Showing posts with label 2007. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2007. Show all posts

Saturday, June 18, 2022

MANGA REVIEW: MW (2007)


 

by Osamu Tezuka


English Translation by Camellia Nieh


Book Design by Chip Kidd


Production by Hiroko Mizuno, Mami Yamada, Ayako Fukumitsu, Shinobu Sato, and Akane Ishida


Original Japanese Language Publication in Big Comic (Biggu Komikku) 1976 to 1978. 


English Language Publication by Vertical, Inc. in 2007. 


. . .


"You and I are bound by fate. When you fall, I'm prepared to fall with you." 


. . .


Review by William D. Tucker. 


Once upon a time in Japan-


At the end of the 1970s-


Widespread disillusionment with the self-immolating excesses of radical left-wing violence . . . The Red Army factions spent more time "purifying" their own ranks into oblivion than they did smashing capitalism. Left wing thought is now mostly entombed within academia and pretentious theoretical texts of surpassing tedium and opacity. 


Widespread cynicism with the entrenched right-wing conservatism of the Japanese government . . . It's a man's world of rigid gender roles and consolidated political blocs. It's all about who you know and who you blow. Having a dumptruck of cash money also helps. 


Normalized denialism of the atrocities committed by Japan against China and Korea during World War II . . . Hey, lotta war criminals in the executive suites, doncha know!


And now Japan has to live with the fresh stigma of being perceived as a forward operating base for America in its protracted war of folly against Vietnam.


And what of the scores of civilians annihilated by conventional firebombing campaigns during World War II conducted by the U.S.? All this followed by Occupation, censorship of thought and culture, and infuriating land reforms. There are those who resent the heavy hand of Uncle Sam. 


What of the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki-the Bomb is Everywhere, now! The USA and the USSR could spark off any day and lay waste to the entire human population of Planet Earth! Why bother with questions of right and wrong when it could all become twisted and fused rubble in a flash crimson instant?


And do people still think on the six million systematically murdered by the Nazi death machine of the Holocaust? Germany and Japan had been allies in World War II. How do you come to terms with that?


People forget. Willfully and/or accidentally.


Because the economy is hotting up, and the past is pointless. 


But, into this world of amoral greed and dominance a monster of revelation is born to remind people of what has been buried-


MW gives us a doomed pair-a Catholic priest and a terrorist serial killer-who find themselves drawn to the fires of hell in late 1970s Japan. These fires manifest in different forms for each one. The priest has convinced himself of the literal hellfire of spooky religious damnation. The terrorist's body and mind burns during intense episodes of agony due to his exposure to a chemical warfare substance as a child. Priest and terrorist are also drawn to the flame of a forbidden love for each other-well, it's supposed to be forbidden on the part of the priest, who presumably has sworn off carnal desire. The terrorist is way less uptight. For what it's worth, the priest beats himself up on a spiritual level for his desires. The good father doesn't resist his desires, of course, which should come as no surprise for anyone with even a passing familiarity with the mechanics of performative public piety, institutional/political homophobia, religious hypocrisy, etc. These two are bound to each other as they pursue a mission of cruel vengeance against the government of Japan. 


Our terrorist is named Michio Yuki, a handsome banker who looks like a manga riff on Clark Kent. Yuki comes from a respectable family. His older brother is a kabuki theater actor specializing in female roles. Fifteen years ago, he was on a coastal vacation when he's assaulted by a gang of scruffy hippies. One of these teenage hooligans is named Iwao Garai. Garai holds Yuki prisoner inside a cave where they spend the night. In the morning, the entire population of the coastal town has been killed due to exposure to a chemical warfare agent. Yuki is also exposed. Garai is spared. MW's plot is driven by the mystery of the chemwar substance: who made it? Why? How did it get loose during a time of peace?


Yuki's neurological damage deprives him of a conscience, but his intelligence and determination are unaffected. He studies his older brother's female impersonation techniques and uses an alternate identity as a woman to contrive various blackmail scenarios to work his way up through the hierarchies of Japan's male-dominated business and political elites. Yuki's seeking the truth behind the mysterious presence of deadly chemical weapons being housed on Japanese soil. Yuki's lack of conscience and unconstrained rage allows him to engage in all manner of atrocities-torture, rape, murder, bombings, blackmail, stolen identities-to get what he wants. And what Yuki wants, ultimately, goes beyond the simple truth or even bloody vengeance.


Garai grows up to become a Catholic priest. He tries his best to deny his hooligan past as a drugged-out hippie. Garai also attempts to suppress his homosexuality, but he cannot deny the spark between himself and Yuki. This leads to comical displays of bogus sexual conservatism, but as Yuki's rage spirals out of control, Father Garai tries to prevent violence. But the Good Father just can't bring himself to expose Yuki to the police. Part of it is his fatalistic love, but, in a telling sequence, it is also due to the moral confusions of the mid-century: Garai listens to the fears of his flock, who are riled up by a media story of an unknown madman injecting poisons into chocolate candies. This leads him to ask God why He allows mass slaughter by chemical warfare and the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Powerful states and obscure individuals both seem to indulge the desire for indiscriminate massacre. Anybody paying attention upstairs? 


Yuki looks at this moral confusion more decisively: I'm free to do as I please and unleash my inner beast! Truly, Yuki reveals himself to be a monster shaped by both unjust external factors as well as his own rage and sadism. Yuki wants to know the secret behind the chemwar substance so he can use it for himself. Yuki desires the power of mass slaughter just as nation states covet the Bomb. Why should scummy politicians and their bloated government systems have all the fun, eh?


MW gets super-dark, no question. These weighty moral dilemmas-and amoral dilemmas-get a deft and pacy treatment from God of Manga Osamu Tezuka, who shapes it all into a grandiose superthriller that evokes Akira Kurosawa's The Bad Sleep Well, Hiroshi Matsuno's The Living Skeleton, Kon Ichikawa's An Actor's Revenge, and the perverse cruelties of Italian giallo cinema. We see it mostly from Yuki and Garai's perspectives. Together, they are,perhaps, one of the most dysfunctional couples in all fiction. Edward Albee was writing light chamber comedy by comparison. 


Tezuka's cinematic visuals evoke the hard-boiled black and white of film noir and Akira Kurosawa's dynamic riffs on noir: Yojimbo, High and Low, The Bad Sleep Well. Tezuka also uses the deft fluidity of comics to weave in visual metaphors of mythic allusions-to evoke the hermetic tragedy of romance gone toxic-and metamorphic monstosity-to evoke the veneer of human civility ruptured by the loosing of inner cruelty. MW is an effective mixture of realism and expressionistic hyperbole. 


MW gives us a cynical view of late 1970s Japan wherein everyone is acting as some sort of stage character due to the rigid norms of masculinity and femininity; of class position and family name; of church and state. Politicians serve money. The media is widely perceived as just another weapon in a national game of conformity control. This rigidity allows a bright, ruthless operator like Yuki to prevail. The more conflicted Garai ends up a well-meaning fool, both lost in aggrandizing self-flagellation fantasias and in deep denial about his sexuality. In the bleak reality of MW only a psychopathic terrorist can be truly free of all the interlocking layers of bullshit.  

Sunday, April 3, 2022

POETIC VIDEO GAME REVIEW #24: TIME ACE DS (2007)



It's not any good.

It's not even so bad it's good.

It's generically crappy.

It's driving in the exact center of the road.

Which some say is the worst place to drive.

Centrists catch all the hell in times of discontent. 


There's something about time travel.

It's sorta like Starfox, but you're trapped on Earth, no talking animal people that I could find, and the soundtrack leaves no trace upon the memory. 


Do you like games with planes which emit projectiles?


There's a chance

that if human civilization self-immolates

that this could be one of the surviving remnants

of video game culture 

of, y'know, culture in general

and maybe the Space Brothers would find it,

fuss with it,

think,

"No great loss. Maybe such mediocrity is exactly why they chased a nuclear weapon-environmental death wish. Maybe it's an actual flight simulator made by idiots. It wasn't just a symptom of the losing side. Maybe humanity was just a complete, dumbfuck Ultra-Loser

collectively, 

individually,

systematically, 

militarily,

ecologically,

psychologically, 

spiritually, 

politically, 

economically, 

artistically,

poetically, 

literally, 

legally,

illegally,

just a great big pants-shitting Voltronic Florida Man."


In other words,

Time Ace DS is probably too good of a final remnant for us, when you think about it.


The Space Brothers toss Time ACE DS back on the fused and twisted mountains of rubble, and zip off in their psionically powered flying ziggurat. 


Roll credits.


Post credits scene reveals that the Space Brothers all died slow, agonizing deaths due to exposure to Ultra-Loser Florida Man radiation. 


Production logo.


MPAA rating banner in blue and white.


House lights come up.


You exit the theater


into the mysterious night.

-March-April 2022 

Monday, April 8, 2019

The Lynch Meditations -23

Inland Empire was the second-and, to date, last-David Lynch movie I saw in an actual theater, on a decent sized screen, albeit with digital projection, which wasn't exactly the greatest back in 2007. I think they just set up a consumer-grade digital projector-the kind that many aspiring filmmakers and film buffs buy to stage their screenings anywhere they please. (At the same venue, this was better than a screening of an actual film print of Argento's Suspiria, which was so fucked-up that much of the film looked like it had been invaded by obnoxious demon fireflies.) The movie was murky. You had to squint. You needed a full night's rest and an empty bladder to make it through its shadowy 179 minutes. This is pre-HD, we're talking, but maybe this murkiness was intended to add to the atmosphere of mystery. My circa 2007 DVD copy of the movie actually looks pretty good playing on a Blu-Ray player hooked up to a decent-sized modern LED TV. It's murky, but in all the right places. The lo-fi video look is actually quite slick. And some moments really jump out at you in contrast to the SD-nightmare shadows. So, I guess that's a plug for the DVD release. No, I'm not on the David Lynch payroll.

My theatrical experience was at the Plaza Theater in Atlanta, GA. They had a table set up with some fun feelies: Inland Empire bumper stickers, promotional cards for David Lynch's brand of all-organic coffee beans, and lobby cards with the title of the movie printed on them. The Plaza Theater is quite a nice space. At the time-I don't know what the Plaza looks like now-it had the look of an old-fashioned theater, with curtains and balconies-kinda like the movie theater you see late in the film itself when the Laura Dern character starts to become aware that she-or some part of her-is living inside a movie. 

Inland Empire was dense, impenetrable, and atmospheric. It had the heaviest mood of being absolutely lost in a confusing nightmare space of conflicting cinematic realities that have been fused and sutured together by sinister forces-using eldritch means-into a labyrinth of oppression. It seemed to be another extended meditation upon the corrupting, crazy-making experiences of trying to make movies in Hollywood in the vein of Mulholland Dr., but with an extra forty minutes on the running time, and fewer minutes overall devoted to clever dialogue exchanges and quirky moments of comic relief. Much time is spent stalking hallways and corridors and going up staircases and magically teleporting between the studios and sidewalks of Los Angeles, California and the snowy streets and well-appointed old-world interiors of  Lodz, Poland. 

Laura Dern seems to be playing a few different versions of herself: successful Hollywood actress Nikki Grace; the character she's playing in a movie called On High in Blue Tomorrows; and a kind of grim and gritty real life version of the character in the movie. Dern warps from one shard of fractured reality to another, guided only by the surreal nightmare logic of an allegedly cursed screenplay that seems to absorb and torment anyone who tries to produce it. Dern's Nikki Grace is also oppressed by a psycho jealous stalker of a husband who may or may not be possessed by a supernatural hypnotist known as the Phantom-who is sort of like a 1960s Marvel Comics villain-think the Miracle Man or the Ringmaster-imported into a Lynch movie. 

At some point during her wander of the nightmare labyrinth, Dern's Nikki morphs into a dystopian version of the melodramatic Southern Lady she plays in the movie, and she ascends a series of staircases inside a derelict building, only to find herself seated before an emotionally depressed, passive-aggressive man-hunched, bespectacled, and puffy-cheeked-in a shabby suit seated behind a desk who comes across as a cursed bureaucrat straight out of Kafka. This version of Nikki proceeds to give a deposition in which she expresses her rage at being poor and a lifelong victim of rape and sexual harassment by an endless succession of men in a miserable, polluted industrial town. This expression of rage is broken up into several sequences throughout the movie, and it seems to represent another part of the fractured reality that Nikki wanders through. The character is just this side of over-the-top. At first, the community theater American South accent draws attention to itself, and we seem to be back in the grotesque caricature of Wild at Heart; but as this nightmare deposition continues, the authentic emotions of rage and despair elevate the character and performance into an almost unbearably raw level of intensity. The Kafkaesque auditor, after listening to Dern for some time with almost no expression on his face-except a vague, oily contempt-asks her if she cheated on the husband who beat and raped her repeatedly, the implication being that she deserved the sadism inflicted upon her. This is a nightmare realm of misogynistic cruelty without compassion, mercy, or justice. 

Nikki is sometimes an active force in the narrative, as she stalks the mad maze, and at other times she becomes a bewildered observer of other people's personal hells. It reminded me of Martin Sheen's assassin-traveler in Apocalypse Now. Dern has an almost impossible task as an actor: endless variations of bewilderment, terror, confusion, and cataclysmic rage as she is confronted by a series of incomprehensibly weird dislocations and alienations from her identity, memory, and the space/time continuum itself. 

Oh, and it's a kinda/sorta musical. 

And there's a sitcom starring people in giant rabbit-head masks that a kidnapped girl imprisoned within a purgatorial hotel in Poland is forced to watch. This does not alleviate her suffering. 

Dern and her psycho-husband morph into alternate, working poor versions of themselves, which seems to embody some kind of rich white people's terror at the thought of losing their comfortable, privileged lives, and becoming consumed with the minutiae of daily budgeting for food and bills and toilet paper. 

There's a lot going on here. I'm not sure it all works. I'm not crazy about this Lynch trope of a brutal man being possessed by an evil spirit and, therefore, is not truly responsible for his actions. The Phantom is a variation on Killer Bob. Did we need all 179 of those minutes? Can this clusterfuck of space/time identity confusions and disruptions be so directly resolved by discharging a symbolic firearm into a comic book villain master manipulator? I mean . . . if it's all in a dream, right?

Maybe this is the inevitable outcome of playing with dream logic to the extent that David Lynch does in this movie. You do find yourself asking, What's the fucking point if it's all a dream or a hallucination or whatever? 

But aren't so many movies unlikely fantasies that pander to our desire for everything to be okay in the end? Comic book movies. Space operas. Rom-coms. Hyper-simplified biodramas. Pandering Oscar bait flicks. A lot of these kinds of movies strike me as more absurd and fucked-up than Lynch's idiosyncratic nightmares. At least, with a Lynch movie, there's a name on the front you can blame or praise. There's an author. I guess that goes far with me.

I haven't watched Inland Empire in awhile. 

Will I be able to make the epic sit? 

Diving in . . .