In 2000, Makoto Shinkai released Voices Of A Distant Star, a 30-minute short that instantly brought him acclaim throughout the anime community, and for good reason. Not only was Voices… a beautifully animated OVA with a clever and quite affecting storyline, but Shinkai had produced it entirely by himself, creating it on his trusty Macintosh computer after leaving his job in the video game industry. The short went onto garner a number of awards, including a “Special Prize” at the 2002 Japan Media Arts Festival and “Most Valuable Newcomer” award at the 2002 Tokyo International Anime Fair.

Perhaps the highest praise of all came when people began referring to Shinkai as “the next Miyazaki”. That might seem a little presumptuous, comparing a newcomer with just a handful of works to his name to animation’s Grand Master. However, it’s not entirely implausible either. Both Shinkai and Miyazaki create lushly animated features with an obvious emphasis on good stories first and foremost. Animation-wise, Shinkai is clearly influenced by the works of Miyazaki, from the look of his skies (complete with deep layers of clouds) and flying sequences to his obvious love for gorgeous pastoral scenes.

All of those things feature quite heavily in Shinkai’s newest work, the full-length feature The Place Promised In Our Early Days. With The Place…, Shinkai has clearly decided against resting on his laurels and has gone for something much more ambitious. (And yes, Shinkai still does the lion’s share of the work here, including directing, writing, artwork, editing, and sound direction.)

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About two-thirds of the way through The Nomi Song, one of the interviewees remarks that the life of Klaus Nomi closely resembles one of those “Behind The Music” specials, and he’s quite right.  It has all of the trappings of your classic rock n’ roll story.  A new artist arrives on the scene, bringing a fresh, original sound that gets everyone talking.  Their star soon takes off, noone can seem to stop raving about them, and seemingly limitless opportunities are on the horizon.

Then begins the inevitable fall from grace; they become dissatisfied with their career and begin grasping for even more, distancing themselves from friends and loved ones in the process.  Bad career decisions and record contracts follow, and then it ends, with the artist finally becoming consumed by the excesses of their lifestyle and passing on to some measure of legend.

However, this is not some ordinary bar band who suddenly struck it big.  The Nomi Song follows a classically-trained opera singer from Berlin who came to New York at the height of the 1970s “New Wave” era.  Klaus Nomi (born Klaus Sperber) quickly made a name for himself in the local vaudeville shows, performing classical arias in his haunting, otherworldly falsetto while dressed up like an alien, complete with white face paint and costumes that would make David Bowie green with envy.

Backed by his band and performance artists, Nomi quickly gained a cult-like following and even had his own little clique, the so-called “Nomis” (who worshipped at the altar of pop sci-fi, incorporating classic sci-fi’s apocalyptic ideas into their performances and lifestyles).  Nomi’s avant-garde credibility did translate into some measure of mainstream success, culminating in a performance with David Bowie on “Saturday Night Live”.  However, it was never enough, leading to the eventual backstabbings and bad record deals.

Of course, as befitting any good rock n’ roll story, a lonely, broken individual lies behind the limelight, and such was Nomi.  He had built himself up so much as an inhuman figure that he essentially became trapped by his persona, and was left bereft of any real human relationships.

This isolation plays itself out most tragically as the documentary looks at Nomi’s final days, when he lay dying from AIDS as a result of his sexual activities.  At the time, the disease was still relatively unknown.  Nobody knew if it was contagious or not, and as a result, Nomi was left to die alone, having been shunned by frightened friends and acquaintances.  Although there are no obvious tearjerker scenes in the film, those of his friends expressing regret, intercut with scenes of Nomi performing “The Cold Song” with a full orchestra, come pretty close.

Director Andrew Horn spent several years on this directory, conducting interviews and compiling concert footage (much of it from Nomi’s earliest days on the NY scene).  The result is an often compelling film that becomes more so with repeated viewings (at least for me).  Interestingly enough, the documentary becomes much more than just your standard music documentary.  Because Nomi typified the artistic excesses of the “New Wave” era in many ways, the film also becomes something of a eulogy for that era.  Time and again, the interviewees describe the late 70s/early 80s with great fondness, recounting the boundless creativity, energy, and sense of community that was so common back then.

Even though Nomi had left his bandmates in a lurch because of his pursuit for success, I was surprised at just how much affection they still expressed for the man.  By how often they said that they had loved helping him and had been willing to support him and his endeavors in exchange for a few lime tarts (among other things, Nomi was apparently something of a pastry chef).  Obviously, that sense of camaraderie now has a bittersweet edge to it, but it’s still quite striking.

The film isn’t perfect, however, and feels rather muddled at times.  There’s very little sense of time and continuity throughout the film, making for one that’s a little confusing chronologically.  We know that the events chronicled by the film take place between 1974 and 1983 (when Nomi died).  However, a little more information as to when specific events occurred, such as Nomi’s performance with Bowie, would have been helpful in putting everything in context, I think.

Furthermore, Nomi performances are sprinkled throughout the film, but again, no sense of when these took place is given.  For example, we’re shown footage of Nomi’s first vaudeville performance.  That is, until later in the movie when we’re shown yet another “first performance” and we’re left wondering which one is the real one.  More clarification as to matters of continuity like that would’ve been nice.

No such complaints about the DVD itself, which comes loaded with deleted scenes (including some very poignant scenes from the photographer who was one of the last people to see Nomi alive), a bunch of additional footage on Nomi’s life and the “New Wave” scene in general, several live performances including the full version of Nomi’s aforementioned performance of “The Cold Song”, and even a recipe for his lime tarts.

As with Palm’s release of Stoked, I have a feeling some might watch The Nomi Song as a curiosity piece, as a way to engage in some nostalgia for a bygone era, or simply because Nomi himself was such a bizarre figure.  To do so, I think, would be to miss the point and rob the film of its true potential impact.

I did watch the film as a curiosity piece the first time, and thought it was alright.  However, my second viewing proved to be much more affecting as the man’s isolation and loneliness became more prevalent.  Although the documentary doesn’t answer all of the questions about Nomi’s life—the man still remains as enigmatic at the end of the film as he was at its beginning—at its best, it’s an absorbing and poignant look at a truly unique individual and a longlost era.

If you’ve seen The Twilight Samurai, there’s a very good chance that watching The Hidden Blade will give you a major feeling of deja vu.  The two films are so similar—in tone, pacing, storyline, and characters—that I don’t think it’s entirely unjustified to call The Hidden Blade a retread.  A skillfully done, artfully made, beautifully rendered retread, but a retread nonetheless.

Katagiri (Masatoshi Nagase) is a low-ranking samurai with seemingly no prospects: he’s stationed in a backwater part of the country; his father had been forced to commit hara-kiri, thus casting a shadow over the entire family; and worst of all, he’s unmarried, an unthinkable position for a man his age.  However, Katagiri and his family make do, managing to eke out a happy existence. 

Much of this is due to Kie (Takako Matsu), a young servant girl who has been living with them for several years, learning the domestic skills needed to be a good wife.  Unfortunately, Kie’s time of service is up, and she’s married off to a merchant family.  Katagiri’s sister, Shino, is also married off to one of Katagiri’s best friends, leaving him all alone after their mother’s death. 

After three lonely years, Katagiri bumps into Kie while running errands, only she’s no longer the bright, cheerful girl she knew.  A hard marriage and a hard life have reduced her to a sickly state.  Incensed, Katagiri takes her from her husband’s family and begins nursing her back to health, which inevitably starts some scandalous rumors.

However, the clan has far more pressing matters at hand than one samurai’s supposed indisrections.  The film is set at the end of the Edo period in Japanese history, the time when modern warfare—in the form of cannons and firearms—came to Japan, thus signalling the end of the samurai.  As with The Twilight Samurai, this casts a elegiac, nostalgic atmosphere over the entire movie, and director Yoji Yamada captures it just as beautifully and longingly here as he did with his previous film.

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My coworkers and I have had many interesting, involved, and impassioned debates concerning the conflict in Iraq, a lot of them revolving around the wisdom of our government getting involved (or lack thereof).  We all have our own take on the issue, and we throw out facts and figures that we glean from the newspaper, from CNN and Fox News, etc.

One of the more sobering conversations I had about the war took place over lunch one day, when one of my co-workers, whose husband is serving in Iraq, revealed that he spent part of his leave buying supplies for his unit—supplies that were perfectly ordinary and necessary to do their job—from Radio Shack… with his own money.

Regardless of your opinions of the war, something about that notion—that U.S. soldiers have been thrust into a conflict, and then have to pay for part of it with their own dime—should rub you the wrong way.  Those of us halfway around the world, safe and warm in our homes and 9-to-5 jobs, can make all of the debates we want, for or against.  But I can only imagine how hollow those statements ring when you’re being pelted with rocks, mortar rounds are landing within spitting distance, and all that’s between you and a homemade landmine is some scrap metal that you found in an Iraqi junkyard.

Gunner Palace takes this very approach.  Filmmakers Petra Epperlein and Michael Tucker present a perspective on the war that is far removed from the talking heads, one that is right from the eyes of the troops.  In this case, the troops are members of 2/3 Field Artillery (aka the “Gunners”) who patrol the streets of Baghdad and live in a bombed out palace that one belonged to Saddam Hussein.

That incongruity is apparent within the opening seconds.  One minute, the troops are driving through Baghdad’s backstreets, making raids on suspected insurgency cells.  The next, they’re relaxing in a garish suite originally built for Saddam’s sons, chilling out by the pool, or shooting a few rounds of golf on the palatial estate.  It’s a fairly absurd situation, and one can’t help but think of a old M*A*S*H episodes—except that this is real.

Tucker occasionally asks offscreen questions, but most of the time, he just records what the troops are doing, their reactions, etc.  Many of the troops interviews, like Private Wilf, come from small towns and have little to no education.  For them, the army is one of the few real prospects that they have.  However, as someone points out early in the movie, these soldiers are “Field Artillery”.  They’ve been trained to bring out the really big guns and blow really big stuff up, poor skills to have when it comes to conducting traffic, arresting unruly protesters, and moving through cramped alleys.

Most of the soldiers interviewed react to their situation with—what else?—humor.  Sometimes it’s brash and crass as anything.  And yet, behind their humor lies a deep cynicism about their role in Iraq.  Does the war make any sense?  Should they even be there?  Will what they do make any difference once they’ve gone?  One soldier expresses such doubts even as he trains the Iraqi army.  And worst of all, does anyone back home even care?

Time and again, soldiers comment on how folks in America are only interested if someone gets shot, or something really big happens (such as the capture of Hussein, which takes place shortly after this film was made).  They don’t care about the day-to-day lives of the soldiers and the Iraqis, the mundane duties that still fraught with great danger.

I’m sure that really partisan folks might find something to bicker about.  Liberals will probably complain that the filmmakers are too light on the war effort, and don’t probe deeply enough into the “real” issues.  Conservatives will probably whine about the film painting the military in a bad light.  I have a feeling that the soldiers in Iraq would probably scoff at such remarks.  War is never that simple, is never a Right vs. Left affair, never a matter of black and white.  Gunner Palace is oftentimes a vivid reminder of that.

It’s not a perfect documentary by any means, though.  For starters, Tucker’s narration often distracts from the film.  The editing gets a little sloppy at times and the various soldiers often get jumbled together, such that it can be a little difficult to pick up where their individual stories continue.  And halfway through the film, Tucker films his return to the States and discusses his settling back into real life, presumably to provide a contrast to what the soldiers are still going through.  However, it feels awkwardly placed, especially when we’re back in Iraq 5 minutes later, as if nothing had happened.

Such flaws prevent the documentary from hitting home as hard as it could.  But the raw materials are there, and the soldier’s plight and situation still comes through loud and clear.

A little bit of trivia: this film’s rating was reduced from an “R” to a “PG-13”, despite the fact that words like “fuck” are all over the place.  This is one of those rare times when I agree with an MPAA decision like this.  There’s nothing at all glamorous or gratuitous about the use of such language—it’s simply there, captured by the camera, like every other ordinary detail of the soldiers’ lives.

A few years ago, a little movie called Ong-Bak burst onto the martial arts cinema scene.  Most folks hailed it as the second coming, and rightfully so.  Despite lacking the charisma and grace of Jackie Chan and Jet Li, Tony Jaa left most viewers scrambling to pick up their jaws once they’d seen his brutal flurries of fists, elbows, and mindblowing stuntwork, all done without the aid of special effects or wires.

I think it’s safe to say that most people never really thought of Thailand as the next action capital of the world, but Ong-Bak put the country on the map for action afficianadoes, with people waiting to see what would emerge next from the country.  The next film to start gathering the buzz was Born To Fight.  Although it didn’t star Jaa—his next film is Tom Yum Goong—it was directed by Panna Rittikrai, Ong-Bak‘s martial arts choreographer.

As far as plot and story go, Born To Fight is even flimsier than Ong-Bak.  A group of athletes travel to a remote border village as part of a fundraising support tour.  Shortly after arriving, the village is brutally attacked by guerillas who demand the release of a notorious drug lord—the very same drug lord that had been put away by Pe Deaw, a police officer who is travelling with his sister, who is one of the athletes.  This part of the film is surprisingly brutal, with men, women, and children all getting gunned down in cold blood.  Rittikrai pulls out all of the stops in depicting the guerillas as total bastards who deserve any and all beatdowns they receive… and they receive plenty.

Early teasers and trailers for the film were packed with some of the stunts, stunts that any sane person would never perform.  But the stunt crew—I hesitate to call anyone in this film an “actor”—pushes everything to eleven.  Exploding trucks crash through shanty towns, Police Story-style.  Combatants fling and kick eachother off of moving semis, bodies coming within centimeters of the tires (after watching this, you’ll never be able to watch Morpheus fighting on that truck in The Matrix Reloaded without snickering).  People throw themselves through burning walls, motorcycles crash full-speed into pickups, etc.

Seriously, I don’t want to think about the medical bills incurred by this movie.  Everytime I watch some poor unfortunate guerilla smack his face and chest into a wooden beam, I can’t but squirm and thank the movie gods that they recorded over his ribcage splintering.

Another noteworthy thing about Born To Fight‘s action is that most of the main “actors” are actual athletes.  In interviews, Rittikrai stated that he felt it was easier to take real athletes who already possess considerable physical skills, and put them in an action movie, rather than try to take “real” actors and spend weeks and months training them to do physical stunts.  As such, you’ll see all of the athletes—rugby players, soccer players, gymnasts, taekwando champs—use their skills in various ways.  My personal favorites are the soccer players, who manage to knock guards out of towers with their well-aimed kicks, and who uses any round object as a lethal weapon, from melons to teapots.

Although nowhere near as “pure” a martial arts film as Ong-Bak, Born To Fight is still a great movie to watch with your mates, to gather around the television and get sadistic pleasure each and every time they groan and squirm at the risk some poor unfortunate stuntman took.  It’s not a great movie by any stretch of the imagination—this isn’t a movie to analyze or criticize.  It’s one to watch purely for the sheer joy of gasping at one insane stunt after another.

Seeing as how I would spend as much of childhood Saturdays as possible watching cartoons, I figured it was only appropriate to kick off my marathon with a live-action remake of a cartoon. Granted, Cutie Honey wasn’t exactly the sort of cartoon I watched as a kid—created by the infamous Gô Nagai, the anime’s titular character was a shapely android who could transform into any number of costumes, each with their own power, but in the process of doing so, she’d lose all of her clothing.

Although the live action Cutie Honey doesn’t go that far during the transformation sequences, it does offer up quite a bit of eye candy, as Honey appropriates a number of slinky, revealing outfits. Thing is, the movie is played so lightheartedly and fluffily, with the action sequences so over the top and the tone of the film going to the silliest of extremes—from Eriko Sato’s ultra-chipper acting to the musical numbers to the hammy acting that would make Power Rangers look like Oscar material—that the thing never comes off the slightest bit offensive or leering.

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Crash is one of the most brutal films I have ever seen. This seems a strange thing to say, considering Crash is relatively low on physical violence in comparison to many other recent movies. But the brutality, for the most part, lies not in gruesome murders, but rather in the dialogue of its racist cast of characters. Each and every racial slur seems more harsh, more violent, and more shocking than any of the bloody gorefests to be seen in the next theater over. For this unbridled bigotry reveals a certain something that most horror films and R-rated flics cannot—the ugliness of human nature.

Why does it come as such a shock, these “nigger”‘s and “cracker”‘s and “Osama”‘s? Racism, that distinctly American problem, happens all the time. It comes as a shock, then, because it is brought to the forefront, rather than hidden underneath jocular expressions or a quiet demeanor. Racist remarks are most often left unspoken.  Here, however, the viewer is assaulted with slur after slur, prejudice after prejudice, most likely leaving them feeling beaten and dejected.

This is the desired effect of Crash. Written by Paul Haggis (of Million Dollar Baby fame) and Bobby Moresco, it follows around several distinct and diverse Los Angeles residents who, within the course of two days, all manage to interact with one another, with mostly dire results. Nearly all of the characters carry with them some sort of racial or economic prejudice, resulting in situations akin to car accidents in their explosiveness and destructiveness (hence the title of the film). Quite clearly, the name of the game is racism, in its many forms, and the film manages to accurately portray it in all its terrible glory, with no apologies.

On text, it probably sounds preachy, yet the movie itself is not. In fact, the movie is, if anything, detached, leaving the reactions up to the viewer. But though the camera may be far off, the audience is not.  It is difficult not to adore Daniel (Michael Pena), locksmith and loving father, or sympathize with Peter (Larenz Tate), a man who manages to be likeable despite his criminal profession.

It is winning performances like these that make Crash such a believable movie, even despite its rather implausible circumstances (in a city as large as Los Angeles, it is extremely unlikely everyone would meet up in such a way, and even more unlikely that it would snow, which it does in the movie). There is not one actor ill-fitted, not one character unbelievable. There are no clear-cut villains or heroes, with each having his or her moments of repugnance and benevolence. And so the very reality of the movie makes it all the more brutal.

In addition to superb acting, the cinematography and solemn, minimalist music—from bleak electronic tones to sparse choral arrangements—add to its quality. But to point out its cinematic merits seems beside the point, like reading a profound book and focusing only on its cover and syntax rather than its message. Crash is not a movie to be enjoyed, to be dissected, or to be analyzed; it is a movie to be absorbed, acknowledged, and contemplated. The film presents the problem of racism and presents no easy answer, because none exist. It is up to the viewer to take the message with them, and look inward.

It is a provocative film, one that may stir some deep or uneasy feelings in the heads of those who watch it. It made me uncomfortable, it made me angry, it made me cry, it made me walk out of the theater at the film’s end and yell a hearty “Fuck!” in the main lobby.

You may wonder what the point of seeing Crash would be. After all, it is an accepted fact that racism exists, and it is a problem. Seeing the movie is just a reaffirmation, or perhaps for some, a realization, of these harsh facts, and may very well motivate viewers to reassess their actions and change things for the better.

For that reason, Crash is worth seeing. It’s brutal, yes, and it’s depressing, yes (though it could have been much worse—see it and you will know what I mean).  But it’s a valuable experience. And that is something very few movies can boast nowadays. See it.

Written by Richie DeMaria.

The works of Masamune Shirow hold a pretty special place for me, as they represent some of my very first forays into the worlds of anime and manga.  Back in high school, I watched both of the (rather lackluster) Appleseed and Black Magic M-66 movies, and later on, Ghost In The Shell served as my initial exposure to “mature” anime (as it did for a number of people).  Looking back, what initially drew me to Shirow’s work was the insane amount of technical detail.  Shirow is renowned for having something of a technology fetish, and that’s quite evident in his incredibly complex and realistic designs for futuristic technology—namely mechas.

Appleseed, Shirow’s debut work, is chock-full of this sort of fetish.  The mecha and tech designs are taken to extreme limits, from the organic-looking landmates with their insect-like antennae and bulbous protrusions to the apparently limitless variation of firearms.  Appleseed doesn’t delve into the issues of humanity and technology in quite the same manner as Shirow’s other popular work, Ghost In The Shell.  Rather, it feels more like a fanboy work than a serious philosophical treatise.  However, that doesn’t mean that it’s merely popcorn entertainment either.

The original Appleseed OVA that came out in 1988 was rather disappointing.  Although the storyline was intriguing, and not too dissimilar from the plot of this movie, it wasn’t fleshed out very well and ended up feeling like several distinct plotlines simply thrown together.  And while the mecha designs were quite unique, the animation was nothing to write home about (and would probably seem even more dated now).

This Appleseed movie, however, is something else entirely.  Directed by Shinji Aramaki (who has worked with other techno-minded titles such as Bubblegum Crisis) and produced by Fumihiko Sori (who directed the fantastic Ping Pong, one of the best Japanese films in recent years), Appleseed truly delivers on the potential of Shirow’s manga series.

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