Courtesy of Sideshow/Janus Films.

Courtesy of MUBI.

Misericordia/Miséricorde

Rating **** Masterpiece

Directed by Alain Guiraudie

Grand Tour

Rating **** Masterpiece

Directed by Miguel Gomes

I sometimes worry that my habit of writing about two new releases together—stolen, like the credits/ratings block immediately above, from Jonathan Rosenbaum—can feel like a crutch. True, it can sometimes provide a productive, logical point of comparison, and just as often it can come as something of a challenge. But in this instance, it’s meant, at least at the outset, as a means of saving time, of allowing me to write at length about two of my favorite films of the decade thus far without needing to shortchange one or the other by “consigning” it to a capsule review, or taking even longer than I already have in my delayed writing and publication of what you’re reading now. Of course, this very act of combination could be seen as an implicit denigration, meaning that the films either aren’t worth my time and effort to tackle individually or that they can’t stand up by themselves. That (I hope) incorrect assumption is something I’m willing to risk, for the sake of various other competing obligations (for this website and in the actually “important” things in the “real world”).

That being said, the more I think about these two films, the more parallels present themselves. In an earlier, embryonic version of this piece concerned solely with the first film, I noted that from my vantage point, the early to mid-2010s seemed like an unusual time period, full of filmmakers who established themselves with what appeared to be a breakthrough hit; some of them have gone on to become part of what might be considered the film festival mainstay, while others have receded in visibility within the American cinephile consciousness for one reason or another. Alain Guiraudie seems to me the clearest and most understandable example, given the particular confluence of thriller mechanics, frank gay sexuality, and rigorous form offered by 2013’s Stranger by the Lake. However, Miguel Gomes isn’t far behind, even though 2012’s Tabu ultimately had a marginally smaller footprint when it was released. Both continue to operate as statements, even milestones, pure expressions of fated desire as filtered through Guiraudie’s stunningly casual treatment of cruising within precise, locked-down frames and Gomes’s two-part, black-and-white meditation on colonialism present and past, eventually slipping into his own unique take on silent cinema.

Guiraudie and Gomes have each released two feature film projects within a year of each other since then, neither to close the same fanfare. The former’s case is perhaps more banal: Staying Vertical, despite a surprise Cannes competition berth, was too willfully weird to attract a wide audience, and Nobody’s Hero, despite its considerable strengths, was doomed by a reluctant festival rollout and risky treatment of its terrorism backdrop. Gomes, for his part, went both bigger and smaller: the ambitious three-part epic Arabian Nights, all components of which premiered at the same time, was destined to confuse listmakers and cinephiles alike, while the lowkey lockdown film The Tsugua Diaries (co-directed with his artistic and life partner Maureen Fazendeiro) was a minor work by its very nature.

At last year’s Cannes, Guiraudie and Gomes took unexpected paths towards some semblance of critical acclaim. The French director’s Misericordia bowed in the non-competitive Cannes Premiere section, a post-COVID addition widely perceived as a backhanded compliment and tertiary tier of programming amid the main selection, generating nearly as many comments expressing disbelief that it was not in Competition as Víctor Erice’s Close Your Eyes and Lisandro Alonso’s Eureka from the previous year put together. For his part, the Portuguese director did appear in Cannes Competition for the first time with Grand Tour, winning an unexpected yet very well-deserved Best Director prize from the jury. In the usual fashion, they both received US theatrical releases earlier this year, coming out in back-to-back weeks in March.

Much of the (separate) discussion around these two films has hinged around a crucial concept: a filmmaker knowingly revisiting the style of his past works, whether to recapture something of a past glory or not. Both Misericordia and Grand Tour seem to call back specifically to Stranger by the Lake and Tabu, respectively, and it’s certainly no accident that these somewhat more palatable modes have been received as something of a return to form. Guiraudie’s film does indeed return to the openly queer murder mystery framework, while Gomes issued another bifurcated black-and-white tale of thwarted colonialist romance conveyed through archaic cinematic methods. But to reduce these two films, and their elaborations upon past successes, is to risk taking two master filmmakers for granted, even considering their recent reemergence into the wider cinephile consciousness.

As might be inferred by my shorter enumeration, Misericordia shares less in common with Guiraudie’s past work than Grand Tour does with Gomes’s. Like those films, however, it begins fully in media res, a long winding opening shot from the perspective of a car that eventually enters Saint-Martial, a remote village in the French countryside. The driver is Jérèmie (Félix Kysyl), a young man returning to his hometown on the occasion of his baker mentor’s funeral. Though he initially plans to leave that same night, the baker’s wife Martine (Catherine Frot) urges him to stay, and so begins an indefinite period of time spent in the company of the local villagers, including Martine’s son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), former acquaintance Walter (David Ayala), and the local priest (Jacques Develay).

Though the aforementioned violence does occur remarkably early and acts as the nominal plot engine for Misericordia‘s second two-thirds, Guiraudie establishes early on that there is much more on his mind than another tale of a h(a)unted man. The most immediate impression is of a specific, unusual sense of routine within an environ that is—to Jérèmie at least—both old and new. He is frequently seen walking in the yellowing forests from the relatively few locations that constitute the bulk of the film’s centers of activity, a purely beautiful backdrop of foliage and mountains (captured by Guiraudie’s frequent collaborator Claire Mathon) that often dwarfs Jérèmie and those he interacts with. Across innumerable glasses of pastis, several physical and/or verbal fights of varying levels of intensity, and various criss-crossing attractions (mostly between men), the interplay between the expansive outdoors and cramped interiors comes to form an odd mirror for the situation that Jérèmie has found himself in.

As his moral struggle increases in prominence, so too does the priest’s role, in a manner not dissimilar from the lonely straight man played by Patrick d’Assumçao in Stranger by the Lake. Aside from some chance interactions, the intertwining of Jérèmie and the priest truly begins with one of the most remarkable scenes to ever take place in a confessional, an veiled outpouring of dedication and doubt that bursts open Guiruadie’s carefully couched conversations. Though the film’s title—Latin for mercy—is never uttered onscreen, this scene and another between the two men on a cliff overlooking the village communicate in unexpectedly forthright terms all that goes into such a concept, which involves forgiveness of both the other and the self. With these elements coming to form the more thematic framework, Misericordia is able to also incorporate characters and narratives closer to farce, including a pair of dogged yet polite police officers whose presence only further muddies the waters of Guiraudie’s characteristically slippery relationship between reality and dreams. The final note is one of total ambiguity, an unexpected note given to an unexpected person that refuses any hint of finality, one final gambit in a continual highwire act between hilarity, suspense, and heartrending emotion.

If Misericordia only gets more fascinating as it unfolds, Grand Tour is a marvel from its production concept alone. It is composed of what might be considered two separate tendencies: the narrative, which follows the story of a British civil servant (Edward, played by Gonçalo Waddington) who flees across Asia in the year 1918, pursued by his betrothed Molly (Crista Alfaite), which is told from first his perspective, then hers on obvious soundstages in Portugal shot in black-and-white by Rui Poças; and the non-narrative, which incorporates black-and-white and color footage shot in modern times with no attempts to hide the century-long gap between the diegesis of the story and the new aspects of the present; much of it was shot by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom, but the sections in China were shot (due to lockdown protocol) by Gui Liang, with Gomes directing remotely from across the country.

Over all of this, there is narration given by unnamed voices who speak in the language of the country Edward, then Molly is in at the time, and it is this wild collision of voices and past and present that gives Grand Tour so much of its spark. It is crucial that Gomes does not attempt to disguise what many have already characterized as an excessively Orientalist lens. There is never any point at which the film is unaware of the distance that exists between it and everything it is depicting: the gap in time between it and the Western characters, and the gap in perspective between it and the locales it is existing within. Like Molly’s continual pursuit of Edward, there is the constant sense of searching, during which Gomes’s unique methodology allows him to open up the film to the possibility of experiencing all that the world has to offer.

That being said, Grand Tour wouldn’t be as successful if Gomes lacked an investment in the central dynamic. Part of this is courtesy of the sneakily coherent structure of his screenplay (co-written with Fazendeiro, Telmo Churro, and Mariana Ricardo), which progresses rapidly through Edward’s hapless travails and then diverges from them during Molly’s retracing of his steps, throwing in additional characters which complicate and delay her quest in unexpected, often amusing ways. It also becomes clear that the ardor and care with which Gomes captures both halves of the twinned journeys form a metonym for the passion that Molly has for Edward despite his parting; Alfaite’s performance, full of exuberance and bemused determination, seems to represent Gomes’s perspective better than the shambling Waddington. By the end, which feels like a grand Classical Hollywood exit, the sights and sounds that the viewer experiences alongside these two people are overpowering, a reminder of all that remains to be seen.

Here
Here

Rating *** A must-see

Directed by Bas Devos
Directed by Robert Zemeckis

It’s nothing new to have films with the exact same title within a few years of each other, an only mildly less amusing variation on the confluence of two films with similar subject matter coming out at the same time. There have been no fewer than three films in the past five years to have the English title of Limbo, and two films named Dogman have competed in major film festivals in the last six; film critic Neil Young has even utilized the Twitter hashtag #ThisTitleIsTaken to note the eternal recurrence of titles such as Home, Chaos, and Eden. Such dubbings point as firmly to the undying relevance of the themes they evoke (for better or worse), but it also suggests a desire for a flexible mind on the part of the viewer: many filmmakers might find it useful to outline but not relate the precise nature of the limbo or the home that their film will tackle.

What separates the latest and most potentially tantalizing iteration in this trend to date is, at least initially, the inevitability. When Here premiered at the Berlinale last year, and it became apparent that Cinema Guild would opt to release it in 2024, it seemed more and more likely that it would align with Here‘s release year. I thought of the idea of this review many months ago and, despite more than a half year separating the releases of Here and Here—along with 2024’s fellow travelers of Walter Salles’s Oscar contender I’m Still Here, the belated week-long run of Christopher Harris’s 2001 experimental film still/here, and various other films like Here After, I Like It Here, and You Can’t Stay Here–I endeavored to write about what may seem two entirely separate films solely linked by their names.

I want to stress that, though confusion and obfuscation are key aspects of reading this review, this is a sincere attempt to discuss two continuously generative films that hail from entirely different sources of inspiration and are aimed towards divergent affects. They also, coincidentally enough, come from two directors on the opposite end of their artistic careers and the spectrum of visibility. Here is the Belgian filmmaker Bas Devos’s fourth feature film, and is at best his second to make a breakthrough stateside. Each of his films—all low-budget works resolutely belonging to the arthouse—have incorporated celluloid in some way, even going so far as to involve 65mm for certain shots in his first two features, and they operate with a conscious miniaturist sensibility, all running under 90 minutes and dealing with individuals’ experiences of the city and people around them. By contrast, Here is Robert Zemeckis’s twenty-second feature film at the tail-end of a career full of whiz-bang Hollywood filmmaking, alternately acclaimed and despised technical experimentation, and curious reckonings—both purposeful and unconscious—with nostalgia for the American Century, even as it was still in progress. His oeuvre involves too many different digressions and periods to easily summarize, but it’s safe to say that, despite some abiding supporters (including myself), his level of critical and popular support at this time might be even below the few but largely glowing reviews that Devos has received.

Here has been characterized, largely accurately, as belonging to a new phase of Devos’s career after his first two notably pessimistic features Violet (2014) and Hellhole (2019). His third feature, the nocturnal city reverie Ghost Tropic, premiered a scant few months after the latter and heralded a much less harsh outlook, a shift to 16mm, and a greater incorporation of nature within the city of Brussels that has served as Devos’s primary location. Here, like its fellow Brussels-set films, is concerned with the immigrant experience in a less precarious sense than many contemporary works, using their enclaves and quotidian interactions to explore what it means to exist in a place that is both home and not home. Here‘s protagonists initially seem to embody these two separate mindsets: Stefan (Stefan Gota) is a Romanian construction worker preparing to return to his native country on holiday, though he may his extend his “stay” indefinitely; Shuxiu (Gong Liyo, who was also an editor on Wang Bing’s monumental Youth trilogy) is a Chinese bryologist (researcher of mosses) who teaches at a university and helps out with her aunt’s restaurant, with no mention of any plans to alter her life.

Life alterations (and lack thereof) form the central conundrums surrounding Here. Based on Richard McGuire’s 2014 graphic novel—a 304-page tome itself expanded from a 6-page comic story in 1989, if there weren’t enough versions of Here already in play—it aims for what scans as an immensely ambitious undertaking: to chronicle the events of a specific place from prehistoric times to the modern day in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Like its source(s), Here uses a fixed, slightly askew perspective—here somewhere on the wall between a house’s living room and dining room; the graphic novel is closer to the corner of the room and produces a more angular yet more “neutral” composition, while the comic story’s point of view only looks at a corner of the living room by the window—that, in the film’s most publicized gambit, restricts Zemeckis to a single camera set-up for the entirety of Here.

It should be said that, despite my great admiration for both films, Here is a definitely stronger, more cohesive, and ultimately more beautiful work than Here. The opening shots of each swiftly communicate both the intentions and the level of subtlety each is operating on: Here observes a construction site in the distance with trees largely covering it in the foreground, an elegant interplay in emphases between the human-constructed city and the nature that will assert itself in fits and starts within these confines before eventually fully taking over the narrative. It’s difficult to talk about what exactly constitutes a shot within Here, since it uses the source’s technique of placing frames within frames to capture a part of the spot of land at a different time from the primary tableaux surrounding it, but Here opens with a car driving in front of the house, different frames within frames capturing three different cars along the same trajectory, before a multitude of views of the home interior and/or undeveloped land at different times that eventually resolve into the first dialogue scene with Here‘s central couple, Richard (Tom Hanks) and Margaret (Robin Wright), as they enter what was the former’s home for more than half a century. Elegance is and isn’t the name of the game for Here which, for all its narratives—intersecting in space but not time—reveals itself to be the tale of the Young clan, from the time that Richard’s parents moved into the house after World War II to his moving out in the early 2000s. For many, that sixty-year timespan feels reminiscent of the last time Zemeckis, Hanks, Wright, and co-screenwriter last collaborated on a film, resulting in the vastly more popular Forrest Gump thirty years ago. While Here‘s hokeyness and eagerness to track the times that are a’changin’ do strike a chord of recognition, it’s a comparison that feels as limited as the film’s perspective.

Speaking of which: one of Here‘s most brilliant moments reveals the canniness of its aesthetic strategy: the first definable “incident” on this patch of land, both chronologically and in the unfolding of the film, shows the extinction of the dinosaurs, complete with copious amounts of lava and fleeing reptiles. Any conventional treatment of this event, a spectacular global disaster, would feature grand sweeping shots of the devastation that showed off the scale of the barren, fiery landscapes. Here, on the other hand, refuses such elaborations, and its restraint signals the divide between this patch of land and others; while much can be inferred about the (eventually literal) outside world and a great deal is brought into the house, spoken about, and shown on television, it is left to the imagination what might happen. Here is a film that revels in imagination, in the direct images of its characters’ experiences and the thrumming richness of the world that surrounds them. Though it takes place over five days and four nights, its sense of time feels considerably more porous than the ordinary cycle of light and dark. Part of that has to do with Stefan’s habitual insomnia, which stretches out nights to achieve not the sustained mood of Devos’s previous film, but instead a slippage between waking and dreamed life.

Both Stefan and Shuxiu experience this second state at one point: the latter’s represents her first entry into the film, describing in Mandarin Chinese voiceover a morning in bed where she briefly forgot the names of the things surrounding her, moving from panic to an acceptance of a oneness with the world that is broken up by the sound of an outside siren. The images that accompany this recounting, a series of shots in the woods of the mosses and trees, precede Shuxiu’s first on-screen appearance, and are echoed during a brief nap Stefan takes while paying a visit to the hospital his sister works at. It’s possible to see Here as a film simultaneously highlighting and dismissing the unity of world. Though the various occupants of the land fall into consciously rhyming cycles, sometimes in a manner that manages to be equally revelatory and short-sighted—an early airplane fanatic and patriarch dies from the Spanish flu, while the Latine housekeeper for a Black family (notably the only domestic worker in the whole film) is all-too-unsubtly shown developing COVID—the swath of experience inevitably calls attention to the disparities on display.

The Youngs live in a continual state of middle-class malaise, with Richard forced to give up on his painting aspirations by an unplanned pregnancy, becoming an insurance salesman while he and Margaret continue to live in the house with his parents and siblings; a 1940s couple eventually gets rich by inventing the La-Z-Boy chair and immediately departs for California; two other families live there for a seemingly brief period of time before a death drives them away. But through all the passings in their own family, the Youngs stay far longer than they should, as much at the mercy of capitalist striving as their own inertia. Here reflects this emotional turmoil with an eerie placidity, incorporating their sufferings with those of others—including a Lenni-Lenape couple whose own family formation coincides on-screen with Richard and Margaret’s, eventually concluding with the woman’s death from old age—into the inexorable passage of time. Though certain milestones are clearer than others (none moreso than a television showing the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, a sign of Zemeckis returning to the roots of his debut I Wanna Hold Your Hand), the signposting that generally occurs is resolutely ordinary or undercut: New Year’s Eve 2003, the end of the Revolutionary War being met with a verbal shrug. The origins of the La-Z-Boy, as much amusing on-screen attention as it gets, seem to be forgotten by history, and the only thing that people point out is the beautiful historical building across the street, belonging to, of all people, Benjamin Franklin’s extra-marital son, who staunchly backed the British colonial forces. The famed inventor and Founding Father makes an appearance, but that grand house is literally backgrounded at almost all times, a footnote in history only notable because it happens to be the only colonial governor’s mansion still standing today. To be overshadowed by barely remembered history is something of a terrible state of existence.

Here has a few half-remembered invocations of history, both anthropocentric and natural: a friend of Stefan’s points out that the first trains to travel in mainland Europe arrived in Brussels, which he in turn mentions to Shuxiu a little while after she tells him that mosses were the first plants to grow on land. Where the great anguish and only half-convincing catharsis of Here lies in all the ways the modern world can make a person feel small, Here is largely content with that designation, even embracing it in many ways. It’s useful of course to see the mosses that become so crucial to the last third of Here as a synecdoche for the film’s aims: a thing that grows everywhere without people noticing it—Stefan even draws a comparison to himself—that is itself “a forest full of life.” But this move into nature only heightens the more (figuratively) subterranean beauty of the abutting city in night and day, and draws further attention to the ways in which Stefan was already interacting with nature: his preparations of soup to fully empty his fridge before his journeys, the various seeds that mysteriously appear in his pocket, his trip to a communal garden. Here is much more about finding the joy in the place where you live, but Here‘s slender narrative invokes this idea when it comes to Stefan’s situation: in an early scene in his apartment, he looks out his window at the city, before turning back and saying “this is my home” in Romanian, a phrase that, depending where you look, has a completely different meaning.

Here has garnered many divergent reactions and points of comparison—Michael Snow’s structuralist masterpiece Wavelength, the fixed proscenium staging of the Lumières, the grand-scale suburbia of The Tree of Life, the similar constraints of Steven Soderbergh’s Presence from this year—but it’s worth pointing out what, to me, strikes me as some key differences from the little I’ve glimpsed of the graphic novel (I’ve read and liked the comic story decently). Though the central narrative appears to be similar, there’s an abstract quality to much of Here, with its constant aim to find contextless juxtapositions between similar activities across time, that Here, for all its strengths, does not attempt to emulate: even as the constant shifting makes it purposefully difficult to get fully acclimated to the various storylines for the first twenty minutes or so, this does ultimately aim to tell a set of linear stories.

And yet, Here‘s adherence to traditional dramatics and relatively coherent screen elements produces its own daring innovations and reference points. The former is the removal of the year designation within each frame within the frame, automatically producing a destabilizing effect wholly removed from the greater use of such frames in the comics. While guesses can be made as to the origin of these individual shots, and the frames within frames are used more to transition between scenes rather than to constantly interrupt the proceedings, the effect is of a time period (minutes or decades apart) intruding upon one another, where the death march of the narrative becomes only crueler and more sobering when juxtaposed in the same frame with a celebration at another time. Méliès might be the better silent cinema pioneer to refer to, both in terms of cutting-edge technology—the extensive use of generative AI to de-age the actors during the take is never completely convincing but feels remarkably close, an uncanny valley Zemeckis has dwelled in for many years—and in a self-conscious theatricality. The living room runs deep into the background, though not quite as much as the graphic novel’s, but while Here varies its focal points’ distance from the camera well, many scenes are played rather close, with characters frequently looking disconcertingly off-screen past the camera, or beginning or ending a scene by walking towards or away from an unknown sector. Perhaps the film’s single most galvanizing moment expands the viewer’s sense—knowingly jarring them away from the perspective of the characters—of the space with a sublimely simple device.

The ending of Here is as ambiguous as the ending of Here is unambiguous, but both find a clear place of resolution that centers around a realization of all that remains forgotten and uncomprehended. Even though Here‘s title is used frequently, down to being the very last word spoken, the formal choice that accompanies it acts as a revelation for the audience that, once again, was apparent to the characters all along. Here contains a much more modest, yet no less impactful movement of its own, carrying within it an unmistakable sense of tenderness and curiosity that explores an interior rather than exterior space. Nick Newman (via Adam Nayman) has a much more cynical view of the final perspective of Here‘s, and it’s true that its neat narrative tidiness speaks just as much to all that has been lost and the even further diminished stature of this central couple, but the very last frames within the frame—returning to look once more at the little living room where centuries of personal history have taken place—feels remarkably in line with Here‘s mosses: a mini-forest of life, full of pleasure and pain.

Chime
The Serpent’s Path/La Voie du serpent
Cloud/クラウド/Kuraudo

Rating *** A must-see

Directed by Kurosawa Kiyoshi

The average cinephile would certainly be forgiven for not noticing Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s relatively long absence from filmmaking to open this tumultuous decade. After his perpetually underrated Wife of a Spy played in competition at the Venice Film Festival in 2020, he didn’t put out another film for four years, his longest break since 2008 (Tokyo Sonata) to 2012 (Penance). In the haze of the pandemic and its attendant complications, it’s only natural that even a steady artist like Kurosawa would fall out of view. Still, the slow roll-out of announcements—beginning in April 2023 and concluding in February 2024—that he would be releasing three feature films in the calendar year was one of the more delightful phenomenons of the past few years.

The groundswell seemed to stem from a variety of impulses: the excitement at his return of course, the surprise at this heightened degree of prolificness (Hong Sang-soo was inevitably invoked). However, there was perhaps just a little bit of relief. Following a run of, in the eyes of the many who still view Kurosawa as “merely” one of horror cinema’s greatest exponents, unconventional films—Before We Vanish‘s alien invasion, To the Ends of the Earth‘s odd travelogue, Wife of a Spy‘s period intrigue—the announcements of first a remake of Serpent’s Path (1998), one of his final V-cinema efforts, then the explicitly supernatural Chime, and finally the suspense thriller Cloud seemed to herald something of a return to form.

Ironically, the timeline of the films’ respective availability has been jumbled and uneven at every turn. The 45-minute Chime premiered in a sidebar at the Berlinale and, thanks to its botched release from a NFT company, became available via extralegal means a few months later. Though The Serpent’s Path technically premiered second, receiving a full-fledged theatrical release in Japan in June, it was completely unseen in the West until its competition berth at the San Sebastian Film Festival, and has only received a scant few festival showings in North America since then. Therefore, Cloud, the final film announced and premiered from this trio, has received much greater attention at an earlier time than its predecessor, thanks to a Venice out-of-competition slot (where it was commonly cited as being better than a number of the actual Golden Lion hopefuls) and a well-attended TIFF premiere. And, as has been frequently mentioned, none of these films currently have U.S. distribution.

I say all of this not only to catalogue the strange journey that related films, especially Kurosawa’s—lest we forget that Journey to the Shore, an Un Certain Regard prizewinner and NYFF Main Slate entry, never got an American distributor—can take in the currents of the festival circuit, but to point at what might be called a certain interchangeability between these three works, all of which are strong and distinct in their own ways yet ever-so-slightly lesser than the majority of his more recent work. I watched these earlier this month—in an appropriately mixed-up order: The Serpent’s Path, Cloud, Chime; I’ll be discussing the films according to the order they premiered—and throughout I couldn’t help but think of how my friend Evan Morgan, one of the smartest critics I know (especially on Kurosawa), remarked to me that, after seeing Chime and knowing about the two films to follow, he felt Kurosawa was entering a more retrospective period after more than a decade where “everything seemed new and open to infinite possibilities,” an assessment which is, for better or worse, largely accurate, or at least indicative of a somewhat more straightforward conception than his previous predilection.

Chime, despite its short running time and novel setting, is ultimately the film that adheres most closely to this paradigm; it is also the strongest of the year. Kurosawa is by no means new to working within the span of an hour, but these works—including “Beautiful New Bay Area Project” and Seventh Code, both from 2013, and his short “Actually…” from two years ago—have typically, due to a combination of their status as commissions and their more free-floating narratives, allowed Kurosawa to play in freewheeling fashion with genre and tone. Chime, by contrast, is almost perversely committed to its evocation of the dread that has been his most widely beloved mode for so long, which is to say that this is paradoxically a continually surprising film narratively without the unexpected shifts of many of his other, even better works.

True, Chime generates an immediate frisson from its main character’s work: the antiseptic teaching kitchens, besides uncannily reminding me instantly of Frederick Wiseman’s Menus-Plaisirs—Les Troisgros, are much more orderly yet oddly reminiscent of his typically dingy environs, with all the cold reflective metal and knives a sure harbinger of the violence to come. The familiar elements don’t only appear at work; viewing this in close proximity to Tokyo Sonata, the family dinners here bear a marked resemblance, only streamlined and stripped of all but the most essential elements. When the premise first came out, many compared it to Memoria, but besides there being surprisingly little of the actual chime (much more akin to wind chimes as opposed to, say, the sound of a ringtone), it is more than anything else an externalization, a reminder of all the potential evil surrounding us.

Especially at this early juncture, it’s too reductive to say that Chime is the most successful of Kurosawa’s films this year merely because it sticks closest to his strengths, which lie both in sustained mood and in the various means by which he teases out his characters’ madness: the overflowing box of cans that the chef’s wife is dumping out at one point, the nighttime sojourn to hide a body, a disastrous job interview caused by the chef’s manic inability to get out of his own perspective. It’s probably unlikely that this scenario could sustain a film much longer than this one, especially considering the coda: a sudden burst of (emulated?) film grain that calls to mind Kurosawa’s recreation of 9.5mm film for Wife of a Spy, the exact right frenzied note to end a uniformly thrilling 45 minutes. Chime is direct about its intentions and executes them in the right manner, which for a craftsman of this caliber is kind of ideal.

In a certain sense, it’s convenient for referential purposese that the remake of Kurosawa’s 1998 film appears to be formally titled in English The Serpent’s Path, though I wonder how much of that comes from the direct translation of the French “La Voie” (not “le chemin” as originally reported). Such a small yet focusing element describes this take on his original material well. For me, if it is not quite the best of this trio, then it’s certainly the most fascinating. In broad strokes, The Serpent’s Path operates as a tremendously faithful remake of Serpent’s Path, following a grieving father as he, with the help of a much more implacable accomplice, kidnaps and tortures men who he believes killed—unlike in the Japanese original, molestation is never mentioned—his daughter.

Of course, the film takes place in Paris, featuring the great French actor Damien Bonnard as the father, and represents Kurosawa’s second film outside his native country after the French film Daguerrotype. His helper, replacing the bespectacled male math teacher of the original, is a female doctor played by Shibasaki Ko, who speaks impeccable French and in certain ways represents a combination of characters from Serpent’s Path, including an enigmatic gang leader who served as one of the main antagonists. The original has long been noted for its overwhelming bleakness, a pitiless examination of abasement that equally makes sense amid his direct-to-video work and coming right after Cure. The Serpent’s Path, at least in my view, does reach a similar height and, in terms of Kurosawa’s expression of his interests, surpass the original, but it doesn’t necessarily aim to do so via its atmosphere.

The dingy, enormous warehouse is replaced by more discrete, still dilapidated rooms reminiscent of a soundstage; the 80 minute film is expanded out to almost 2 hours without seeming to add too much in the way of plot. Rather, The Serpent’s Path works more slyly than the other two films put together when viewed from the lens of adaptation. Most obviously notable are the scenes with Nishijima Hideotoshi (the lead of Kurosawa’s Creepy, which featured Serpent’s Path star Kagawa Teruyuki) as one of the doctor’s patients, who has lived in France for many years without ever learning the language: his signature weariness mixed with charisma as he talks about his persistent migraines and growing dissatisfaction with his life communicates a great deal about a dislocation faced, in one way or another, by all the characters.

Kurosawa’s ability to evoke modern alienation has always been one of his most significant tools, and it’s further bolstered here by one of the most striking changes. While many sequences are replicated virtually identically, down to a few perfectly copied visual choices like a tilt-up as the first captive looks up at the father, the film invokes the idea of a corporate conspiracy which led to the murder much earlier than the hints given in Serpent’s Path. Both films are, at their core, about a paranoiac struggling to establish a motivation for the havoc he is wreaking, but The Serpent’s Path introduction of a more coherent throughline trades Serpent’s Path‘s haze of confusion—signified by the copious use of complex math problems—for the brutal, cold light of digital and two-faced interactions enabled by late capitalism and ostensible good intentions. Ultimately, my preference for The Serpent’s Path may simply lie in the sheer novelty of seeing Kurosawa directing Damien Bonnard as he torments Mathieu Amalric and Grégoire Colin, but the fullness with which he delves into his newly revitalized premise, even if it lacks the focus of Chime, is truly chilling.

It might be something of an anticlimax to end with Cloud, even though it’s a very worthy film in its own right and already, deservedly, has plenty of champions. Like Chime, it’s a film that, despite the noted shift from suspense thriller to quasi-action shootout, is relatively direct about its intentions and interests, and “merely” sets about executing them with great vigor. Much of the coverage around the film has revolved around its apparent updating of Cure and especially Pulse for a more depersonalized, bland Internet age; it might be too harsh to say that these comparisons are more reflective of Kurosawa’s still underseen body of work and therefore Western critics’ limited understanding of his cinema, but, a few potent scenes of our antihero as he waits for his scalped goods to sell out on a flickering reseller website aside, this is much less a film about the actual apparatus of technology than human interactions under duress.

Eric Marsh compared it to Doppelganger, which I haven’t seen, but, perhaps because of the compressed preparatory viewing I undertook for my own week of Kurosawa, it oddly reminded me most of Serpent’s Path‘s sister film Eyes of the Spider (also 1998); for his part Filipe Furtado cited The Revenge films (I’ve seen the first and can see the resemblance), which also belong to Kurosawa’s V-Cinema works. Though Eyes virtually begins where Serpent’s Path leaves off—starring Aikawa Sho, the helper in that film, as a man seeking revenge for his daughter’s murder—it quickly becomes something of a yakuza comedy, tracking the drudgery of a hitman’s life in a vague, nonsensical hierarchy; though there is plenty of bloodshed, it is dealt with in a fairly lightweight manner.

Cloud only involves the yakuza tangentially, in terms of the implied connections and past that the reseller’s assistant possesses, but it feels of a piece with Eyes of the Spider in its approach to violence and the numbing consequences of economic manipulation, especially once the reseller and his girlfriend move to the countryside and all the problems they hoped to escape are multiplied tenfold. Kurosawa’s staging of the action scenes, which reminded me of the wonderfully absurd shootouts in the very different Before We Vanish, is very clean and dynamic, playing up the cavernous desolation of the warehouse (as opposed to the disturbingly tidy warehouse in The Serpent’s Path). Ultimately, the inexorable grind of moneymaking keeps moving, encapsulated in the use of one of Kurosawa’s best recurring formal devices during the final moments: obvious rear projection during driving scenes, which he once described as aiding the sense of transformation caused by the resulting conversations. Like its two similarly brilliant brethren, it’s clear that something akin to an apocalypse is fast approaching; while most of my favorite Kurosawas don’t end on such an unambiguous note of pessimism, there’s still not much as compelling as his cinema, whatever running time, genre, or form it adopts.

Courtesy of Sideshow/Janus Films.

New York Film Festival 2024:

Caught by the Tides/风流一代/Fēngliú yīdài

Rating **** Masterpiece

Directed by Jia Zhangke

Throughout his filmography, Jia Zhangke has refused to operate within clean dichotomies. Whether it be the tumult of his prominence and corresponding governmental approval—where Jia has alternately been censored or praised by the Chinese Communist Party depending on whichever film he’s made at a particular time—or his approach to form, his work is at once instantly recognizable yet always shifting according to his own predilections. Certain periods can be picked out: the opening stretch of his career lasting until 2006, his documentary period from 2008 to 2010, his genre-inflected epics from 2013 to the present. But such divisions are porous: Sean Gilman’s essential “14 Ways of Looking at Jia Zhangke” piece for MUBI Notebook provides a handy précis into his influences and tendencies, which course through these different periods, popping up at unexpected moments. Along with his wife and muse Zhao Tao, Jia’s filmography has been defined by his continuous charting of the currents of a rapidly modernizing China, with all the recursions and great leaps forward implied in such an artistic undertaking.

That being said, Jia has always retained the element of surprise, each new entry to his canon a left turn that expands the expressive potential of his cinema. The past four features alone have vividly demonstrated this: the mosaic of violence in A Touch of Sin, the futuristic decades-spanning melodrama of Mountains May Depart, the dedication to the gangster film in Ash Is Purest White, and the enormous evolution in his documentary abilities shown in Swimming Out Till the Sea Turns Blue.

And yet, Caught by the Tides, Jia’s first fiction feature in six years, registers as the most extreme leap since possibly Unknown Pleasures, precisely because of how much it may superficially resemble virtually all of his past films. When it was unveiled through the slow trickle of production updates and the announcement of the Cannes competition, all initially seemed normal. Like Mountains May Depart and Ash Is Purest White, it was specified as a film taking place in three time periods over the course of a few decades; in particular, the idea of featuring Zhao Tao as a woman searching for her romantic partner hearkened back to the latter’s narrative. The central conceit of reusing footage in order to evoke the era in which previous films of his had taken place was intriguing, but didn’t necessarily register as something new, and most reviews have conveyed a sense of the film as largely resembling his recent period. Mountains May Depart‘s first section was in Academy ratio specifically to allow for this incorporation; meanwhile Ash Is Purest White begins with such footage and interlaces it throughout, and focuses on the same time periods as Caught: 2001, when Unknown Pleasures was filmed in Datong; 2005, corresponding to Still Life and decamping to the Three Gorges Dam-affected Fengjie; and the present day, back in Datong.

Any consideration of a film so deeply entrenched in its filmmaker’s oeuvre almost demands a more personal recounting of the writer’s relationship with said body of work. To be honest, as I was reading the logline and early reactions, I was a little bit worried that Jia was repeating himself: Mountains May Depart remains one of the most personally important films to me, and Ash Is Purest White is wondrously complex, but I was unsure if a third iteration would be sufficiently generative. Even as I saw the rapture with which numerous trusted friends received it and felt more at ease, it was still difficult to fully let go of that doubt. The extremity of my reaction may indeed be influenced by an equal sense of relief and awe, that the most important filmmaker currently active had found yet another way to completely overhaul his aesthetic interests. It probably doesn’t help that Unknown Pleasures and Still Life are among the haziest Jia films for me, and I didn’t have the time to revisit them before seeing this.

At its core, Caught by the Tides is not merely about the complicated romance between Qiaoqiao—though I actually don’t remember if Zhao Tao’s character’s name is said in dialogue—and Bin (Li Zhubin), despite the general tenor of the critical conversation thus far. Rather, it exemplifies in the best way “a documentary that is progressively overtaken by fiction,” as Jonathan Rosenbaum once characterized Jacques Rivette’s Out 1. Where that legendary masterpiece was conceived as fiction from the outset yet initially presented as detailed vérité, Jia’s method of reusing footage shot over the years, usually during production—I have heard conflicting accounts, though the general consensus is that these are by-and-large not outtakes or alternate takes from Unknown Pleasures and Still Life, but rather moments and scenarios captured on set, with apparently some sequences taken directly from those films—takes that appellation at face value, both in its own conception and in its unfolding.

Then again, that idea might apply better to the Jia referent that, in many ways, feels more apropos to Caught by the Tides than his recent work: the docufiction hybrid 24 City. That film, mostly presented as plain documentary, gradually introduced actors into the mix of factory worker talking heads, including Zhao and Joan Chen, until virtually everything presented on screen was thrown into question. His other best work explicitly invoking documentary, Swimming Out Till the Sea Turns Blue, was, like Caught by the Tides, co-written by Wan Jiahuan, and involved a similarly intricate structure to 24 City that Caught largely avoids, though these two latest films by Jia share a sense for Chinese historical context and its influence on art. But that film possessed little of the slipperiness that 24 City and Caught present, with the latter film magnifying it to extreme, pervasive proportions.

For much of Caught by the Tides‘s extraordinary achievement rests in the way in which it manages to question every single scene that appears on screen, even as they frequently register with a grand jubilation. After an enigmatic opening shot, the first of many intertitles appears on screen, displaying the lyrics to an unusually (for Jia) raucous rock song, before plunging into an extended, seemingly documentary sequence of Datong villagers singing in a room. Zhao is not present—and indeed does not appear for a while—as Jia lingers on the different impromptu performances. Soon after, there is an extended interview (it sounds like Jia’s voice is asking questions off camera) with a man who is opening an entertainment hall; it becomes clear later that Zhao is one of the women who ends up working as a singer there, but the insertion of this talking head into the proceedings, especially with his brief discussion of a Mao portrait that he recovered while refurbishing the building, throws the already odd focus into complete uncertainty.

Caught by the Tides is, frankly speaking, likely Jia’s most impenetrable film, even as it likely contains the greatest musical spirit of any of his works. It willfully follows its own paths, barreling into the images and sensations of the past without leaving an easily identifiable breadcrumb trail behind. But this comes across as a specific aesthetic strategy, an series of acts of incorporation that, for perhaps the first time since his greatest film Platform, fully emphasizes both the individual and the collective. The Chinese title roughly translates to “romantic generation,” and both it and the English title convey the sweep of history, the way in which an individual moment can suddenly be incorporated into a larger understanding of a people or, indeed, a relationship.

To emulate this idea, Jia’s approach in this first section (and, to a lesser extent in the second) is to only fitfully emphasize Zhao and Li’s connection. One of the Jia films I did see in preparation was “In Public,” his documentary short and first digital effort, shot directly before Unknown Pleasures, and there is a surprising amount in Caught, including a bus converted into a restaurant, as handy a synecdoche for Jia’s reuse of his footage as any. Switching rapidly between Academy ratio to 1.85:1—note that the digital video-shot “In Public” and Unknown Pleasures were both released in the latter ratio—and even incorporating what may or may not be new footage of Zhao (given a notable increase in resolution), the primary sensation is of being unmoored in time, existing somewhere between the immediacy of the past and the nostalgia of the present. In one of the most apparent manifestations of this, frequent Jia actor Liang Jingdong pops up in the 2001-set opening credits, looking much more like his current age, before having a small role in footage clearly shot in 2001. At one point, his character falls asleep in front of a computer, and an animated digital reverie reminiscent of Zhao’s dream in The World adopts a different mood entirely. This first section is full of such ruptures and wonders.

The second section hews closer to what I remember of Zhao and Li’s half of Still Life, but that categorization might not be right at all. If I’m not mistaken, I believe that most of Zhao’s footage is actually taken from the shoot of Ash Is Purest White‘s second section, which somehow recreated Fengjie circa 2005, was shot on 35mm by Éric Gautier, and involved Zhao looking for her partner in that film. There appears to be film grain (assuming it’s not emulated) and the image quality is generally much higher than Li’s scenes, as he was not involved in Ash. While there are fewer cutaways to “purely” uninflected observation of non-actors, the same confusion involved in the first section extends to this questioning of where and when each shot exactly came from, suggesting the understandably discombobulating idea of a woman from 2017 attempting to connect with a man from 2005. At one point, an animated English-language advertisement for robots (allegedly created by AI) plays on a celluloid film projector as Zhao (in I think a 2017-shot café) looks on, only further muddying the waters.

On its face, the third section, set in 2022, provides little of that same uncanniness. The immediate impression is left by the clear aging on Li’s and even (to a significantly lesser extent) Zhao’s faces, as well as the throes of the pandemic. It’s likely that Jia, shooting a year later, had to recreate yet another crisis in China, albeit on a significantly smaller scale and with much less time to be bridged. The narrative intrigue rests mainly in the search for reconnection, but Jia still finds ways to disorient: a few uses of a 360 camera here, stretching and pulling the image; a sublime encounter between Zhao and a serving robot there. But the effect, after seeing all this change and confusion, is to suddenly reorient the viewer, snapping all of the tumult into focus and observing the wreckage left in its wake. Qiaoqiao is on better footing than Bin, but the resignation caused by the intervening 17 years and the mostly unexplained events of that time send the film into another level of inchoate emotion entirely.

To bring it all back to 24 City: while that film was fundamentally grounded in the reality of the factory, even as the viewer’s conception of what constituted it evolved, Caught by the Tides exists in a realm where there is no foundation imposed by the film. It is a film where narrative, both intrinsic to the narrative and informed by the viewer’s expectations, struggles to be born from the “documentary” footage. Zhao’s dialogue-free performance, as luminous as any instance of her legendary work with Jia, acts as a binding agent as always, and it’s worth remembering here that her given name (as mentioned in Mountains May Depart) means waves. Chinese society and Zhao produce their own tides of change, and Caught is, by the end, equally beholden to both of their forces. It is too much to say that the former represents documentary and the latter fiction; indeed, for us Jia devotees Zhao’s face is a primary document of an evolving China. Instead, with regards to a new landmark whose meaning changes with each passing moment, altering both itself and its towering predecessors before it, it’s best to simply marvel at such a bursting work, one whose voice rings out at last with a clear sense of a new beginning.