Milo Garner meets Orçun Behram’s horror debut, The Antenna, at BFI LFF 2019.

I met The Antenna at a party and he wouldn’t shut the fuck up. I was in the kitchen when he approached me, and initially, I’ll say it, I wasn’t unimpressed. He had a sort of stylish way about him. Not exactly well-dressed, no, but he’d thought it through. Nearly postmodern, angular, almost smart but not quite. He spoke to me first – of course he would, I would later think – something about an anecdote he’d heard about a man who fell off the roof of a tower block. The whole thing was very bizarre, very deadpan.

The music was quiet at this point – someone had put on one of Aphex Twin’s slow tunes – and The Antenna seemed to be in his element, talking in that kind of husky whisper that suits certain men. But soon after, things started to devolve. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was drinking – for some reason he’d poured whatever beer it was into a clear tumbler – but he had told me it was a lot like Kronenbourg. But not quite. Watered down maybe? Or, as I later came to suspect, his own imitation brew. He offered it to me enough, assuming – for a reason quite beyond me – that it’d be in some way to my taste. And sure, I do like Kronenbourg. I’d go so far as to say I really like Kronenbourg, in the right situation. But this diluted swill only got worse the closer I got to the dregs. And The Antenna seemed intent on not letting me leave the kitchen, that much seemed clear.

After telling me about the man who fell off the roof he segued – quite incoherently, I should add – into what would become an endless rant about television. Nothing particular, mind, just that TV was bad, and rotting our brains, and whatever the fuck else cliché you could pull out of a ’90s WhiteDot screed. He grabbed my shoulder emphatically more than once, only to let go with a theatrical raising of both arms at some sort of climatic ‘revelation’. I was meant to be wowed. I was not wowed.

Eventually, someone else was pulled into his gust of garrulous vapidity. The music had by this point degraded to an assault of ’80s pop hits. This girl, the new arrival, did not allow me the quick exit I was hoping for. Instead I was caught in a strange crossfire of The Antenna hitting on her, all the while keeping up his desperately trite narrative of TV-brain-rot with me. This would result in lengthy asides (during which the emphatic shoulder grab would reappear) where he would try and amuse her with what I assume were his best recollections of various true crime headlines. None of them were very entertaining, and in all honesty, I quite wished he could get to the end of his tirade sooner rather than later. The girl did leave, finally (what I’d do for that confidence, lady), but only after she and The Antenna shared a good minute or two of silent eye contact.

‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ was playing. His hand gripped my shoulder tightly. Christ. It was a little before this that his bullshit had outdone itself. He had begun to tie in a variety of statist conspiracies into his TV narrative – they’re behind it, he said loudly. They’re the ones making sure we all have a working set, he said even more loudly. His endgame was a kind of drone army of TV-infected slaves doing the government’s bidding or something. He even said something about them being faceless, but not like in a literary sense – literally faceless. Like in that episode of Doctor Who. On reflection, a lot like that episode of Doctor Who. I asked him if he’s seen it. Stupid question, no TV. That one’s on me. Then something truly inexplicable happened. Rodger Waters’ ‘Amused to Death’ blasted from the next room.

‘Finally, some real music.’ He skipped away, completely satisfied with how that conversation played out.

I finished the remnants of his fake-Kronenbourg and regretted it. What a waste of fucking time.

The Antenna has yet to get himself a UK release date, but you can watch the trailer below:

Xin Yi Wang runs through a few films from the London East Asian Film Festival, which ran from the 19th to the 29th of October.

Names such as Akira Kurosawa, Wong Kar-wai and Ang Lee might ring a few bells for cinema fans, but the truth is East Asian cinema is a vast industry unknown to most Western audiences. Of course, the lack of accessibility is a factor – Asian releases aren’t come by as easily as those from Hollywood, and language is another barrier that might diminish interest. For the second year running, the London East Asian Film Festival (LEAFF) has been a welcome presence both for education and as a method for the Western world to access the gigantic archive of East Asian cinema, screening new releases from contemporary filmmakers and retrospective films.

LEAFF was a diverse array of experiences – I’ve seen quiet auteur films right before huge multi-language blockbusters, and productions scaling from minuscule to grand. In addition to screening films, LEAFF hosted plenty of Q&As, allowing for interactions both immersive and educational. The experience opened up my knowledge, and is an exciting and engaging new film festival in London to watch out for.

Phillips-Lee Best Film Award Winner: Soul Mate

Special Jury Mentions: Dancing with Jikji and Loser’s Adventure

Major films and highlights I unfortunately missed out on so won’t be able to discuss: Anarchist from the Colony, Dancing with Jikji, Loser’s Adventure, Have A Nice Day, Walking Past the Future, One Day, The Receptionist, The Table.

Historic Trauma

Two massive productions from South Korea were screened at the Festival, both dealing with pain and trauma in Korean history. The Fortress (Grade: 7/10) opened LEAFF with its cold and violent winter. This historical epic is set in 1636, when the invading Qing Dynasty tried to coerce the Joseon into surrendering and dropping their allegiance to the Chinese Ming Dynasty. Director Hwang Dong-hyuk traps the audience with his isolated characters behind the walls of the titular fortress – and between sweeping atmospheric landscape shots and intense battle sequences, its proportions are well balanced. Watching with some knowledge of historical context, there is a larger sense of impending doom that builds up well as one anticipates the ultimate fall-out.

Its main two characters – Choi Myung-kil (Lee Byung-hun) and Kim Sang-hun (Kim Yoon-seok) shine in stand-out performances, and it’s a shame Hwang incorporates unnecessary characters to create a typical soap opera effect rather than stripping the film down to two characters of conflicting ideology. There’s much ground to explore here, as both are justified perspectives that represents the nuances of political dilemma during wartime. Though Hwang should have devoted more attention to this as the central focus of the film, the conflict as it stands still resulted in a brilliant scene of debate.

While the Fortress traps its audience, Battleship Island (Grade: 7/10) suffocates. Looking to another moment of painful national history, this time we find ourselves on Hashima Island during World War II with father and daughter (among other characters – both these films contain an ensemble cast to reflect their scope), where under Japanese occupation Koreans are treated as subhuman slaves mining coal and performing other labours. Ryoo Seung-wan makes a deep impression with his direction – with hundreds of extras in many scenes all at once, it feels like watching an experienced orchestra conductor, staging and balancing several different instruments to chilling effect. The cinematography by Lee Mo-gae is equally astounding, squeezing and smothering its audience in a thrilling presentation.

Battleship Island is a predictable blockbuster that promises thrill and emotional tugs. Though there is nothing truly subtle about this film, especially with its nationalistic stance and anti-Imperial Japanese sediment, it is highly entertaining and engaging. Its lead actors, the charismatic Hwang Jung-min as Bandmaster Lee Kang-ok and Train to Busan’s Kim Su-an as his daughter Lee So-hee are wonderful as the heart of the film. Supporting actors are also brilliant, though I would argue that Song Joong-ki’s character and story are introduced too late within the film and feel too much like an afterthought for an important character.

Ryoo, however, needs to watch his use of tone. The first half is a bizarre mix of serious torture over satirical music that comes across like a weird Coen Brothers imitation, and deeply jars with the second half, a serious war film. Battleship Island is a long and flawed feature, but it definitely stood out during the festival.

Hong Kong: Now and Then

This strand of the festival accompanies the twentieth anniversary of Hong Kong’s return to China, choosing four films from Hong Kong’s large catalogue. Three of them were from the world of cops and triads, the fourth a soft melodrama about a deep friendship. Other than Triad Election (2006), I managed to catch all the films under this strand. As I am from Hong Kong, it was personally not much of an education compared to other films watched during LEAFF, but the choice of these four films to represent Hong Kong was certainly interesting.

Triad Election and Infernal Affairs (Grade: 8/10) represent the “then” – Hong Kong is famous for its own genre of gangster films, and Infernal Affairs is undoubtedly one of the most famous examples of that genre to Western cinemagoers. Just four years after its 2002 release, Scorsese remade it into The Departed, very similar to the original. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to Infernal Affairs that I watched its Hollywood remake first, as I not only had a very strong idea of its plot and character complexities, but resorted to making constant comparisons between the two films. In my reading, a focus on critical comparison took over – what was changed? What were the different choices made in shooting a same scene?

The original is undoubtedly a marvel. Directors Andrew Lau and Alan Mak’s handle of suspense and thrill stands the test of time, keeping Infernal Affairs constantly fresh and engaging. It has a strong sense of place and culture, utilising Hong Kong’s gritty urban jungle and over-crowdedness to be a player in our protagonists’ psyches, and we find ourselves constantly on rooftops for a breath of fresh air. Though – and I am making a comparison with its remake here – certain scenes fly into a more “cheesy” territory that might not have aged well, its characters and psychological intensity truly cement the film in its status.

Tony Leung is completely mesmerizing in his role as Chan Wing-yan, living on the edge of a breakdown and constantly risking to dangerously tip over. Even so, he maintains a charisma that makes him stand out, allowing the audience to empathise and root for him as our hero. Andy Lau as Lau Kin-ming is on par with Leung. While Leung is more hot-blooded, Lau reacts with quiet intensity, anxiety lingering in his stoic expressions. Two sides of a coin, their identities and lives interlink, sometimes even crossing over to their own, real identities. Not only are they under constant pressures as undercover individuals, their identities and sense of self are constantly in crisis – could you still consider Chan a policeman, and Lau a gangster?

Representing the “Now”, the second Andy Lau flick of the strand is screened. The weakest of the films, Shockwave (Grade: 4/10) is a modern-day popcorn movie that feels more like an unsubtle propaganda film than anything else. It is open in the way it plays with emotions and predictable in its plot, and overall is a typical blockbuster – not really fresh in any sense. A plus side is Jiang Wu giving a loud and dramatic performance as the villain; he mixes up the film with energy and should be commended for his intimidating presence. Phillip Keung’s performance as Chief Inspector Kong, conversely, goes over the top – the character is quite unnecessary to begin with, and the performance frequently dips into “too much” territory.

Credit where it’s due for an adrenaline-fueled thrilling ride and an education on different types of bombs – but other than that it’s more disturbing in its unabashed praise of the police force, very weak characters, and the use of Mandarin as the language spoken in a film set and representing Hong Kong (in a film that goes out its way introducing landmarks of the city, the total absence of spoken Cantonese makes it a very uncomfortable watch). If anything, it is representative of the influence of Mainland China in Hong Kong Cinema since the late 2000s, and the need to go around censorship for box office returns while appeasing the Chinese government makes it certainly a problematic piece post-Occupy Central.

Maybe in order to examine Hong Kong cinema “now”, one does have to factor in Mainland influences. The only thing that made Soul Mate (Grade: 7.5/10) qualify to be in this strand is its director Derek Tsang, who is from Hong Kong. The winner of the Phillips-Lee Award in competition at LEAFF, it is a beautiful film about a friendship since childhood, and both an exploration in coming-of-age and a take on deep female relationships not commonly portrayed to such depth in Chinese cinema. A soft melodrama, Tsang tugs emotional strings extremely frequently, complicating character relationships in the likes of soap operas but nonetheless leaving you with a strong impression of characters Qiyue (Sandra Ma) and Ansheng (Zhou Dongyu).

It does fall into cliché grounds though – I rolled my eyes when I realised the central factor that threatens their friendship is a man. Even worse, this man isn’t as well rounded as the female protagonists, making both his character and the story arc of the love triangle boring. It is a shame, as Ma and Zhou are both excellent in their portrayals of emotion, heartbreak, support and happiness. Ansheng’s energy, personality and struggles behind her free-willed stubbornness are vivid in a tour-de-force from Zhou, and Qiyue, Ansheng’s foil, balances her wildness with restriction and nuance in Ma’s heartbreaking performance. Tsang constantly steers the film into a fresh, new take, then immediately backs into clichés of the established Chinese romance genre. Ultimately, the film is an impressive feat.

Death, Mourning, and Grief

The two other films I caught can be linked through their themes of death and grief. Blank 13 (Grade: 8.5/10) was a festival highlight – a quiet and small production from director Takumi Saito, it dives into the complexities of people, grief, and family. Set during the funeral of a deadbeat father, Saito intercuts between the now and then as son Koji (Issei Takahashi) reminiscences the past. The title sequence is placed in the middle of the film, dividing Blank 13 into two while indicating of a tonal shift. The first part is heavy, relying on Koji’s memories while showcasing his father’s abandonment of his family, and more traditional, while the second half shows another side of his father through a collection of odd acquaintances at the funeral.

People are complex – the father might have been terrible to his family, but he was kind to strangers and friends. Two sons grasp the concept differently, with Koji being more forgiving, while it is too much for his brother. Their mother (Misuzu Kanno), who the director claims the story is truly about, is an intensely inward character whose presence is barely seen but always felt. It is rooted in realism, containing real human emotions, struggles, and finding humour in awkward circumstances. Ending on an emotional high note, Saito has created a touching success that stays with you long after.

As part of the retrospective strand of Japanese Cinema, I saw Naomi Kawase’s The Mourning Forest (Grade: 6.5/10), winner of 2007 Cannes Grand Prix. Focusing on the relationship between a nurse Machiko (Machiko Ono) and an old man Shigeki (Shigeki Uda) suffering from dementia at a nursing home, Kawase reveals how two individuals in grief find comfort transcending age and gender, and their relationship blossoms into something intricately built and precious.

Machiko mourns for her child while Shigeki mourns for his wife, and though Machiko never explicitly mentions her pain they reach a mutual understanding. The pace however, is at times excruciatingly slow, and can get very disengaging as Machiko and Shigeki hike in the woods. It is a hard film to watch with certain confusing scenes, but is nevertheless beautiful in its own exploration of grief.

Closing Gala: Outrage Coda

The Closing Gala of LEAFF, Outrage Coda (Grade: 7/10) is, well, outrageous in its ride. The finale of Takeshi Kitano’s Outrage yakuza trilogy, the abundance of characters and spiderweb of relationships absolutely confused me at first as I have not watched the first two films. Even so, by the end of the film I had a clear idea of its mafia world and complications, so that is a feat by Kitano. Filled with betrayals, violence and yakuza politics, its fans are in for a treat as we follow Otomo’s spree to avenge his friend after he was crossed.

Working as both director and actor, Kitano is at the centre of it all, and his Otomo is fascinating to watch. Mainly suffering in quiet rage, Otomo unleashes hell on the Japanese yakuza, completely intimidating yet brilliant to root for at the same time. Its lack of female characters is noted – this is an extremely masculine film, not surprising at all as it plays traditionally in the gangster genre, which by itself is a masculine playground. The pacing only gets more and more intense, completing the trilogy with absolute exhilaration from start to finish, closing the festival with a boiling finale.

The London East Asia Film Festival was established in 2015 as a non-profit arts organisation to champion the growing collaboration and diversity in East Asian filmmaking.

Check out the LEAFF website here: https://www.leaff.org.uk/

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Takashi Miike’s impressive 100th film.

A samurai stands against a vast horde of mercenaries, his young charge their last victim. The image is a beautiful monochrome; the odds insurmountable. Nonetheless, Manji (Takuya Kimura), our hero, enters the fray filled with reckless vengeance. The ensuing ultraviolence is equal parts intense and ludicrous, combining the climatic combat of Kobayashi’s Samurai Rebellion with Kill Bill’s battle in the House of Blue Leaves. If proceedings so far leave a viewer incredulous, or seeking something of more substance, the opening credits to follow might as well be the closing. But for those who could imagine little better than this spectacle of bloody samurai action, there is much to look forward to.

The titles soon appear, now in blood-splattered colour. This is Blade of the Immortal, Taskashi Miike’s 100^th film over a 26 year career. His astonishing productivity, of course, has led to a marked contrast in quality for some of his work, from the depths of the ridiculous to the heights of the sublime, and sometimes both at once. Blade of the Immortal, while uneven, happily finds itself on the better end of the spectrum, and offers the exact kind of feudal ferocity one might hope for. This isn’t the first time Miike has strayed into samurai territory, with his recent remakes of Kudo’s 13 Assassins and Kobayashi’s Hara-Kiri stamping his mark on the genre. However, this venture has less in common in those original films of the 60s than it does with a later series of samurai films –Lone Wolf and Cub (perhaps better known in its truncated US edition as Shogun Assassin). Like Lone Wolf, Blade of the Immortal is adapted from a manga, they also both shrug off any sense of history for supernatural and anachronistic elements of plot and design. The feudal setting is more a blank canvas than a reality the stories might inhabit. In Lone Wolf this can be seen in the finale of its sixth entry, featuring skiing samurai (a sight to behold), while Blade of the Immortal is not short on platinum blonde hair or any amount of fictional (referred to in the film as ‘foreign’) weaponry.

The central conceit, however ridiculous, could easily have existed within a more ‘authentic’ world, but that would be missing the point. That conceit is essentially spelt out in the title – after his initial battle Manji is all but slain, yet before death a mystic curses him with immortality. This takes physical form as ‘bloodworms’, which heal any wound he might sustain. The story itself takes place some years after this, with the young daughter of a sensei at a particular dojo finding herself orphaned by the plight of a nefarious warrior, Anotsu (Sôta Fukushi). This outcast plans to destroy all the separate schools of martial arts so as to coalesce them into one, under him. His exact reasoning for this is somewhat vague, his main motivation being a general rejection of specific martial forms after his father was reprimanded for fighting ‘improperly’ while a student of one. Perhaps not compelling enough an argument to undertake a mission of mass murder, but this is not a film of complex reasoning. In fact its one real theme of any depth, that of vengeance, is itself a little murky. It is often made clear how many people must suffer and die for the sake of, often needless, revenge – in fact it is for this reason Manji is first cursed with immortality. Despite this, the film still revels in it, and does not offer any sort of redemption arc for the characters in that regard. It wouldn’t be unlike Miike for this to be some kind of meta-narrative targeted at the audience – this is ultimately what we want to see, and what we enjoy seeing, despite its immorality – but it still makes for a less-than-compelling thematic basis for the film.

The young daughter, Rin (Hana Sugisaki), seeks out Manji on the word of the very mystic who first cursed him. First encapsulating the reluctant hero trope, Manji eventually agrees to help Rin, and so just like Lone Wolf a man and a child find themselves on ‘The Road to Hell’ – a journey of vengeance. Yet unlike Lone Wolf, where Itto is consistently surprising in his incredible ability, Manji is not quite the swordsman he once was. In fact, in almost all of his armed encounters he is first defeated, only achieving ultimate victory through his being deathless. This is sometimes entertaining, as in a moment where he severs his own arm to free himself from a trap, but the low stakes do strip the film of some drama in earlier scenes. This isn’t a film to be taken seriously, Miike is well aware of this, but jeopardy is still necessary in some sense. Luckily the film introduces a predictable but welcome beat, a poison that weakens his bloodworms, threatening his immortality. This also introduces a moral problem – his wish for restful death against his obligation to his new ward. It isn’t explored in much detail, but allows some smouldering tension.

Less smouldering is the action, which instead periodically sets the film alight. Unlike some western-style samurai films, emulating many of their influences by backloading the action after a slow simmering build, Blade of the Immortal offers consistent conflict across its runlength. Its set pieces are engaging and impressively captured; its body count would make John Wick wince. None quite match the incredible opening, but some come close enough. There is also a lack of the terrible CGI that has haunted many modern Japanese films, including some of Miike’s own. A similar film crippled by this was Takeshi Kitano’s Zatoichi, with its awful effects sinking what is otherwise a solid comedy-action samurai flick, not so unlike Blade of the Immortal in tone. There are still some questionable moments, such as a computer-generated gravestone (a true mystery of cinema); but otherwise it isn’t distracting, especially and essentially regarding the (vast quantities of) blood.

As the film progresses various subplots and secondary characters appear, but most are not developed adequately. The reason for this is likely the source material – in adapting the extensive first arc of the manga screenwriter Tesuya Oishi had to maintain as many elements of the story as could fit in 150 minutes without disappointing its core audience, or indeed alienating newcomers. As such some inclusions appear more to be references than essential elements of the film, and fall by the wayside when the main drive of the narrative returns. This might also explain the underdeveloped themes – Hiroaki Samura’s original writing was praised for its sympathetic antagonists, especially in Anotsu. In the film this is hinted at, but is not built enough to ever take effect, though its tone perhaps suits this less ambiguous presentation. But ultimately this isn’t essential – Miike has created a piece of entertainment that overcomes these narrative shortcomings through sheer energy and visual flair. It’s exactly what one might expect from a film called Blade of the Immortal, and there’s little more that could be asked than that.

7/10

Blade of the Immortal had its UK premiere on the 8th of October at London Film Festival. Check out the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Leonora Bowers takes a look at Sophie Brooks’ mumblecore romance-comedy.

The Boy Downstairs is the debut feature-length work from its writer and director, Sophie Brooks. Set in central New York, it tells the story of Diana (Zosia Mamet), an aspiring writer who returns to the city after several years in London, only to find that her seemingly perfect new flat comes with one hitch: her ex-boyfriend Ben (Matthew Shear) as a downstairs neighbour.

Despite a fairly typical premise for a romantic comedy, The Boy Downstairs manages to tell its story in a style that is both fresh and endearing. The film captures the essence of life in the artistic world of New York, and boasts an assortment of lovable characters – from Diana’s naïve and unlucky-in-love best friend Gabby (Diana Irvine), to her landlady (Dierdre O’Connell), an independent and eccentric former actress who readily dispenses advice and whatever drink the situation calls for. Diana’s kooky nature and offbeat sense of humour don’t detract from her passion as she strives to make headway as a writer, and she makes a strong and engaging lead.

While ruffled to learn she is now living in close quarters with her ex, Diana is even more disconcerted to find he is now dating Meg (Sarah Ramos), the lofty estate agent who showed her the apartment in the first place. Their values and personalities predictably do not mesh, and while it remains relatively low-key, the conflict between these two is certainly key to some of the film’s comedic high points.

Ben comes across as one of the more two-dimensional characters in the film, which is unfortunate for such a major presence. Beyond his charming gawkiness and his past relationship with Diana, not much is revealed about his life, allowing it to seem – on a narrative level – as though he only exists as Diana’s romantic interest. In fact, the whole relationship between the two of them feels somewhat lacking; at times their interactions reach disproportionate levels of uncomfortableness, and even when the conversation would be expected to flow easily, the chemistry isn’t quite there.

Nevertheless, it isn’t difficult to root for the couple. Throughout the film, the complicated nature of their past relationship and subsequent break-up is gradually revealed through flashbacks, beginning with their last meeting before cycling back through their six-month relationship and ending with their breakup. These scenes provide an effective contrast with the progression of their present lives. Diana and Ben have very different ideas about how to move forward from their situation, and the story is just as much about their resolving how to have a relationship as it is about the romance itself.

Interspersed with adorably cliché moments – a first date picnic on a boat, an interactive art exhibit, dinner at a little Italian restaurant – what makes this film unique is the way the characters are so delightfully convincing. The fairly classic plot and indie style lead to almost tangible social tension, and the breakup scene evokes very raw sadness and regret. While it may not be a rollercoaster ride, The Boy Downstairs is enjoyable and easy to watch, with enough rise and fall to keep it captivating.

The Boy Downstairs premieres on October 14th in the UK at London Film Festival.