As the credits rolled after Good Bye, Dragon Inn, I heard someone describe the film as “remarkable”, or something to that effect.  My friend and I could only stare quizzically at eachother, wondering if we had seen the same movie.  Because “remarkable” would be the last word I’d used to describe the film, unless I was using it as an adverb, i.e. “remarkably pretentious”, “remarkably self-indulgent”, etc.

It’s really hard to talk about the film’s premise, simply because there isn’t much of one.  Ostensibly, the film is about nostalgia and regret, specifically a nostalgia for the Chinese cinema of yore and a regret that noone seems to care about it anymore.  The “haunted” theatre in the movie is playing Dragon Inn, a kung fu classic directed by King Hu, one of the genre’s most famous directors (his most famous picture was A Touch Of Zen, which was influential on Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon).  But noone comes to the theatre anymore, except for old men and groups of gays who hope to use the theatre’s abandoned hallways for secret encounters.

But just how does director Tsai Ming-liang convey that noone seems to care about classic films like Dragon Inn anymore?  By letting the audience stare at an abandoned theatre… for 5 minutes.  5 minutes of absolutely nothing, during which you can practically hear the audience’s minds straining to find some deep meaning or significance in the banal shot.

It’s hard to get any sense of nostalgia or regret out of this film, simply because the characters do absolutely nothing.  And by “nothing”, I mean just that.  Nada, nil, zilch.  Well, let me amend that.  They do stare at the wall an awful lot, and sometimes, for a change of pace, they stare at a burning cigarette or even at the projector as it rewinds the film.  In fact, much of the movie consists of people just staring, for minutes at a time, with blank expressions while the sounds of Dragon Inn clash about in the background.

At times, you get tiny hints that these characters might be slightly three-dimensional.  It’s implied that the crippled manager who limps through the theatre’s empty halls and stairways might bear an unrequited love for the projectionist, who we don’t see until the movie’s last 15 minutes.  But after awhile, all of her forlorn glances start to look the same, and it’s impossible to tell if that’s longing in her eyes, or just boredom.  Even the gay encounters amount to absolutely nothing, which might please the more conservative folks, but do nothing to add any dramatic interest to the movie.

The film’s most interesting storyline (and I use both “interesting” and “storyline” in the loosest sense possible) concern two elderly gentlemen who come to watch the movie.  Since the actors playing them also starred in Dragon Inn decades ago, we’re meant to believe that they might be ghosts coming to get one last look at the cinema that made them great.  Here we see the only glimmer of emotion in the entire movie, as one of the men gets a bit teary-eyed while watching his younger self onscreen.  I had to pinch myself to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming when I saw that, because that meant there were actually live people starring in this movie, and not just cardboard cutouts.  That’s the only time I ever felt any sense of regret or nostalgia in the entire movie.

Now I suppose some who saw the movie would argue that Tsai wasn’t going for a narrative film, but was instead going for a mood piece.  He wanted to create that sense of regret through the film’s visuals and atmosphere, rather than through dialog (hence the 9 lines that make up the entire screenplay) and interaction.  Fine, but even then, the film fails despite its attempts to beat the viewer senseless with atmosphere (the movie takes place on a rainy night and is set in a decrepit, dimly lit theatre that may or may not be haunted).

Occasionally, a shot might catch your eye—I’ll admit to finding some scenes of the manager moving through the theatre a bit hypnotic and ghostly—but they seem more like happy accidents than anything else.  You can’t make a leaky ceiling or a wall with peeling paint interesting just by turning the camera on it for a few minutes, and that’s all Tsai seems to do.

If I’m being unduly harsh on the movie, it’s because I found it so incredibly disappointing.  Rarely do I leave a theatre feeling like I wasted my time, and that’s exactly how I felt after Good Bye, Dragon Inn.  It could’ve been a fascinating film.  A fascinating short film, that is.  But when stretched out to a full-length, all you can do is stare helplessly as the film sinks irretrievably into its own dreariness and self-indulgence.

Good Bye, Dragon Inn is the penultimate critics film, so pretentious and self-indulgent that critics can’t helpt but praise it as “visionary” and “staggering”.  In fact, every critic in town seemed to fall all over themselves praising this film, which just goes to show that watching too many movies can skew your judgment.

What’s worse is that Good Bye, Dragon Inn is also the kind of arthouse film that gives arthouse films a bad name.  It’s the kind of film that people see for one of two reasons.  Either they sit through it just so they can claim they saw it to their artsy friends and thereby score some cool points or they see it because their artsy friends wouldn’t shut up about it, and then swear they’ll never see another arthouse film ever again… and I wouldn’t blame them.

Purple Butterfly debuted at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, where if left many people scratching their heads over its obtuse storyline and oblique acting.  Subsequently, a new edit of the film was prepared in time for its North American premiere in Toronto.  After having seen the new edit, I’m curious as to just what they altered from the original, because the new version was still incredibly obtuse and off-putting.  In fact, it was probably the most obtuse film I saw all week, and its vagueness left me feeling rather disappointed by its end.  But at the same time, it contained flashes of undeniable brilliance that lingered long after the credits roll.

Purple Butterfly opens in 1928 Manchuria, as the Japanese are making their military presence felt in Mainland China.  Cynthia (Zhang Ziyi, looking considerably downcast and world-weary) is involved in a relationship with Itami (Nakamura), a Japanese man who has just been recalled to Japan for military service.  Although their relationship seems rather tepid (the characters rarely speak to each other, and can barely make eye contact comfortably), Itami’s departure leaves Cynthia devastated.  She returns to her brother, who is involved in an anti-Japanese movement, and is rather upset with his sister’s relationship with one of the enemy.  Before Cynthia can straighten things out, a pro-Japanese suicide bomber attacks the movement and kills her brother.

The movie jumps forward to 1931 Shanghai, where we’re introduced to two more characters: Tang, a young switchboard operator, and her lover Szeto.  Despite the increasing threat of a full-on Japanese occupation, the two manage to carve out their own peaceful little corner amidst the turmoil of the times.  The two have been separated for awhile due to Szeto’s traveling, and when Tang receives a telegram announcing his return, she heads to station to await his train.

But while the camera is following her, we see that Cynthia (now named Ding Hui) has also arrived with some comrades, and are waiting for the train as well.  A case of mistaken identity takes place, and Hui and her friends carry off Szeto, with Tang in pursuit.  A gunfight breaks out amidst the ensuing struggle and Hui accidentally kills Tang.  In one of the film’s most gutwrenching scenes, Szeto is forced to watch his beloved get cut down by gunfire, her blood splashing across his face.  Despite his protests, his kidnappers insist that he is their contact and force him to hide out with a briefcase containing money, documents, and a pistol.  He’s contacted again, this time by Hui at a brothel, but the Japanese police show up, wounding and arresting the poor, clueless Szeto.

Meanwhile, Itami has returned to Shanghai, and has been assigned to take over the Japanese occupation force.  His primary mission is to eliminate Purple Butterfly, a resistance force that has been hounding the Japanese for quite some time now.  Deciding that Szeto would make a perfect agent, Itami uses his anger and grief to manipulate Szeto into infiltrating the movement.  However, Purple Butterfly also have an ace up their sleeve—Hui.  They arrange for Itami to have a “chance” encounter with her, hoping it will stir up old feelings that they can use to their advantage.  As these different pieces of the plot come together, a series of double-crosses and tragic events occur that cause all of the characters to doubt themselves, what they truly desire, and what they believe in.

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I had originally planned to catch one more movie after 9 Souls, thereby ending my first visit to the Toronto International Film Festival with an even 12 movies under my belt.  I considered going to Johnnie To’s PTU (even though I’d picked up the DVD in Chinatown earlier that week), Silence Between Two Thoughts (which, from the description, sounded like a powerful film about religious extremism), and The Cooler (if only to see William H. Macy’s storied performance).  However, 9 Souls was such a great movie that I didn’t want to risk seeing another one lest I end the fest on a bad note.

9 Souls opens with Michiru, a sullen teenager who recently murdered his father getting tossed into a cell with several other prisoners.  Shortly after his arrival, they make the fortuitous discovery of a hole in the floor of their cell (the first of several plot devices that happen all too conveniently, but add so much charm to the movie).  As the 9 prisoners make their getaway in the second best opening sequence of any movie I saw all week (right behind Save The Green Planet‘s), we’re quickly introduced to our “protagonists”.

Some are thieves, some drug dealers, some gangsters, and some are even murderers.  They all come from different backgrounds and ages, but they all know they don’t want to go back to jail.  Led by the oldest of the prisoners, the gruff Torakichi, they steal a truck and head for a school located at the foot of Mt. Fuji.  There they’ll find a stash of counterfeit money that will allow them to start over.

Needless to say, plenty of funny bickering and darkly humorous, albeit twisted hijinks ensue.  Some of the more, shall we say, frustrated prisoners find a flock of lovely sheep, and things get more and more disturbing until a hilarious twist.  And everytime the prisoners dress in disguise, be it in drag or cheap mustaches, it’s bound to have you chuckling, if not doubled over.  But there’s a moment when 9 Souls ceases being an entertaining film about bumbling, arguing ex-cons, and becomes into something far greater and deeper.

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Nowadays, we tend to think of fairy tales as cute little fables that we tell to children.  That, or some of Disney’s most famous movies.  But that wasn’t always the case.  However, over the years many of these tales have been sanitized, given nice moral twists, and sent on their merry way.  But if you dig a little deeper, you’ll find a surprising amount of death, cruelty, and general nastiness in even the most beloved of fairy tales.

That’s definitely the case with the stories of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, whose collection of dark Germanic folk stories contains some of the world’s most famous fairy tales, including Cinderella, Snow White, and Hansel And Gretel.  However, I wonder if even the Brothers Grimm could have foreseen the devious little tale that unfolds in Alex van Warmerdam’s Grimm, a contemporary retelling of Hansel And Gretel.

Jacob and Marie live with their father and mother on a small farm on the edge of the woods.  However, times are hard and there’s not enough food to feed all four of them.  Their father abandons the two siblings in the forest with nothing but a note from their mother telling them to head to Spain to live with their wealthy uncle.  After a surreal trip through the Netherlands, the two arrive in Spain, only to find out their uncle has died.  Unsure of what to do, Jacob leaves to find some food, and when he returns, Marie is missing with a letter in her place.

Following the letter’s instructions, he arrives at a large mansion in the middle of nowhere, where Maria is waiting for him.  Seems she went off and got hitched to Diego, a rich surgeon.  The siblings will have all they ever need, but Jacob can’t stand the thought of his sister selling herself like that.  What’s more, Diego strikes Jacob as bit on the dodgy side.  He insists that they leave, and when Marie refuses, begins a relationship with Diego’s maid to spite her.

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