Bandits (2001)

TWO'S COMPANY, THREE'S A CRIME

Today, we reach a milestone… the 100^th review on this poky little blog, so let’s get on with it. Yesterday, we looked at Bande à part, a story about two young wannabe criminals who coerce a girl they know into assisting them in robbing the house where she lives, with the situation becoming complicated when both guys try to woo the girl. Today, we’re looking at Bandits, a story about two career criminals who wind up taking a strange woman along on bank robberies, with the situation becoming complicated when both guys try to woo the girl… it’s a funny old world we live in, isn’t it?

Two escaped convicts, the charismatic Joe (Bruce Willis) and the hypochondriac Terry (Billy Bob Thornton), begin a bank robbing spree under the plan of kidnapping bank managers the night before, then going with the managers in the morning to rob the banks. When a getaway goes wrong, they wind up bringing a bored housewife, Kate (Cate Blanchett), along with them, which only complicates things further when an awkward romantic triangle develops between them.

Of course, I’m not actually suggesting that Bandits is some sort of remake of Bande à part. The original conception of the project was actually to adapt the novel Bandits by Elmore Leonard, to which Bruce Willis owns the film rights. However, it was apparently deemed that it was too weak a story to adapt, so they simply kept the title and brought in a new writer to come up with a completely new concept. The writer they brought in was Harley Peyton, known best for working on Twin Peaks in the early 90s, with the bulk of season two coming from him. His other work was sporadic after the end of that show, and Bandits was his first film of the 00s. There may have been some degree of influence going on with Bande à part, but perhaps it’s just sheer coincidence that I happened to see both of these films one after the other, thereby making it seem way more relevant than it actually is. Certainly, it’s no stretch of a writer’s imagination to have a story of two thieves whose work gets compromised when a third party comes between them.

As it is, Bandits is a relatively clever script, although it actually does have just as many downfalls. The characters are pretty well drawn, distinctive and fairly memorable. Joe is the doer of the team, possessed of confidence, charisma and a willingness to get the job done, although he’s also got a bit of a problem with anger management. Terry is the thinker, a very smart guy, but often crippled (sometimes literally) by an array of insecurities, allergies, fears and neuroses. Of the two, Terry is the better character, primarily because he has more potential for comedy and drama, given that he’s more prone to bouts of mild hysteria and panic than his cooler partner. Joe can still fly off the handle, but it never comes at a time that would cause untoward conflict. The character of Kate is somewhere between the two, a woman of great spirit and passion, though it’s buried under so much domesticated unhappiness and boredom. When she runs into the criminal pair (well, one of them, anyway), she rather quickly jumps on the opportunity for some excitement and thrills in her life. The reasons for her domestic hell is obvious when we see a news broadcast featuring her husband. With everyone believing she has been kidnapped, his plea to get her back includes the point, “I’m going to Spain next week, so if your kidnappers would like to contact me, they can get in touch with my people, and you know who they are.” Classy guy. Like I said, these characters are pretty good and all have decent motivations behind them.

There are a handful of other characters to proceedings, of varying degrees of importance, although they are more hit-and-miss in the overall picture. Joe and Terry’s lookout/getaway driver is Harvey, Joe’s cousin. Harvey is a stuntman with a penchant for pyro work. He’s also an idiot. Honestly, Harvey is one of the ‘miss’ characters mainly because of that last point, since he does stupid things that are a bit infuriating, like leaving the getaway vehicle because he sees a girl he likes, though I’ll get to this in a bit. On the other side, one of the ‘hit’ characters would be Mildred, a bank manager who is genuinely thrilled to meet the famous bank-robbing duo, but refuses to go along with their plans because she can’t take them seriously. She tells Joe that everyone knows that he wouldn’t hurt anyone, so she isn’t that frightened. A point on this, though, since we have seen that Joe has anger management issues, you’d expect more of a reaction than a frustrated sigh.

As to the actual story of the film, it’s got an interesting central premise around which to build some good stuff. The romantic triangle dynamic can yield some fine conflict on its own, but that it’s set within the context of a series of bank-jobs does give it an extra boost. What does create something of an imbalance is that there’s never a definite tone struck in the picture, which makes things feel a bit uneasier than they should, though this is as much the fault of director Barry Levinson as it is Peyton. Levinson has normally shown himself to be quite adept at nimbly juggling tonal shifts without problem, but there’s the odd fumble here and there. And I swear, the first time Terry and Kate spend time together being intercut with Joe taking his frustrations out on a makeshift punch bag is similar to something done in Double Impact, a Jean-Claude Van Damme film from ten years prior.

This is where Harvey’s own romantic subplot could have had the most direct effect. With the primary love triangle, the problem in tone comes from what seems to be the indecision of the filmmakers as to whether or not it’s mainly comedic or mainly dramatic. The amount of time spent on it would suggest the latter, but the lack of real engagement would suggest the former. If they wanted to make it more comedic, they could have easily cut back on the three leads and given a bit more time to Harvey’s time spent chasing a blonde hitchhiker in pink boots. Like I said, this is in need of further development if we’re to believe in it more. As it is, there’s a couple of moments (not scenes, moments) where Harvey doesn’t pick the girl up, then eventually one where he does, and then suddenly they’re living together as a couple… wait, what? That’s a lot of off-screen relationship building for us not to be in on it. That this relationship does have some importance in the final 20 minutes or so just puts more strain on the already thin link. With just a bit more time spent here, the relationship between Harvey and the pink boots girl would feel more authentic, and put less weight on the leading trio to cover all generic bases.

You’d maybe think that this all amounts to a pretty lacklustre film, with good moments and bad fighting each other for supremacy. As it is, the film is more enjoyable than not mainly because of the fine performances given throughout. Bruce Willis still has a great line in wry smirks and easy charm, coupled with a solid physical presence, so Joe is ably handled. Billy Bob Thornton is on great form as Terry, showing off an array of tics, twitches and fast-talking that makes his feeling of simmering panic ever so slightly infectious. Cate Blanchett goes for Kate with a great abandon, offering bad dancing and singing without a hint of shame because it’s finally about her character being free to do so. And, as much the character can occasionally annoy, Troy Garity does give Harvey some kind of humour, which he needs so as not to be completely off-putting. That all of the performances are strong and that the characters are (for the most part) likable goes a long way to raising the game of the whole film. It doesn’t solve all of the problems, but it makes much more enjoyable.

Bandits is a bit messy when it comes to finding the right overall tone to the picture, and the script has its share of drawbacks, like a secondary romantic subplot that’s so underdeveloped it could qualify as a sub-sub-subplot. That said, there is enough fun there to keep it entertaining, it is pretty brisk for a two-hour film and the central performances are thoroughly enjoyable, especially in Billy Bob Thornton. It certainly could have been much better, but it’s far from a complete disaster.

Apocalypse Now Redux (1979/2001)

THE HORROR... THE HORROR...

Apocalypse Now is, and probably always will be, one of the most notorious, infamous and legendary films of all time. Originally intended as a faux documentary to be filmed during the Vietnam War under the direction of George Lucas, it was constantly pushed back and rewritten and revisualised until it became a surreal and engulfing story directed by Francis Ford Coppola. The production was a nightmare, with the cast being changed or struck with illness; the sets being destroyed by storms; the budget more than doubling; and the intended four-month shoot extending to almost a year and a half. Coppola became almost maniacal in his push to complete the film, which took a further two years to edit, getting its release in 1979, three years after it had begun filming. In 2001, Coppola went back to the film and released a new edit of the film, reinstating scenes dropped from the original cut, adding a further 49 minutes to the already huge 153-minute running time. This was released as Apocalypse Now Redux.

Vietnam, 1969. Captain Willard (Martin Sheen), an experienced Special Forces officer, is sent back into the jungle on a top-secret mission to find and kill renegade Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando), who has set up his own army within the jungle. As Willard forges ahead into the jungle, he slowly descends into a state of border-line insanity brought on by his mission and the jungle itself, becoming more like the man he was sent to kill.

At the time of writing, it was perhaps only a couple of months ago that I had the good fortune to be able to see an all-new digital re-release of the original cut of Apocalypse Now on a big cinema screen. It had been years since I had seen it, and I would have kicked myself if I had missed it, particularly with the legendary sound design being played through big theatre sound. Some things genuinely do just need to be seen at least once on the big screen. The showing I went to was an early-afternoon Wednesday screening, the last in its run. When I came to two-and-a-half hours later, I was rather spaced out, walking through the streets back to my car in a mild daze, reeling from the spectacle I had just seen. I genuinely didn’t speak to anyone for around an hour and a half after the film finished. I can’t think of many ways to better describe it than that, other than perhaps this: as I sat in the theatre, which was only moderately busy, there were people around who, for one reason or another, couldn’t sit through the full running time like myself and some others could. Someone had to leave to go to the toilet, someone went to get another drink, the reasons varied. As I sat there, transfixed by the film onscreen, I did, on occasion, have my concentration broken now and then by one of those people moving from their seat. As they moved, I would glance at them, not contemptuously so, but simply because there was movement where there had been none before. My glance away from the film was momentary, less than a second, and I missed no line of dialogue nor visual metaphor. And yet, though I missed nothing of the film, for that split second of not looking at the screen… I missed looking at the screen. I was so absorbed by the action, by the visuals, by the enveloping soundtrack, that if I took myself out of it, even for a moment, I missed not being inside the atmosphere of the film. It was a comfortable bed that I was loathed to tear myself away from. Such is the strength that still remains in Apocalypse Now.

One of the truly great things about Apocalypse Now, and the 2001 re-edit Redux, is that I still can’t entirely decide if it’s one of the worst directed films ever or one of the best directed films ever. It’s ambitious, pretentious, flawed, vital, indulgent, incendiary filmmaking at its most extreme. Coppola himself says that, as the film progresses, the story itself becomes less important. He always said that it’s more of an experience than a film. There is the distinct impression that the film, at some point, ceases to be under the direction of Coppola and instead begins to direct itself, like a living entity trying explore itself in the same the way the characters in the film do. Off the top of my head, I can think of only one other film that has managed to achieve this sense that the film has come alive on its own and begun to dictate its own trajectory, beyond the control (and sometimes the understanding) of its original controller. That film is one I’ll eventually get to in this journey through my collection, but for now, I’ll keep my focus on Apocalypse Now Redux.

Most of what I already think about the original film remains intact in the light of the new material on show in Redux, despite some pretty sizable shifts in structure and flow. I’ll begin by talking about the original film, and then move onto other considerations developed by the new edit.

The original intentions of Apocalypse Now can generally be summed up with the same words that so many others, particularly film students, have used to describe their own projects – “I want to take a proper, realistic look at this, without the bullshit.  I don’t want the audience to watch it, I want them to feel it.” The Vietnam War is often described by those that were there as a truly grim and hazy experience, like a bad trip in a hostile place that never seemed to end. If this is the case, then Apocalypse Now truly is the closest thing to being there. Loosely basing itself on Joseph Conrad’s book Heart of Darkness, the film surges forward into a journey through corruption, amoral reasoning, madness and the dark soul that rests at the heart of every human being. Willard is sent to “terminate with extreme prejudice” Col. Kurtz, a brilliant soldier on his way to becoming one of the top brass in the country, because he has gone off the rails, has closed himself off from the outside world and begun to amass his own army of natives deep within Cambodia. To these less civilised people, he has become a deity, a god, an idol to whom they have given themselves over to completely. With this unwavering support, Kurtz begins fighting the war on his own terms, picking his own targets and ordering his new troops to kill them. That he seems to be getting some sort of results in his area is not the concern to the US military. To them, he has gone completely insane. Therefore, they formally charge him with murder (a notion both Kurtz and Willard find, in the context of where they are, insane) and assign Willard to kill him. On the journey, Willard reads over the numerous documents of Kurtz’s accomplishments, his multiple decorations, his many achievements, and comes to question the authority that would create such a brilliant and highly decorated soldier only to deem him mad for carrying out the duties of his command, but without their input and a ruthless efficiency that they find collectively disturbing. By the time Willard meets his intended target, his journey and his own dwindling mental state mean that he is more like Kurtz than himself.

That Kurtz is regularly alluded to as some sort of deity, and Willard’s journey towards him makes the Apocalypse Now something akin to a religious pilgrimage. People go on these types of journeys to feel closer to God, at least metaphorically. Willard’s journey is made more intense and intriguing because, not only does he know that he will have met God by the end of the trek, but it’s his job to kill him. Along the way, the more he reads of Kurtz’s exploits, both within the military and without, as well as letters from Kurtz to his family, the more Willard becomes indoctrinated into Kurtz’s way of thinking. He starts to buy into the cult of Kurtz. He begins to believe in him. The sense of the religious is scattered throughout the film at numerous instances, utilising religious iconography and imagery, both Western and Eastern, at various points to support this ideal. The whole voyage itself, often described as a descent into madness and Hell, is somewhat structured after a journey (albeit a meandering one) through the various levels of Hell suggested in Dante’s Inferno, with Willard acting as out Virgil. Willard begins in his Saigon hotel room, endlessly waiting on his next assignment – The First Circle of Limbo. As his boat sails down the river, he makes stops at regular intervals. There’s the famous helicopter blitz attack on a small village (Seventh Circle - Violence); there’s the USO show featuring three Playboy Bunnies (Second Circle - Lust); there’s stopping for mangoes, with Chef discussing food, before being chased away by a tiger (Third Circle – Gluttony, with the tiger acting as Cerberus). There’s even a possible allusion to the eternal torment of Greek character Sisyphus, who was condemned to spend eternity pushing a boulder to the top of a hill only to watch it roll back down and have to repeat the task forever. This point can be found in the scene where Willard’s boat happens upon a US Army outpost at a bridge with no commanding officer, which is under constant attack from Vietnamese troops. The US keeps trying to build the bridge; the enemy keeps destroying it. Kurtz’s appearance of a fat bald man (though much to the intense displeasure of director Coppola) actually extends this Eastern deity idea, making him look like some darkly perverted image of Buddha. And the final 15 minutes are a work of brutal ritual, figurative and literal.

The main sequences remain as big and powerful as always. The opening scene with Willard is still a supremely evocative sequence, stirring up the beginnings of the dark hysteria and tragedy that the rest of the film will build on. From the moment Lt. Col. Kilgore, played with a vigorous bravado by Robert Duvall, shows up, the whole film seems to run on a more intense heat, almost like the character makes the film itself stand more at attention. The helicopter attack on the village and school are masterworks of editing, of music, of frankly epic sound design. The Sisyphean bridge scene is something of a deliberate eeriness and shell-shocked horror, scattered with examples of aimless aggression and paranoia. Particularly disquieting is the unblinking soldier who blows up the remains of a Vietnamese squad hiding in the jungle, judging the aim and distance by ear, with an almost supernatural calm.

Kurtz’s compound of death is also still deeply unnerving, decorated with heads, skulls, corpses and words scrawled onto a wall – “OUR MOTTO: APOCALYPSE NOW”. Dennis Hopper’s jittery and intense photojournalist is a rather unsettling presence, but mainly because he’s such enthusiastic believer in Kurtz and his doctrine. He’s a fanatic. He really believes the man is a genius, a god, because when he says things, he has the strength and will to carry them out. As he tells Willard:

Photojournalist: I wish I had words, man. I wish I had words... I can tell ya

something like the other day he wanted to kill me. Somethin’ like that...

Willard: Why’d he wanna kill you?

Photojournalist: Because I took his picture. He said “If you take my picture

again, I'm gonna kill you.” And he meant it.

That he delivers that last line with more than a little awe, as if he’s honoured he should be so regarded by Kurtz, is unsettling.

Many people find the scenes with Brando to be the point where the film wanders too far, goes off the rails too much. Honestly, I disagree. I think it left the rails long before. Now the journey has come to an end and therefore Willard must finally come to make his choice… kill the man, or join him. Brando, for all of his weird dialogue (most of which he made up) and his grotesque appearance, is still a forceful and imposing presence in the film. There’s no doubting that this rambling maniac is capable of doing these terrible things, but there’s equally no doubting that he could inspire the following to do it. Brando has always been possessed of great charisma, indeed that’s why he became the idol to so many in real life. And that’s just exactly what cult leaders need – presence, charisma, the ability to command an audience’s attention. And the way he delivers the monologue about the enemy soldiers that inspired Kurtz to become what he is is still remarkably chilling, made more so because it’s somewhat understandable. That’s what makes Kurtz really horrifying, that he arrived at his mania with a logical clarity that’s difficult to deny.

The new changes made to the film in the Redux cut are mostly small ones, but feature two pretty large additions to the story. One is a return of the Playboy Bunnies from the USO show who had to leave quickly in their helicopter after the audience got too rowdy and started to storm the stage. Willard’s boat comes across a mostly abandoned medevac site that the Bunnies’ helicopter landed. Here, Willard trades two barrels of fuel so the other men on the boat can have one hour with two of them. The girls are now as druggy as most of the soldiers in the film (one absently talking about birds; the other how she feels more like a plaything than a person), so they seem completely unaware that they are being undressed and positioned. It’s a rather unsettling addition, furthering the impression that anyone lost in this morass will become instantly corrupted, be they soldier or civilian.

The other main addition is the French plantation scene, where Willard and his fellow travellers happen upon a plantation run by a French family and protected by French soldiers. This is a far more surreal sequence. Welcomed by the owners, the American soldiers are brought in and cleaned up, fed a proper meal in a very expensive and well-kept house. The family discuss politics and history, with things becoming more heated amongst themselves when Willard asks when they plan on returning to France, given the war that rages around them. They say that they shall never leave, because this is their home, this is their land. For the whole scene, we remain as well informed on the discussion as Willard, which is to say, not very. We get no subtitles to tell us what they say amongst each other, with only some of the conversation being in English and directed at Willard. When people begin seriously disagreeing, leaving the table, sometimes in tears, it’s rather awkward, for us and for Willard. Willard is eventually left at the table with a young woman, who never said a word during dinner. The two eventually go off, smoke some opium, and she tells him, “There are two of you, can’t you see? One that kills, and one that loves,” thus echoing this continued sense of moral duality in the piece. As it is, this particular sequence is one I’m inclined to say isn’t real, that it exists in a peculiar fantasy world, one into which Willard retreats for a sense of perspective. It’s not even just because the scene is bookended by a thick white mist, but because this whole sequence has such a different feel about it. It feels antiquated, outside of the rest of the film. Even the music suggests a period some forty years prior.

Overall, Apocalypse Now is still a film of immense power, liable to leave most people a bit punch-drunk after seeing it, though in the best possible way. The Redux version is one of the few films that has been served better from its reconstitution of old scenes. It’s still the dark, chaotic, living film as before, but now with extra moments of surreal vision, of bleak pontificating, of genuine emotional power. The original cut is still not an inferior one by comparison; it just serves to have its points made a bit better in the newer cut.

American Pie 2 (2001)

IT'S TIME FOR A SECOND HELPING

Yesterday, we covered American Pie, a film about the trials, tribulations and general spurtings of a group of young people trying to get to grips with sex. It was really successful and played a big part in reviving the lost art of the teen movie, so naturally they had to do a sequel. They reassembled the whole cast (right down to the guy and his monkey) and proceeded to jump back into the fray for the next stage of romantic encounter – relationships.

After their first year at college, Jim (Jason Biggs), Oz (Chris Klein), Finch (Eddie Kaye Thomas), Kevin (Thomas Ian Nicholas) and Stifler (Seann William Scott) reunite for a summer of fun on the lake. They each still have their relationship woes, but look to change all of that by the end of their summer.

For the second outing of the Pie gang, Adam Herz returned to pen the script, this time with help from David H. Steinberg. Frankly, this is perhaps a misstep right off the bat. Whilst Herz’s solo effort last time round wasn’t exactly the stuff of greatness, it held a nice charm and warmth to it, despite the jokes about sperm and poop. Steinberg’s strokes are a bit broader, so the delicate touches get somewhat smothered by reaching for the gags about lesbians and pee. It rather says a lot that Steinberg would go on to write the kind of cheap and crass sex comedies that American Pie opened the door for. Slackers, National Lampoon’s Barely Legal, even one of the relentless sequels in the American Pie franchise The Book of Love. I really can’t get around the feeling that mild sense of homophobia that creeps it head into one scene is down to Steinberg rather than Herz. The scene I’m referring to is one where three of the guys try to get a live show from two women they think are lesbians, whose house they just snuck into. The girls decide to oblige, but only if the boys go first. As such, we’re treated to the disgusted gagging of Stifler grabbing Finch's ass and Stifler and Jim making out. The actors do make it as funny as they can, but there’s still something that may feel off to some. Nevertheless, Herz is onboard and we’ve still got the same characters that were so lovable the first time round. Like the first time, the gross scenes are coupled with moments of actual considerations on the difficulty of the long distance relationship, pretending you’re over someone when you’re not and the ever-present concern of not being bad in bed. Also, the guys and girls get pretty even treatment again, both sides having their wisdom and neuroses, their kinks and inadequacies. So, for any points that feel tired or somewhat disagreeable, there are other points to pick it up again. By the way, I’m aware that all of this maybe seems like I’m being rather unfair on Steinberg, especially since I’ll never really know who was responsible for what in the script. As such, I’ll lay equal blame and praise on both of them. Well done, Herz and Steinberg, and for shame.

The direction duties have also been relocated, here being handed to J.B. Rogers. Rogers served as the First Assistant Director on the first American Pie, as well as several other films, which included time under gross-out kings the Farrelly brothers. It’s a good choice, since Rogers is able to maintain that sense of camaraderie and friendship that had been built in the last film. However, Rogers doesn’t have the same well-developed sense of pace, so American Pie 2 feels a bit too long. The lesbian sequence was one of the comedic centrepieces of the film, but there are moments when you can see even the actors think it’s running on a bit. The party sequences are also a bit of a drag. There are too many shots of people supposedly enjoying themselves in an effort to establish location and mood, as well as looting some of the more assured touches from the first film, but it does weigh things down. Also, the music used is a rather shameless grab at the top hits of the moment rather than appropriate choices, which do cast a shadow over the scenes they’re supposed to be underscoring. Overall, it’s actually not a bad job, rather it could just use a bit of tightening up.

The actors continues to do as good a job as the last time out, with a slight re-jigging of the pecking order depending on how popular characters were in the first film. As such, Stifler, Michelle and Jim’s dad get a bit more attention. Naturally, this slightly pushes some into the background a bit, like Kevin and Vicky. However, there’s no sense that there’s bitterness about this and everyone does still remain as solid and likable as the last time. Once again, it’s thanks to the cast that what could have been something of a juvenile mess instead still comes across as quite charming and funny.

It does feel longer, it’s sometimes more soundtrack than film, and the comedy sequences are really just a rehash of the previous film’s big moments. That said, it does still have an eye for some of the slightly complicated aspects of relationships, and the cast remain as good and charming as ever. It doesn’t really have the same impact as the first, mainly because it doesn’t have the poise of the previous outing and its reliance on formula removes the potential for surprise, but it’s still a fairly decent follow-up to the first.

Amélie (2001)

ONE PERSON CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOREVER

Director Jean-Pierre Jeunet had been collecting things since 1974. Anything really. Stories, images, memories, impressions, people. He filled notebooks with things that he found interesting or worth remembering. It would seem he never really found any particular endgame in his collecting, at least not a specific enough one to be able to quantify his endeavours. It was, for all intents and purposes, just his hobby. When he eventually became a filmmaker, he would have continued picking up these scraps of life around him, likely dipping into them for ideas or inspiration. However, in 2001, his hobby would give him what is quite possibly his masterpiece. A fantasy about love and joy centred on a young woman named Amélie Poulain.

Amélie Poulain (Audrey Tautou), an innocent and naïve young waitress living in Paris, decides to help those around her rediscover the joy their lives as a way of making herself happier. However, she does find it difficult to find real joy for herself, until she (sort of) meets a young man named Nino (Mathieu Kassovitz).

The script for Amélie was written by Guillaume Laurant, based on a story by both Laurant and Jeunet. The two had previously worked on The City of Lost Children to pretty decent results, so when Jeunet finally decided to tackle those notebooks filled with the odds and ends of existence that he had amassed over all those years, it was Laurant that he enlisted to help him. The script itself is at once beautifully detailed and also rather scattergun. There is, for the longest time, little in the way of an actual story. It’s really more a collection of characters, stationed in various settings, with Amélie as the one connection that runs through them all. Things happen to them, either by the machinations of Fate or of Amélie herself, but there isn’t really an overall arc for it all. It’s okay, because it’s really more about what this random gaggle of misfits and oddballs get from each other if only they would look up once in a while. There are moments of grand absurdity, and even some glimpses at a rather dark humour, but it’s all taken as part of a widespread fantasy. Given the importance of the characters in the film, they each shine wonderfully. Even if they’ve only been given the slightest tick or affect, it is built on beautifully. There is a point being made about what you can understand about a person from only the briefest glimpses, and the importance of trying. Nino becomes obsessed with a particular man in his photo collection, and longs to understand what his story is. Amélie’s neighbour, Dufayel, paints the same picture (Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party) over and over again, but always has difficulty with the one girl whose face is mostly obscured by a glass. As such, he considers her his greatest challenge. In this world, people who try to understand more about those around them are the ones worth listening to. When there is a story to look at - Amélie’s infatuation with and pursuit of Nino - it’s so incredibly charming that you almost can’t help but go along with it.

Jeunet, a great visualist, creates for the film a vibrant sense of colour and atmosphere. Wanting to ape the look of Brazilian artist Juarez Machado, Jeunet and cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel bring an appropriately painterly look to everything. So much so that you could pick almost any random frame from the film and hang it on your wall. Giving the fantastically striking nature of the Paris on show, every scene is composed and rendered in complementary colours, with reds in greens and yellows in blues. This is a world that is so alive and vivacious that it’s almost cartoonish. Some may feel like it’s a bit much, but there is no denying the sheer vitality of what’s on screen.

Yann Tiersen’s music is equally infectious. It’s minimalist, it’s absurd, it’s memorable, it’s unique, it’s versatile, and it’s an unmitigated delight. It never overpowers the picture, but enhances it to a splendid degree. Even as I’ve been sitting here writing this, the music is running through my head.

Performances throughout are solid. No one fails to make an impression. This is partially due to the slightly over-the-top pitch of the film that the actors must live up to, but they do so without any trouble. They all own such a distinctive look, they speak and move in such a unique way that, cartoonish broad strokes or no, these people are alive. However, this is Amélie’s film and Audrey Tautou is its beating heart. Tautou is absolutely adorable, capturing that child-like nature and slight emotional reserve of the character superbly. She always looks like she’s just barely keeping a secret, like she knows that it’s all a film and is trying not to let all the other characters in on the joke, thus keeping it going that little bit longer. It’s this kind of playful nature that rests at the core of Amélie. She’s not embarrassed or troubled by what’s happening… it’s just all part of the game she’s playing with everyone else and she wants it to go on for as long as possible.

What is perhaps one of the more interesting aspects of Amélie is that the film is not really Amélie’s fantasy, but director Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s. Here, he has, in some way, created a wonderful relationship for himself, or at least a fictionalised version of himself. Amélie’s love story is, by equal measure, the love story of Nino, played by Mathieu Kassovitz, who is also a filmmaker. Let us consider Nino as the filmic surrogate for Jeunet. The filmmaker connection is obvious, but look closer at Nino. Like Jeunet, Nino keeps a scrapbook of the things that people throw away, in this case the unwanted, torn-up photos from photo booths. If this is true, Amélie can be considered as the story of a pretty young women, full of joy, coming to love and appreciate the filmmaker for all his quirks and oddball habits. It’s not really a vanity project. After all, Amélie is a simple girl, and just as weird as he is. It’s more of an act of mercy to his younger self. Nino’s relationships don’t last long, probably because he’s a bit strange. Jeunet himself might have had relationship woes growing up because he himself was a bit strange. Today, Jeunet is married and a world famous filmmaker, but there does still exist in his memory the image of himself as a somewhat lonely young man, looking for companionship in the world. The reason Amélie exists in such a fantasy world, and in fact seems to be the only one aware that she’s in a film, is because she is there as an agent of Jeunet’s psyche, there to bring hope and happiness to the young man who wants nothing more than to have someone who understands him.

I’ll be honest… the first time I watched Amélie, I wasn’t convinced. I thought it was a little too quirky, too precious, too saccharine, too fantastically naïve to really connect. The fact that it was so lauded with praise only served to baffle me further. This is not the first time this has happened to me with a film. Both Taxi Driver and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford got the same reaction. By film’s end, I could appreciate the technique and understand it all, but I just couldn’t say I felt it. It was only when I realised that I was still thinking about Amélie days after seeing it that it sank in. The same goes for those other two, which I now count amongst my favourite films. The next time I saw Amélie, it was a different story. I got it. I felt it. There are still some things I still don’t quite buy into, but the rest of the film is more than enough to make up for this.

If you haven’t seen Amélie, then I would certainly recommend it. I would perhaps be prepared to give it two shows, if you’re anything like the moderately hard-hearted person I am. However, you may be lucky enough to get it on the first go. Amélie is a truly lovely film, rich in atmosphere, colour and such a sense of (yes, I’m going to say it) joie de vivre. Plus, if it convinces a couple of people to be nicer in the world, then I’d consider that a success.

Ali (2001)

FORGET WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW

Muhammad Ali is already a pretty familiar subject in the movie world. In 1996, the documentary When We Were Kings took a look at legendary bout between Ali and George Foreman fight, the Rumble in the Jungle; the 1970 documentary A.k.a. Cassius Clay looked at his career up to that point; two 2000 TV movies, King of the World and Ali: An American Hero… Muhammad Ali actually even played himself in the 1977 biography The Greatest. The real big screen treatment was the 2001 Michael Mann film, Ali.

We follow Muhammad Ali (Will Smith) from 1964 to 1974, from becoming champion, through converting to Islam, refusal to fight in Vietnam, being stripped of his title, facing a five-year prison sentence, two marriages and winning back his crown.

As a biographical film, there should be two concerns at the heart of the project: teach you about the character; and make you care about them. Ali certainly succeeds in the first part of this goal, but struggles with the second. Ali’s story is huge, expansive, complex and filled with controversy and charm. As such, the filmmakers didn’t seem to want to leave anything out. Rather than follow the man himself constantly, there is a lot of focus given to the period and other big figures that feature. Admirable, but fraught with pitfalls. On one side, by taking in all of the various elements that went towards making the man, you get a greater sense of his place in the world and the things he had to fight against to become the man he was. On the other hand, there is a degree of distance that is created between the viewer and the subject, which hurts the overall venture in the long run. For the first hour of the picture, we seem to be developing more of a connection with Malcolm X, until his assassination. After that, the camera seems to settle a little more on Ali. Clearly, the decision was made to try and make the audience empathise with Ali by trying to make them be as affected by things as him, rather than through him like some sort of emotional conduit. However, this does somewhat cheapen the project as a biopic, undercutting the stature of the man and the efforts of the actor playing him.

Michael Mann’s direction is, frankly, a little hit and miss, too. His quasi-documentary approach adds a better texture to the picture, but invariably keeps us from being involved in the story as much as you know you should. There are moments of real magic on screen - Smith’s scenes with Jon Voight positively glow with warmth - but it’s not all smooth sailing. The fight scenes, though handled with a great visceral sensibility, feel lacking in emotional punch. Another problem in the film comes from simply having too much material to work with. Events and figures in Muhammad Ali’s story are so huge, so important, that trying to cover them all can make the whole feel rather flabby. There are entire subplots that could have been comfortably excised without much detriment to the film, such as Ali’s first marriage to Sonji Roi, played by Will Smith’s real wife, Jada Pinkett Smith. It may be important to the man, but it’s not really to the audience. We simply don't feel the depth of this importance. We’ve seen documentaries on the man, but this is a dramatic work. We should be much more focused than this. Overloading with characters and storylines can only take our attention away from the man that gives the film its title and central focus. Weirdly, it leaves Ali fighting for control of his own picture.

Will Smith does a fine job in the lead role. It’s not altogether flawless, but I lay this more at the feet of the script and direction than the efforts of the actor. Smith capably handles Ali’s confident bluster and his rhythm of speaking, as well as the physical prowess of the famous pugilist thanks to Smith adding 35 pounds to his frame. Smith tries for subtlety in Ali’s quieter moments, but is generally eclipsed by others with more standout parts. Jon Voight is utterly unrecognisable under prosthetics, but he gives an equally immersive performance as sports journalist Howard Cosell. The scenes between the two are a true gem. With them, you can feel the respect and fondness, the importance, in their relationship. Mario Van Peebles’ performance as Malcolm X is also rock solid, and Jamie Foxx seems to be able to carry an entire arc in very little screen time.

Ali is a good biopic of a very interesting man, though it does fall short of being great. The script and direction, though wonderfully filled with details and odd moments, are too laden with characters and stories to allow to the film to be as focused as it could be. The acting, though, is of a great standard and Will Smith ably carries his weight in the lead. It does a great job of evoking period, but ultimately feels a little too emotionally distant for us to really care as much as we know they want us to.

Agitator (2001)

THANK YOU AND FUCK YOU BROTHER

Brothers… they can really get you into trouble sometimes. I’ve got one, and I love him, but he can be a real pain in the ass. However, brothers, it would seem, come in different forms. There are those who are brothers by blood, those who are brothers by bond, and those who are brothers by executive decision. Given this kind of notion, what kind of loyalty is to be expected of you when obeying one means betraying another? What is your responsibility when trying to avenge one puts not just yourself, but the others in danger? Such is the primary concern of Takashi Miike’s 2001 Yakuza flick Agitator, where the hierarchy of a criminal organisation is mingled with the life-long bonds of its members, and the ambitions of those at the top are won or lost by those on the streets.

The leader of the Kaito group wishes to become the leader of the Tenseikai Syndicate, a Yakuza organisation. In order to accomplish this, he arranges for two rival gangs - the Shirane and Yokomizo - to unite under his command and kill the current Tenseikai boss. As the Yakuza executives engage in a series of complex power plays, Kenzaki Kunihiko (Masaya Kato), a soldier of the Higuchi gang, itself part of the Yokomizo family, begins to unravel these plans as the bodies start piling up around him.

Takashi Miike is not exactly known for his slow-paced and thoughtful films. This is a man who more notorious for giving the world Ichi the Killer, Audition and Visitor Q, films filled with sex, violence, sadism and a very dark sense of humour. They’re good, but they’re very hard going and not really for the squeamish. However, every now and then Miike chooses to show off his range, demonstrating his ability to produce some tense, restrained and superb films. Agitator sits within this particular grouping. Though it is punctuated with moments of uncomfortable violence, such as an early scene where a woman is anally raped with a microphone in a karaoke bar (remember, violence and very dark humour), the film is more characterised by a slow-paced, simmering hostility. We spend more time talking about the actions and ambitions of the characters than anything else, which make the occasional moments of bloodshed and brutality stand out even more.

The script by Shigenori Takechi is superbly detailed and intricately plotted. Takechi does a great job of weaving together the multiple character’s varied ambitions and motivations together, giving virtually every scene a very dramatic goal. You’ve got to pay attention to the characters when the speak, because as soon as one person makes a decision, it casts out like the proverbial ripple in a pond, and then others try to short-circuit or outthink these decisions. It’s also important to note that the plot doesn’t twist and turn for the sake of being more dramatic. The characters are drawn well, so their motivations feel genuine. Often films that seek to have this kind of structure throw ridiculous curveballs at the audience under the guise of keeping them on their toes, but feel thin and disingenuous. Agitator does not. In fact, so taken with Takechi’s script was Miike that he remade it twice more in different styles, as 2002’s Violent Fire and 2003’s The Man in White. Also, Takechi spreads his gaze over the Yakuza gang world very wide, taking in the power hungry executives at the top and the lowly first-timers who literally get kidnapped into the organisation. One subplot involves a food delivery boy, barely out of his teens, being grabbed and forcibly boozed into unconsciousness only to wake up in the middle of being given a full back tattoo. After this, he can’t leave. That’s the world we are looking into here.

Cinematographer Kiyoshi Itô’s camerawork is something of a plus and minus. On one hand, the film itself feels muddy and sometimes rather sluggish. Part of this will be down to Miike’s, at the time, insistence on filming on video rather than film or digital, and part of it will be an attempt by Itô to give things a gritty feel, which isn’t always successful. On the other hand, there are moments when the camera comfortably adopts the mentality of its main subject, which adds considerably to the scene. Conversations of quiet tension can play out in long unmoving, unedited single takes; whereas scenes of violent outburst will seem to tremble with anger. I’d still rather have a cleaner sense of colour and grain, but them’s the breaks.

Performance-wise, there isn’t really a bad seed in the bunch. The lead, Masaya Katô, was a former model who became an actor and he fills the role well. He carries the somewhat brooding nature of Kunihiko very well and brings a sense of charisma, too. Even if he does walk around with his shirt or jacket open a lot, you can understand why people follow his lead. Hiroki Matsukata’s rather intense show as Kaito is also noteworthy, because every time he speaks or looks up, you can see how threatening this guy is.

There are occasions where, for the sake of the already very densely packed running time, certain scenes could maybe have been excised. For example, moments between Kunihiko and his girlfriend do little for the overall story arc, though they do add to the depth of character. Also, Kaito’s brief scene with his money-grubbing son is of little value to the plot. It’s great to get a greater sense of the people we’re watching, but at two-and-a-half hours, Agitator is a long film. There’s actually an alternative cut which has an extra 50 minutes of footage. Removing some of the scenes that have less impact on the story could have given Agitator a much cleaner, more streamlined feel. However, to do so would remove the personality from the film, effectively making it a very clever, but much more standard film in the Yakuza sub-genre.

So, what, if anything, does this film have to say about brotherhood, loyalty and the nature of allegiance? Well, it’s complicated it would seem. That’s really what it comes down to. Loyalty can be a very valuable thing. In this world, you have to know who you can trust if you wish to stay alive. As the head of a major Yakuza organisation, Kaito depends on the loyalty of those beneath him to ensure he reaches his goals. Kunihiko is a soldier on the streets, where your ability to trust in the man next to you can make the difference between life and death. However, for Kaito to succeed, he must prove himself as disloyal to his own boss, which is something that seems unthinkable to Kunihiko. Kaito commands loyalty from his subordinates because he has risen through the ranks to become the leader he is, so it has long since become something of lesser importance to him personally. Kunihiko knows nothing beyond his own relationships, so they mean all the more to him. He’s more than happy to be disloyal to someone like Kaito in favour of Higuchi, with whom he has a strong personal bond. This notion of the personal bond as a source of great strength and unending trouble is something that recurs throughout the picture, with characters going to war with each other out of revenge for the death of someone close to them. Really, it’s the low-level thugs like Kunihiko who know the real value of brotherhood. It’s no wonder Kaito can prove himself so easily power hungry and disloyal. He has no personal bonds, even if he tries to have them. People can’t respect someone who has no respect for others.

Agitator is an intriguing and complex film, if something of a slow-burner. There are times where you may get lost amongst the various characters and rival factions, and it’s lengthy running time of two-and-a-half hours could have done with some trimming, but there really is rarely a dull moment in there. Not like Miike’s other more predominantly violent works, it’s thoughtful, tense and one that rewards those that can pay attention to the details.

Address Unknown (2001)

INNOCENCE IS A CASUALTY OF WAR

Did you know that, technically, the Korean War is still going? Begun on June 25^th 1950 when the North Korean People’s Army (KPA) crossed the 38^th parallel border and invaded South Korea, the war quickly escalated into a full-scale global conflict with the South being backed by the US and the North being backed by China. The war continued until July 27^th 1953 when an armistice was finally signed by those involved. However, there was never an actual peace treaty agreed upon, so no official end to the war. This fact casts a rather unsettling shadow over Korea, which is still divided into North and South to this day. To some extent, Korea seems to be defined by war, in a near constant state of conflict or occupation by other countries, like China or Japan or the US or itself. Korea is a country with such a sad and tormented past that it must have had quite an effect on some of its citizens. To this end, infamous South Korean filmmaker Kim Ki-duk addresses these feelings in Address Unknown.

A small Korean village serves as home to broken families, frustration and rage in the wake of conflict and colonialisation. Through the interweaving stories of three young people - Chang-guk (Yang Dong-kun), Jihum (Kim Young-min) and Eunok (Ban Min-jung) - we see how they, and the small population in general, scrape through their days in a haze of love, misery, friendship, cruelty, honour and abject hopelessness, all under the heavily felt presence of the nearby American military base.

The one thing you understand about this film right from the beginning is that it’s going to be one harsh endeavour. With a very short prologue set in 1970, we see a child saw up old US military crates, working with an old tube and scraps of metal. With these items, he builds himself a crude but very effective gun. He places a can on his sister’s head, takes aim and fires… the can doesn’t move, but then the girl clutches her right eye. As far as openers go, this is pretty tough. Fast forward some years, and these kids have grown up. The girl is Eunok, and her eye is now a cloudy white, so her hair covers the right side of her face. She’s a quiet girl, picked on by little kids for looking so strange, and pretty much ignored by everyone else. Her only friend is a puppy that she keeps chained in her home, partially so it can’t run away, mainly so no one will steal it.

That’s a pretty common practice here, dogs being stolen or bought. In a village with little industry or provisions, a supply of dog meat can make a fine meal for some. This is where Chang-guk comes in, serving as assistant to his mother’s boyfriend, the intense and sadistic Dog Eyes. Dog Eyes makes his living by buying dogs so that he can sell their meat. It’s not so much this that makes him despicable, though, rather the manner in which he dispenses with the dogs. He has Chang-guk hang them from a tree, whilst he beats them to death with a baseball bat. It’s never shown onscreen (even the camera can’t abide such sadism), but the effect is still sickening. To his credit (in as much credit can be given for it), Chang-guk hates this job. He wants to work in the local factory, as an honest labourer. However, the fact that he is of mixed race means that the workers will never accept him as one of them. His mother wants him to be free of this kind of judgement. It’s her that writes to America, trying to connect with her son’s father, a soldier long since gone home. Everyday she waits for word from her saviour, but every letter returns without finding its destination. There’s no escape from here. Salvation is an address unknown.

Jihum is the closest we have to a "normal" character, in that he has no physical peculiarities or hindrances. He even has a job that pays. His shortcomings are less obvious, because he is, at his core, a victim waiting to be victimised. He doesn’t have the imposing physicality of Chang-guk, nor the ability to simply lock himself away like Eunok. He must go out into the world, and the world doesn’t care for him much. Specifically, his suffering comes at the hands of two boys his age who mock and bully him simply because they can. Only if Chang-guk is around is he safe, but not because they’re friends. Chang-guk just wants to fight, and Jihum gives him that excuse. As it is, Jihum is also kind of in love with Eunok. It’s not a particularly healthy love, but it’s something. However, it’s this love that just leads to even more pain and suffering for both of them. No matter how it pans out, love was never the dominant emotion here.

There are numerous other aspects to Address Unknown, like the older generation’s inability to move past their old glory days of the war, when honour was key; or the American soldiers gradual mental breakdown in the miserable surroundings of this village; or that the village itself seems to have been built on the bodies of defeated enemies. War is such a part of this place that it exists everywhere, even where you can’t see it.

However, for all of the tragedy that has fallen on these characters, no one is innocent here either. Everyone abuses those beneath them, be it out of anger, frustration, cruelty or simple loneliness. As much as Chang-guk is victimised for his mixed-race status, shunned by almost everyone, he regularly and brutally takes this out on his mother. His mother’s boyfriend, Dog Eyes, hates to see this happen and so beats Chang-guk. This is turn sees him be attacked by Chang-guk’s mother, vainly trying to protect her son. The two boys bully Jihum regularly because they believe themselves to be smarter than him, since he never went to school and can’t speak English. They mock him in a language he can’t understand and take his pay-packet and push him around as they please. Jihum in turn abuses Eunok, though not directly. He spies on her every night, watching her undress through a hole in her wall. Eunok herself is abused by almost everyone. By her seemingly uncaring brother, by Jihum and the two bullies who torment him, and by the American soldier who makes promises of a better life if only she’ll sleep with him. Eunok has only one entity she can feel superior to… her puppy. It’s not even a physical pain she subjects the poor creature to, but it’s abuse nonetheless. The whole village is a vicious cycle of people tormenting others, trying to appease their tormentors, whilst taking out their own wrath on the weaker ones in their lives in a bitter attempt to find some kind of respite from their own depleted sense of self. It’s not a Nanny State… it’s a Bully State. These characters are so polarising that it’s easy to feel sorry for them, but it’s very difficult to find something in them worth liking.

Kim Ki-duk’s direction throughout is excellent. His visuals capture the unremitting empty desolation of the villager’s surroundings. With Seo Jeong-min's cinematography, the picture looks grimy and cold, like it’s been dragged across the damp, dirty ground before being processed. There’s very little in the way of the pretty or picturesque, the colour palette exuding a subdued and murky feel. Also, he maintains the heavy sense of metaphor within the piece. So often do scenes go on behind closed doors, or are obscured by plastic sheeting, branches or chain-link fences. Much of it also unfolds at a distance. These characters are trapped in this place, beyond the help of others, whether they know it or not.

There is something that rather bothers me about this film, though, beyond its crushing sense of anguish. The acting from the Korean cast is of a pretty decent standard, but the American cast are absolutely atrocious. I mean bad. I mean really, really bad. They’re like children vainly struggling to convey emotions beyond their understanding or simply just stating each line with no emotion whatsoever. What in the hell is that about? At this point, I’m going to engage in what could perhaps be a moment of over-analysis, looking to find some explanation for this other than the director simply hired piss-poor actors and failed to notice their lacklustre performances.

Within the film, the American presence is always felt, be it in the form of the soldiers, the fences, the fatigues some characters wear, a picture of an eagle and flag in Jihum’s workplace. There’s even a moment when action stops because a military plane flies overhead, and it doesn’t continue until the plane has gone. Some characters hold on to the notion that the US is their escape, their only escape. Chang-guk’s mother wants to connect with his American father, hoping to escape from her plight. She even lives in an old US bus, which we could read as her readiness to leave at a moment’s notice. The English language is also used as a kind of status symbol - if you don’t speak English, you’re to be looked down upon to some degree, as in Jihum’s treatment at the hands of the bullies. And there’s a regular mention of how easy it would be to fix Eunok’s eye with American surgery, which is regarded as the best, certainly better than what’s available in this village. There’s an association built up between America and escape, freedom, a better life. So why are the actors playing the soldiers so inherently unconvincing? Well, perhaps that’s the point. Kim Ki-duk doesn’t seem to believe that American ways are the best things for these people or this village or this country. By being so unbelievable as characters in the film, he may be trying to highlight just how unbelievable they are as a viable option of redemption and hope. Perhaps the characters should be looking to themselves for help. If this is indeed his point, and the method by which he chooses to convey it, it’s a risky one. This is just the kind of thing that could turn an audience off to a film. It asks a great deal of patience and faith on their part, and this may be a bit much for some to give.

Perhaps there’s another explanation for it, or one that at least compliments the above. Now, some of you may have seen the film’s tagline at the top there and thought, ‘that seems strangely familiar.’ It should. It’s almost exactly the same tagline as Platoon ('The first casualty of war is innocence'). There’s also a shot of a military helmet that’s vaguely reminiscent of Full Metal Jacket. Maybe Kim Ki-duk is actually taking a swing at American war films like these, set in places like Vietnam or Korea. Films like Platoon or Full Metal Jacket often follow the soldiers as they go to war in a foreign country and find moral crises, terror, Hell. That’s what Chris Taylor talks about in Platoon, saying, “Somebody once wrote: ‘Hell is the impossibility of reason.’ That’s what this place feels like. Hell.” Well, for Chris, his struggle is long and tough, but if he holds out, he can leave and go home… but what happens when you can’t leave? What happens when your home is Hell? The problems of a rookie soldier exposed to the ravages and immorality of war for 18 months are nothing compared to the lifelong desolation and depression of someone born and raised in a place without reason. Maybe the Americans in Address Unknown are so unconvincing because Kim Ki-duk remains unmoved and unconvinced by the spiritual ennui of Chris Taylor and his ilk. Compared to Chang-guk and Eunok, they know nothing of Hell.

After his 2000 film The Isle, Kim Ki-duk was heavily criticised for the cruelty to animals that goes on in the film, which were completely real by the director’s own admission, saying, “I’ve done a lot of cruelty on animals in my films. And I will have a guilty conscience for the rest of my life.” With Address Unknown, the first thing the film shows is a disclaimer, stating that no animals were harmed in its making. Clearly, the issue hangs heavy on him still at this point. However, if the statement at the film’s opening is true, that no harm actually did befall any animals, then they walked right up to the line and kicked some dirt on it a bit. It’s the first thing that the filmmakers want said, so let’s look at it a little. Was the, frankly, obvious mistreatment of the animals in this film really necessary to convey its point? Whilst there are no onscreen instances of direct blows landing on any animals, they are still shown being dragged around and hung from a tree in preparation of their demise. I, like I think many would do, have something of a problem with this. Is it really required that an artist be cruel in order to make a statement on cruelty? Is there no other way to convey this? There’s a famous quote by a Chinese author named Han Suyin, who said, “Moralists have no place in an art gallery.” Now, there are numerous thoughts and papers and treatise on this quote and the debate it identifies, so I won’t go into any great depth here, but it would seem that it does apply here somewhat. If someone is to negate their own moral sensibilities for the sake of their art, should they be condemned? Is it preferable for the viewer to ignore their own sense of outrage on the subject and choose to engage with the piece objectively? What worth is the art piece that asks someone to forgo their own morality? What worth is the person who is okay with letting their morality go for such a frivolous purpose? Certainly, the fact that Kim Ki-duk does show a degree of mistreatment to animals helps to solidify the sense of wrong within the film, but that’s hardly surprising. Trying to shock people by showing something genuinely shocking is not artistry… it is a kind of bluntness that verges on sadism. He does have a point to all this, but there are other techniques that he could have used to make his point, or a more thoughtful approach. I really can’t say I agree with the methods Kim Ki-duk uses in this film. Of course, this is all just my thoughts on the matter, and even then it’s wading pretty shallow into the debate. I’ll let you all make up your own minds.

Address Unknown is unrelentingly bleak. It’s powerful stuff, hard-hitting and filled with despair. Moments of potential levity or hope are dashed quickly and decisively… but it’s not altogether without some point to it, even if it is rather depressing. This really isn’t for everyone, and people who have a problem with cruelty to animals or unmitigated misery would be advised to avoid this, but if you can stomach it, it is a perspective that is at least worth considering.