To this day, I still don’t really know why I picked up the first disc of Haibane Renmei when I saw it sitting there in the store. I don’t recall ever hearing much about it beforehand, and a quick glance at the synopsis would probably have done nothing to really pique my curiosity. Perhaps it was the moody, ethereal artwork on the cover, or that Yoshitoshi ABe’s name appeared in the credits.

Whatever the reason, though, I did pick it up and subsequently found myself enthralled by the series’ world, almost from the first moment. And to this day, Haibane Renmei remains one of the most unique, thought-provoking, and affecting anime series I’ve seen.

Haibane Renmei‘s greatest strength lies in its ambiguity. Now, much of anime loves to toy with ambiguity and engimatic elements, be it through shadowy character motivations, obscure philosophical/religious/cultural references and discussions, or half-explained technological deus ex machina. But oftentimes, these simply feel like attempts to instill more depth, substance, and style to a series than it really needs, demands, or supports. And so when all is said and done, the weaknesses only become more glaring, and the series more frustrating and underwhelming than anything else.

This is most happily not the case with Haibane Renmei.

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300 is proof that we are living in a bold new era of filmmaking.  An era where, thanks to the prevalence of technology, movie directors can have an almost godlike control over nearly every facet of their movie—right down to the very last strand of hair, bead of sweat, and, in the case of 300, drop of blood.  A director’s vision can now be captured and delivered on the silver screen to an extent that would’ve been inconceivable even five years ago.

Of course, even with that unbelievable level of power and technology, some truths of the artform remain the same.  All of that control is worthless if there isn’t a story lying somewhere at the heart of the astounding visuals, if those visuals aren’t populated by compelling characters.  And in the case of 300, that is painfully obvious from almost the very first frame.

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There are two sides to American history.  There’s the boring side that’s been taught to you by history textbooks and schoolteachers.  And then there’s the other side where, as it turns out, America is actually littered with ruins of ancient and alien civilizations (at least west of the Mississippi), where mad zombie scientists seek to overthrow the world, and where horrific demigods lay imprisoned within vegetables, patiently waiting to be freed from their parallel universe prisons to lay waste to Mankind.

The only bastion of defense against these horrors is Screw-On Head, a secret government operative at the beck and call of Abraham Lincoln (yes, that Abraham Lincoln), and who is, well, a screw-on head with an army of steampunk bodies at his disposal.  And he’ll need them all, because the nefarious Emperor Zombie—once Screw-On Head’s closest friend and manservant before he began dabbling in ancient black magic—is seeking the power of an ancient kingdom to bring the world to its knees.

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There’s nothing more frustrating than watching a movie that just begs for some “Making Of” featurette or extended “Behind The Scenes” footage on the DVD, only to discover that said “Behind The Scenes” footage is merely a half-assed couple of minutes of completely random footage with no explanation, dialog, or commentary whatsoever.  That’s the case with Strings, and here’s why it’s so frustrating.  The movie is a fantasy epic about the futility of war and bigotry, with supposed parallels to the current “War On Terror”, and it’s all done with—you guessed it—puppets.  Or, to be more precise, marionettes.

The movie opens, not with the puppets themselves, as you might expect, but with the puppeteers getting into position, setting the stage, etc.  It then cuts to a shot of the current ruler of the kingdom of Hebalon gazing forlornly to the sky, perhaps seeking some sort of guidance or wisdom from his “gods”.  It’s an interesting transition, immediately raising questions about fate, destiny, etc.

But no answer seems to be forthcoming, as the king writes a painful note to his son before committing suicide.  Overcome by grief at the hatred and war that has resulted from his reign, he opens the way for his son, Hal Tara, to lead Hebalon to better future.  However, the king’s evil brother Nezo, intercepts the king’s letter and hides the truth.  Instead, he claims that Hebalon’s ancient enemies, the Zeriths, have killed the king.  Outraged, Hal Tara vows revenge and sets off to track down the Zeriths, leaving the throne in Nezo’s hands.

Nezo assumes the throne and issues martial law, all the while spurring Hebalon towards greater levels of hatred and military might in order to strengthen his authority.  Meanwhile, Hal continues his quest, blind to the fact that his uncle is using him to conceal the truth about his father, and, unbeknownst to all, a greater and more insidious truth about Hebalon and its relationship with the Zeriths.

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Far in the distant future, a thousand years after a war known as “The Seven Days Of Fire” destroyed most of the human race, the earth is ravaged by “The Sea Of Decay”, a poisonous forest populated by monstrous insects.  The Sea threatens to spread over the entire planet.  However, the small, peaceful Valley Of The Wind has so far managed to remain outside its reach, the wind from the nearby ocean protecting it from the Sea’s poisonous spores.

The Valley’s most beloved citizen is their princess, Nausicaä, a young woman who, despite her age, is already a skilled warrior and pilot.  She’s also somewhat of a scientist, researching the Sea and its inhabitants and trying to figure out a way to cleanse its corruption.

However, all of her attempts at peace and healing are threatened when an aircraft from the kingdom of Tolmekia crashes in the valley, bringing with it the Sea’s spores and something else, a deadly cargo Tolmekia hopes will destroy the Sea.  Shortly thereafter, Tolmekia’s armies, led by the Princess Kushana, invade the Valley in an attempt to recover the cargo and unite any countries in their battle against the Sea.

Meanwhile, the country of Pejite rises up against Tolmekia, seeking to take their discovery—the remains of a “giant soldier”, a massive robot-like creature which nearly destroyed mankind during The Seven Days Of Fire—and use it against Tolmekia.  Not surprisingly, the Sea doesn’t take too kindly to all of this commotion.  Soon, massive armies of “ohmu”—giant armored insects—are streaming out of the Sea, threatening to consume all of humanity unless Nausicaä can figure out a way to put an end to the destruction.

If you’ve seen any of Hayao Miyazaki’s other films, than you might be asking yourself “Haven’t I already seen this?” while reading the above synopsis.  Indeed, watching Nausicaä Of The Valley Of The Wind is almost like a case of deja vu.  And the reason is that Nausicaä... is the quintessential, archetypal Miyazaki film.  All of the components that are so prevalent in his movies—young, strong-willed heroines, environmental issues, a fascination with pastoral European settings, amazing aerial sequences, etc.—can basically be traced back to this one single movie.

In that regards, Nausicaä... is the essential Miyazaki movie.  However, it’s over two decades old, and in many ways, it shows its age.  As with everything else Miyazaki has made, the movie is full of lush, verdant visuals and mind-boggling environments.  However, compared to the spectacles of his later films, especially Princess Mononoke (which very closely parallels Nausicaä...), this film feels a bit lacking.

One aspect that I’ve always found so fascinating about Miyazaki’s movies, and which seemed rather diminished in Nausicaä..., are the moral shadings and ambiguities of his characters.  Compared to the complex characters and situations in some of his other films, Nausicaä... seems quite simplistic.  Nausicaä herself is quite saintly, and her only real antagonist, Kushana, is never quite given the same amount of moral depth as someone like Princess Mononoke‘s Lady Eboshi or Spirited Away‘s Haku.

I suspect much of this has to do with the fact that Miyazaki adapted the movie from his epic manga series of the same name.  There’s simply no way that he could’ve packed the entire series, which runs well over 1,000 pages, into a single 2-hour movie.  Having read the manga about a year ago, I was quite surprised at just how much was changed or left out entirely.  Much of the series’ cultural and religious/mystical content was removed, and many scenes were simply altered entirely.  As a result, the movie’s plot never quite seems to hit its stride, though viewers who don’t have the manga series running in the back of their mind might feel differently.

I know that most devoted Miyazaki fans have probably seen Nausicaä... already, or are going to add this to their collection simply because it is a Hayao Miyazaki movie (which is what I did).  In some ways, the film just hasn’t aged very well, and since then, Miyazaki has made several films, such as the aforementioned Princess Mononoke, which more completely and thoroughly explore his trademark themes.

However, Nausicaä... is worth watching if only to give one a much better context in which to appreciate Miyazaki’s movies.  It’s impossible to watch this film and not see the seeds of Miyazaki’s distinguished career, of his considerable talent at creating worlds of powerful imagination and story-telling.  I doubt most people will argue with the statement that Miyazaki is one of the world’s greatest animations, alive or dead.  And Nausicaä... allows one to better grasp and understand just why that is the case.

I once read a review of The Straight Story, describing it as David Lynch’s most Lynch-esque film simply because it was so atypical of the director’s typical work (not to mention the fact that it came out on Disney).  I suppose the same could be said of The Bird People In China.  Directed by Takashi Miike, who is notorious for the his films’ ultra-violence and copious bodily fluids, The Bird People is completely unlike his other work—an atmospheric, wistful modern-day fantasy tale.

Wada is a harried Japanese businessman sent to a remote Chinese village to investigate a jade mine.  Tagging along is a surly yakuza named Ujiie (this is a Miike film, after all) and their slightly addled guide, Shen.  As they make their way to the village, leaving the modern world behind, they find themselves drawn to the simpler, quieter life and into a mystery surrounding a young girl who is teaching the village’s children how to fly.

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Kontroll is one of those all too rare films that is disappointing, not because it’s bad, but simply because it’s nowhere near as good as it should be.  The debut feature from Nimród Antal has everything necessary for a great film; an intriguing premise, great characters with lots of depth, cool setting and atmosphere, some great style, and tons of energy.  Unfortunately, the film never lives up its vast potential, but consistently underperforms right through the lackluster ending.

Bulcsú (played quite ably by Sándor Csányi) eats, sleeps, and breathes underground.  A worker for the Budapest subway system, Bulcsú and his motley crew of inspectors patrol the cars and stations, making sure that everyone has a ticket.  Mocked and harassed by all of the passengers, and looked down upon by their colleagues, Bulcsú and his colorful co-workers are the black sheep, the misfits of the subway system.  And there’s more pressure than usual on Bulcsú and Co.—a serial killer is roaming the subways, pushing unsuspecting patrons in front of oncoming trains and vanishing without a trace.

If nothing else, it can be said that Antal takes plenty of time to develop his characters, especially in Bulcsú‘s case.  Although it’s implied that he’s the best inspector working the underground, he’s a bit of a lone wolf.  For some reason that we never learn, he has stopped living above ground, but instead wanders the caverns and tracks, even sleeping in abandoned subway stations.  He also seems to be going a bit stir crazy, having strange visions and creepy encounters—and the strange young woman in the furry bear suit certainly doesn’t seem to be helping his mental state.  Soon, his bizarre habits put him under suspicion of being the serial killer (which could’ve made for some mindbending psychological thriller-type stuff, another cool avenue the film avoids).

At first, I just thought Antal was biding his time, making sure we had something invested in the characters before all hell broke loose.  Everything seemed to be heading up to a big showdown between Bulcsú and his crew, and the authorities, mocking co-workers, annoying passengers, and of course, the serial killer.  And for that matter, Antal spent considerable time building up the serial killer into something nigh-supernatural, what with Bulcsú‘s hellish dreams and all.  However, there’s absolutely no payoff to all of this build-up whatsoever.

When the film finally does arrive at its climax, it’s the very dictionary definition of “under whelming”, yet another case of “That’s it?!?” followed by the credits (something that seemed to affect a number of Midnight Madness films this year).  Furthermore, too many plot threads are simply left hanging and completely unexplained—be it Bulcsú‘s past, the other members of his team (who have completely disappeared by the film’s final act), or the rest of the subway denizens—for the ending to be anything but frustrating.

Antal does throw in some exciting sequences—a chase sequence involving Bulcsú‘s crew and a young punk named Tootsie that finds them tearing through subway stations and sending passengers flying was one of the funniest scenes I saw all festival long—but they’re few and far between.  And while there are some hilarious scenes, usually involving scuffles with unruly passengers, they also feel a bit sparse.

The one thing that Antal consistently nails is the film’s visuals.  He loves the subways of his film almost as much as the characters, and he enjoys showing every single fluorescent-bathed nook and cranny.  The architecture of the subway system is fascinating, and Antal uses it to set up some great shots.  However, Antal’s attention to every single little twist of subway system serves only to heighten the disappointment as well.  He merely hints at a fascinating world, the one Bulcsú wanders through at “night” on his lonely walks.  It’s a world where someone could disappear if they wanted to, could start a brand new life, and Antal never capitalizes on the mystery and magic of his setting as much as he could.

Usually, I’m used to a film overperforming, becoming so bloated and over-the-top that it loses cohesion or collapses under the weight of everything.  It’s rarer for a film to underperform, but that’s exactly what happens with Kontroll.  The film constantly feels stuck in a lower gear, and for all of the driving techno music and flashy editing,  never seems to pick up any speed whatsoever—which is not something you want out of a so-called “Midnight Madness” movie.  Or any movie, for that matter.

Fridrik Thor Fridriksson wrote and directed what is probably one my favorite movies of all time, and certainly one of the most stirring movies I’ve ever seen, 1991’s Children Of Nature.  So when I found out that the festival would be the North American premier of his new film, I was naturally quite excited.  Sadly, the show was all sold out, which meant an hour or two in the rush line.  But that’s where fortune smiled on me.  Whilst talking in line with a couple of on-line acquaintances, a man came up to me and asked if I wanted a $10 ticket to Niceland.  Score!

And having had time to dwell on Niceland, the first thing that immediately comes to mind is that fortune did indeed smile on me; I would’ve hated to have paid full price for this movie.  That sounds pretty harsh, I know, and I don’t mean it that way.  However, it’d be dishonest to label the film as anything other than a disappointment.

Jed and Chloe work together in a manufacturing plant.  Despite being incredibly young and naive, they are nevertheless very much in love and plan to get married despite their mental handicaps.  That is, until Chloe’s beloved cat dies and she sinks into a deep depression.  Hoping to save her before she wastes away, Jed sets out to find the meaning of life.  However, noone seems to have any idea: not his co-workers, and certainly not his TV-obsessed parents.

One day, however, he sees a TV interview with a hermit named Max who lives in a junkyard outside of town, and who claims to know the answers to life’s big questions.  Hoping to learn it from him, Jed moves out there as well, only to find his guru isn’t the enlightened individual he thought.  He’s surly, threatens and terrifies Jed, and is apparently estranged from his daughter, who hates him.  Ever optimistic, Jed keeps pressing him for the answer.  Meanwhile, Chloe gets worse and worse, and the film slowly begins to buckle under the weight of its own overwrought-ness.

First off, I just have to say that I was incredibly disappointed by Fridriksson’s choice for the musical score.  In the past, Fridriksson worked with composer Hilmar Orn Hilmarsson to great effect. Indeed, one of the things that made Children Of Nature (itself a very overwrought and not-so-subtle film) so powerful was Hilmarsson’s soaring score, which lent the movie much of its emotional heft and fairy tale-esque tone.

Although Hilmarsson had originally worked on Niceland‘s music, Fridriksson ended up going with an Icelandic performer named Mugison, whose more conventional songwriting is just that: conventional, and sometimes quite disruptive.  There were several times during the movie where I found myself thinking that even a few seconds of Hilmarsson’s string arrangements would vastly improve this or that scene.

Music aside, the main problem with Niceland is that it’s unrelentingly sappy and sentimental, almost sickeningly so.  This is a film that so wants you to believe that it’s full of depth and meaning that it practically begs.  One need look no further than its characters for evidence of that.

Jed is so completely innocent and naive, so wide-eyed and guileless that his pleadings with Max take on a very cloying and saccharine tone.  Fridriksson is clearly trying to contrast the innocence of Jed, Chloe, and their outsider friends (all of them mentally retarded) with the cynicism and corruption of the world, as typified by Max and Jed’s parents.  However, his attempt is so heavy-handed that one’s cynicism kicks in merely as a self-defense mechanism.  As such, the film’s “moving” and “meaningful” climax comes up rather trite and empty, and the meaning of life that Jed eventually discovers feels like it was cribbed from rejected Hallmark greeting cards.

Niceland is not a bad movie, but it fails simply because it doesn’t seem to trust the audience at all.  Our hands are held every single step of the way, and we’re practically told what to feel every time Jed has a big tearful confrontation with Max, or some new tragic development occurs with Chloe, or some other crisis appears.  The film certainly wears its heart on its sleeve, but it practically screams at you to notice.

If I sound a bit harsh, it’s only because I was expecting so much more from Fridriksson.  Children Of Nature remains of my favorite films, and certainly one of the most beautiful and haunting films I’ve ever seen (Lord only knows when it’ll be released on DVD).  Although it’s clearly a sentimental film as well, there’s a lushness and mythic-ness to it, an integrity that’s sorely lacking from Niceland.

There’s one scene in Niceland where Jed and Chloe go to the movies, and though we can’t see what they’re watching, it’s obvious from the music that it’s Children Of Nature.  Afterwards, they comment that it was the best film they’d ever seen.  I couldn’t help but smile at that comment, but somewhat sadly.  Even that brief encounter with Fridriksson’s previous film served only to emphasize how far Niceland was from even comparing to it.