empty thrills of clubbing and drugs, Johnson builds the viewer’s understanding of the loopers’ existence and mindset through the unrecognizable face of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character, Joe. Gordon-Levitt’s performance is essentially that of an shallow machine; he has his various friends and flames, and he possesses very real (if hedonistic) dreams, but he is trapped in the empty lifestyle of the looper, killing a man a day remorselessly with the same amount of thought that he has towards learning a French word a day.

Then, after a stunning montage of partying, Joe’s life is turned upside down in an almost brutally programmatic series of events. However, the film never feels linear, as he continually teases out more and more aspects of the astonishingly rich world in an organic fashion that only explains the background, never what is happening in the moment. After Willis emerges, perhaps the best scene of the film occurs, condensing a lifetime of regret and redemption into a few minutes, before immersing the viewer back into the chase, scored to Nathan Johnson’s spare, rattling, and pulsating score.

Up until this point, Looper has been a relatively straightforward, if incredibly imaginative, science-fiction action film. But Johnson makes the ingenious move to pivot, shifting to focus on a radically different, more relationship-driven study of the consequences of time travel. Discounting some cross-cutting between the two Joes, the two parts hang together in large part due to Johnson’s incredible screenplay. As mentioned before, he manages to pull off what could be empty exposition with noirish flourish, but he also combines it with a certain kind of laconic, almost country-fried dialect, which fits the Kansan setting and manifests itself even more out in the countryside. Blunt’s strong performance, by turns combative and general, is also key to selling the parent-child dynamic that arises even as things get stranger and more menacing.

Looper‘s final scene is perhaps the most intriguing of all. It comes after what would be the climax of standard action-fare, in an almost ridiculously one-sided gunfight. However, it chooses to eschew that idea for a surprisingly moving decision that speaks to the power of the past and the hope for a future while solving a particularly knotty paradox, all in one fell swoop. Looper is ultimately hopeful without sacrificing its own pessimistic outlook, and is in general structured to perfection; if it feels reserved at times, this issue is overcome by its sheer craftsmanship and innate understanding of what truly makes science-fiction a fascinating and innovative genre.