DU's Reviews

The Olympian King had to make do with three surviving heroes: Hercules, his demigod son known for his superhuman strength; Atlanta, a warrior princess trained by both man and beast from an early age; and Jason, the young heir of Ioclus out to prove his worth.

Created by the now defunct LucasArts, Herc’s Adventures was easy to mistake as riding the coattails of Disney’s Hercules, having been released a month after the film. I initially had my doubts about playing it, as Herc’s Adventures looked like a shabby take on Greek Mythology. What persuaded was the choice to play Atlanta, a hero whose fame is not as great as Herc and Jason. Eventually, the game’s offbeat humor and slapstick, coupled with Herc and company’s smart-alecky dialogue, won me over and this game became one of my favourites.

In this hack and slash game, those that wander Ancient Greece are in cahoots with Hades and out for your blood. The controls are simple so it will not be intimidating for beginners. Each hero has unique attacks for beating them up, but that’s not the only way you can defeat them. Lifting them up and throwing them around is a fun (if exhausting) alternative. You can also pick up secondary weapons in your journey for throwing at enemies.

Herc’s follows the style of the “Mystery Dungeon” genre of video games, getting you to collect items to help you in your quest. All of Ancient Greece is one sprawling dungeon where enemies can appear to stab you anytime, so any weapon you can throw can be a lifesaver. Walking around will get tedious, since you will be all over the place to get that one key to proceed to the next area. That is part of the appeal and it makes the game feel like a real journey.

Its cartoon character designs stand out from the mundane layouts and can get ridiculous at times, yet remain faithful to our limited knowledge based on description in mythology. The sound effects and catchphrases accompanying them tend to get irritating and repetitive, and are essential cues since some enemies (especially the flying Medusa) often disappear out of frame.

In the wake of the Spanish Civil War, a boy named Carlos was sent to a remote orphanage after his father died in the conflict. Its old walls offer little safety; for reminders of the War were everywhere he looked.

A dud bomb lies rusting on the courtyard disarmed, yet faintly ticking as if alive. The staff members, headed by Madam Carmen and Doctor Casares, are always on edge as they are forced to pick sides with the warring factions all while keeping up with their duties.

These cool calm nights give no solace, either. Carlos heard stories from the other kids of a spirit haunting the building, rumored to be a former charge seeking revenge.

Tensions surrounding the orphanage rise with each passing day, and something must eventually give. Carlos will soon find that the ghosts who appear at night are the least of their problems. 

I like a good Ghost story. Since I first learnt to read and write, tales about creatures from the other side were an unashamed pleasure of mine. The notions of other-worldliness, reality-breaking, and karmic justice that come with them keep me coming back to the genre.

The Devil’s Backbone got my attention years ago while reading about it in the pages of Empire Magazine, tucked between articles about Lord of the Rings and some over hyped movies you know will trip the moment they reach theaters. The title alone hooked me in, invoking ideas of malicious witches and cursed skeletal relics. I never watched it then, as I was reluctant to dip my toes in the horror movie genre due to my aversion to blood and bodily harm. Only recently during 2012 did I muster enough courage to watch it, years after director Guillermo Del Toro achieved global fame with his later movies.

As I later found out, this film does not involve demons with an affinity for sharp cartilage whips. Nor did it have secret evil cults who venerate the petrified relics of eldritch monsters. “Devil’s Backbone” is actually a fancy term for Spina Bifida, a birth defect often fatal to fetuses. Such fetuses were preserved in medical jars for study. Like a macabre reminder of a mother’s loss; trapped in cloudy formaldehyde.

This grim imagery is regularly invoked to enforce the theme of isolation and imprisonment; “trapped” if you will, like the ghosts that appear in the film. Clear and reflective surfaces like glass, jars and mirrors are a recurring motif. Shades of yellow and amber hued lighting, like the liquid in medical jars, are apparent throughout pivotal scenes. They make such an impact you actually feel dread and sadness during the daytime events later.

Being “trapped” is further established by the dynamic of the orphanage, which has become a simulation of the Civil War. The adults are likened to the dueling factions, worn down by attrition attacks from each other. This ultimately affects Carlos and the orphans, designated the most vulnerable and defenseless given the context of the desolate macabre setting.

Not as flashy or grisly as other horror films that were released at the same time, The Devil’s Backbone nevertheless follows the traditional motifs of those that came before it and successfully weaves a tale of how the ghosts of the past can affect the present. Be they the spirits of the dead themselves, or the memories they left behind.

Annie ultimately ends her own life and becomes trapped in a never-ending realm of torment of her own making. Chris, believing her fate unfair, risks his soul and sanity by traveling through Hell to rescue her.

The fantasy movie What Dreams May Come was released in the late nineties and one of the many adaptations of the works of prolific writer Richard Matheson. I first knew of it in TV trailers and newspapers during its theatrical release. The vivid depiction of the afterlife, particularly Hell, piqued my interest given my religious upbringing. I just had to see it.

Except, I only had the privilege to watch it years later in New Zealand. My only sources for this film were the local libraries and rental stores. Knowing that they will eventually stop supplying it, the search for a copy to call my own began.

My quest recently became successful, and not without difficulty. No retailer sold copies of this film anymore, and people I have talked to regarding this film did not seem to remember it. Strange, considering that a New Zealander directed it. I expected it be displayed proudly in the Local Film section of media shops, given New Zealand’s propensity to advertise its homegrown talent.

Perhaps the main reason many were not aware, or have even forgotten What Dreams May Come was it dealt with very heavy issues. The themes of death, suicide, and the notion of Hell are a given for such stories that involve a descent to the underworld, and they will put off the average viewer. We normally watch movies to escape the horrors of reality, not be reminded that it is a harsh and unforgiving place.

Fiction never has to follow reality however. For Chris his death was a symbolic awakening. Only through his passing was he able to face the consequences of his failure to help Annie with her grief in the past and descend to Hell just to be with her. Robin Williams’s commitment to the Chris character proves once again that he can be an effective and versatile actor in this regard.

The film also boasts stunning visuals to complement Chris’s epic journey. It was shot in a film format (Fuji Velvia) specially made for landscape photography, creating a majestic atmosphere for the on location scenes. This actually drew out the colors of Chris’s initial vision of his paradise, which was based on oil paintings. Incidentally, that ties to the narrative, as it was the artist Annie’s medium and one of their many links to each other.

On the eve of Elsa’s coronation, Anna declared her rash decision to get married to a man she just met. Their disagreement exposed Elsa’s powers to the public, and she fled in self-exile. Unbeknownst to Elsa, her cryomancy brought Arendelle into an eternal winter, and her country was at risk of becoming frozen of all life.

Knowing it was never her sister’s intent, Anna braves the snowy mountains to get Elsa back home and restore Arendelle.

This latest computer generated film from Disney Studios was based on The Snow Queen, written by Hans Christian Andersen. The seven part odyssey had a profound impact on me. When I read that Disney was going to release their take on Andersen’s tale, I just had to see it.

Truth be told, Frozen was not the first cartoon inspired by The Snow Queen. Others have adapted the story, most notably the 1957 Russian film, which served as an inspiration for later animators like Hayao Miyazaki. Walt Disney himself attempted to make a feature length film for years, and each time he encountered the same problem.

The Snow Queen had a huge influence in the original narrative; her abduction of Kay the driving force in Gerda’s journey. Like the Grimm’s Pied Piper however, there was no clear reason as to why she even took Kay in the first place. Was she doing it out of pure malevolence? Was she simply attracted to his coldness? Was she lonely?

Answers to these questions were never given, nor did Andersen deem them important. He did not even have Gerda face the Snow Queen on her way to rescue Kay. What mattered was his protagonist would give up everything to get her best friend back. The Queen just happened to be incidental to her journey. Despite her supposed importance, the titular character was kept in the background, a numb metaphor for the tragedy of isolation.

At last, Disney solves the story’s problems by making it a character study on the Queen herself. The theme of isolation was revisited with the focus on Elsa, who essentially plays both the Queen and the Kay roles from the original. Elsa’s obsession with suppressing her true self distances her from the people she loves, eventually leading to her self exile. The film retains empathy on the frigid monarch by making her related to the protagonist Anna, whose undying belief for her sister keeps Elsa from completely losing her humanity. It is refreshing to see a Disney movie that has fraternal love central to the plot rather than romantic love.

Such heavy themes are liable to make Frozen a completely grim story, like most of Andersen’s works. Fortunately this was offset by the film’s presentation. The imagery, for example, stands out from previous computer generated works by showcasing the beauty of the snow. This was apparent in Elsa’s Ice Palace, whose crystalline intricacies were founded on a massive snowflake.

Disney’s tradition of animated musical numbers helps set the mood for the narrative. The songs actually meld well with the scenes. They never give the feeling of stopping the story’s flow for the sake of making a character break out in song. Perhaps it was because of the actors’ previous experience in musicals that the film’s overall direction followed suit.

Despite what she was capable of, Queen Elinor says Merida was still a princess. A queen’s daughter should behave and get married, not go running off in search of adventures. Frustrated by her mother’s disapproval she leaves for the woods, accidently stumbling upon an old witch’s den. Merida tells her of their squabble, wishing that she and Elinor could see eye to eye. The witch prescribed the perfect antidote, a solution the warrior princess regretted asking not soon after.

Animation studio Pixar released a film that was different from what they have done before: it was set in the Middle Ages, its cast were mainly humans who were not superpowered, and the lead was a girl. It was obvious the animation studio was proud of Brave just for the fact that it had an atypical lead. Immediately people had high expectations for it, predicting a renaissance of animation with such stories.

I was intrigued when I watched it, hoping Pixar did not mess up its entry in the action girl genre. Brave did not exactly blow me away, yet it did not disappoint either.

One thing to note about this film was how it seemed to follow the traditional approach of classic Disney movies, with its straightforward story coupled by the earthy color scheme. Many would misinterpret that as Pixar being past its prime; that it stopped having groundbreaking ideas and is now taking it slow. Though Pixar is defined by innovations in computer animation, it has proven time and again that it goes beyond that. The story determines the methods used, not the other way around.

Pixar’s Brave may not be as colorful as Toy Story or Finding Nemo, yet it is not lacking in narrative quality as a result. It is actually refreshing considering the sensory overload from those past films. The down to earth tones complement the authenticity of the highland setting, and make the supernatural elements stand out later on. Pixar is not past its prime, it simply discovered when not to overdo it.

Princess Merida got people talking due to her active pursuit of her own destiny and not being afraid to get her hands dirty, a break from the traditional “Disney” princess. Still, she is a polarizing character, hardly a perfect role model. Although an action girl Merida is nevertheless a teenager, and like all teenagers she becomes stubborn and foolish with her rebellion as the film progresses, especially regarding her betrothal. Based on this, many will cite Brave as an example of a story that purports to be about female empowerment and fails miserably. Those that say that are missing the point.

Merida has proven herself a strong character from the beginning. Such characters, whether male or female, are always at risk of destroying themselves in their quest for their perceived ideal. It was true for Lord of the Flies, whose castaways have succumbed to their savagery without strong civilized guidance, and it was true for Brave’s Merida as well.

The warrior princess’ betrothal, freedom, and proof of bravery were not the main driving forces in the story; it was her strained relationship with Elinor. Merida’s character development follows the path of recognizing her limitations, in this case her social skills, and working on them in order to complete her journey to womanhood. Though the intense showdown at the climax may seem like a cop out from that, at least it was a start. It shows that Merida realized there is more to life than simply acting strong.

The next winter, Kay never came home. The other kids told Gerda he was spirited away by a woman in white. The Snow Queen, from Grandma’s stories, was drawn to Kay’s new cold personality and decided to keep him for herself. He was practically dead, they said. And yet she did not believe a word of it.

Kissing Grandma goodbye Gerda travelled to the very edge of the world, facing many obstacles on a quest to rescue Kay from the Snow Queen’s frigid grasp.

I was young when I first learnt of The Snow Queen. The 1957 cartoon adaptation of Gerda’s odyssey played on television. It was a sight to behold, with the eponymous figure waving her frosted hands with unfeeling majesty. I wanted to know more about this icy woman so I tuned in, only later to find that the miniseries was halfway through. That was around the time a gang of robbers captured Gerda, lusting after the golden carriage that escorted her.

It ended the moment when all seemed lost, that no salvation favored her. That memory stayed with me, and I wanted to know if Gerda escaped the robber men. The story appeared to be unrecognized given its absence from recommended reading lists, so I forgot the quest to get my closure. And yet at the back of my mind, I still worried for the girl and the story she had to tell.

Reading the Seven Basic Plots, I spotted Booker reference The Snow Queen in one of his essays. This renewed my search for it once again, and I have only recently read the story from start to finish.

Naomi Lewis’s translation is faithful to the original Danish text, preserving Andersen’s narration. I however felt the adaptation too faithful as I read this tale, for it tended to lag due to the delivery. Andersen is noted for his elaborate descriptions, sometimes coming off with a lofty biblical tone.

Occasionally this works through adding more to the world described, by providing representation for its diverse cultures as mentioned in the later chapters. Other times it feels like a bane as there were many scenes that proved distracting. Gerda’s visit in the garden of talking flowers is a good example, as although it was an entertaining diversion (hinting other stories Andersen may have written or heard) contributed little to the plot.

Gerda comes off as passive during her journey; incidents land on her feet, rather than encouraged by her actions. Her naiveté is evident, having run off ill prepared and with no other companions. Although it appears that Gerda is a weak character, these observations were intentional. She is an archetypal maiden on a journey; having given up comforts from the beginning, even yielding her own life to fate, Gerda goes on to develop her own latent qualities. Through it all Gerda’s honesty remains resolute, never faltering.

Christian Birmingham’s watercolor paintings accompany this seven part story, almost making up for the heavy narration. They offer somber glimpses of the Snow Queen’s rime beauty; solid illustrations of intense scenes; and a wistful air for the leisurely moments.

A rivalry ensues that quickly got out of control, attracting the attention of Dean Hardscrabble. Believing them unworthy to be among her students, Hardscrabble drops Mike and Sulley off the Scare Programme. Mike was determined to stay however, and set out to prove her wrong by entering the Scare Games, an annual event between the campus fraternities.

Banded with the oddballs from Oozma Kappa, Mike and Sulley must set aside their differences and become an effective team of frightening monsters.

2001’s Monsters Inc. shed a light on the freaky denizens that lurk under our beds and hide behind our closets. It was successful in portraying the civilized side of monsters, giving an explanation for why they jump out to frighten us beyond the usual excuses like “for fun” or “just because”. In this case, they scare because it was vital for their survival.

Central to its narrative was the dynamic between Billy Crystal and John Goodman’s Mike and Sulley. I enjoyed their banter in Monsters Inc. and it was a treat to see them play again.

Pixar’s Monsters University builds on the world we first encountered on Monsters Inc. Setting it in a university seems odd, almost pandering to the “adult” demographic, with their promise of nostalgia and campus hijinks popularized by Animal House and the like. Much to my surprise, I found this a welcome change.

If you are familiar with the trends, the Disney Channel has swamped its line-up over the last decade with movies and TV shows aimed for “tweens.” Disney has not made a contemporary story in a different setting for a long time. Dan Scanlon’s decision to have our heroes’ first meeting in college had much potential, and not just for their self discovery and character development. The timelessness of university life proves convenient for writers who might be tempted to date the film with glaring pop culture references.

Evident in the title, Monsters University is not your regular academy. If you think scaring is all shocks and giggles however, think again. The metaphysics of fear are analysed in detail here, though not to the point of condescension. On the contrary: it makes watching the movie fun, as well as useful for maximizing your scaring potential. Don’t believe me? Watch the Scare Games.

When not writing reviews, I regularly visit the Wellington bookstores in search of interesting reads. I found this title called Yokai Attack! by Hiroko Yoda and Matt Alt. It listed a basic yet extensive collection of Japanese monsters, also known as Yokai. That was a long time ago: the bookstore that sold it closed down, and I regretted not buying it then ever since. I asked other bookstores if they carried copies, but all had the same answer: we never carried it.

Wellington’s Central Library was my last resort. I waded through titles that although had Japanese folklore, were not the books I was looking for. Rather than finding that one compendium of all things Yokai, instead I was diverted from my search when I stumbled upon Nonnonba, the serial autobiography of famous Yokai artist Shigeru Mizuki. I figured that it was at least relevant to my interests, and I needed to read about the man behind Gegege no Kitaro.

Set in the 1930s, early Showa period, Nonnonba tells of “Gege” Mizuki growing up in Sakaiminato during a time of great change, when nationalism was exercised as an answer to Western influence and intrusion. Following an episodic format, it presents slice of life yarns of Gege doing typical schoolboy things like grappling with schoolwork and taking part in make-believe war games with the local kids reminiscent of La Guerre des boutons, both of which eventually land him and his friends into trouble.

Gege’s relationships with other characters drive much of the story. The local cleric, known as Nonnonba, is his best friend. Her tales of the Yokai shape Mizuki’s imagination, eventually inspiring him to pursue the dream of being a Yokai artist. Of note is Mizuki’s encounters with his three childhood girlfriends, whose tragic circumstances have shaped his future relations with women later in life.

His family provides the essential hurdle that Gege overcomes, what with his parent’s request to continue his education. Further grounding with the era comes in the subplot involving Gege’s Father, a bank clerk, finding excitement in his life by opening his own cinema.

Of course, there are times you cannot take Nonnonba seriously. Running gags abound like Gege’s big appetite, justified by him being a growing boy; and his Mother’s worrying preceded by her reciting her lineage dating back to a Samurai family. Over the top fantasy sequences, inspired by Gege’s encounters with said “Yokai” around Sakaiminato, sneak their way into the story, hijacking the mundane tone with the ridiculous.

Nonnonba is an entertaining read with just the right amount of comedy and drama present to make the narration work, enhanced by Mizuki’s elaborate and cartoony art style. This is suggested reading for those that like to read about the lives of famous writers and artists, as well as those that grew up on tales of fantastic beasts (and not just those of Japanese origin).

The supposedly overrated Slumdog Millionaire made the rounds in New Zealand cinemas in early 2009, just in time for Academy Award season. It did not catch my interest at first because the title suggested that it was about a down and out boxer who went by the moniker “The Rabid Bulldog”, and so I mistook it for another serious sports movie like Million Dollar Baby or Cinderella Man attempting to garner Oscar attention.

Reading the actual synopsis piqued my curiosity, and I needed to expand the range of movies I needed to see anyway. I instantly fell in love with Slumdog Millionaire from the first showing, and found myself watching it once per week over the next few weeks.

Simon Beaufoy’s adaptation of the source material eschewed several plotlines and tweaked many characters, combining some and dropping others. However it retains the spirit of the original story, further enhanced by the frenzied direction of Danny Boyle.

Set in the backdrop of urban India, the film is a sprawling modern epic hinting the works of Dickens. Its characters seem to reflect this, with the multi-layered story driven by Jamal’s relationships with various people, particularly with his elder brother Salim. Victims of circumstance, the brothers knew they must do all they can to survive, and yet how they approach their situations differ. A believer of destiny, Jamal strides forward, managing to keep his honesty to the point that it looks foolish. Salim, on the other hand, becomes consumed by the desire to control their affairs and ends up becoming a tragic figure.

The energy of urban India is apparent in the action scenes like the various chase sequences, as well as the city’s hustle and bustle, shot by Anthony Dod Mantle. This gives the sense that Mumbai itself is an unwitting character in Boyle’s film, reflecting the rapid change in India’s economic status and the resulting effects that come with it. A. R. Rahman’s score complements these themes with his fusion of traditional Indian music and contemporary urban pieces.

Slumdog Millionaire is centered on the pursuit of the ideal, the wish for a better life; something all humans crave. In spite its intense yet frank tone, the problems it encountered during production, and the inevitable controversies it drew, all these simply served to embolden its message. These are interesting times, and a film like this is a welcome change from the hollow, grandiose movies made to cater for the many-times disappointed and disillusioned viewer.

Ralph is a big man, whose superpower is raw destruction. He is the Bad Guy of the arcade game Fix-It Felix Jr., and it’s the player’s job to guide Felix and repair the apartment building that Ralph destroys (due to a misunderstanding in property rights).

For thirty years Ralph is forced to take the fall every time Felix repairs the building. Sure, there were victories on Ralph’s end, but generally it’s his face in the dirt. This gave him poor self-esteem, which combined with his powers made him a potential threat to his game’s fellow characters, not that they would care, as Felix can fix anything.

Of course Ralph was not that bad a guy, so he declares his intention to get a medal, just like Felix. The other video game Bad Guys are horrified by his plan. No matter how evil and annoying they are in their games (especially M. Bison), even they knew the consequences of disobeying the script.

He takes their advice to heart, but Ralph is adamant about what he wants to do. With his fists of ultimate destruction, Ralph escapes his game and travels the arcade to find not just a medal, but also a sense of importance.

What drew me to watch this film was never the promise of video game indulgence, which one can experience in their spare time. Speaking of which, the film has many references to video game characters and culture, yet it wisely keeps them in the background. They do not divert attention, nor they alienate people unfamiliar to the media. They are merely there to flesh out the setting.

I liked how Wreck-It Ralph plays on the notion of societal roles, with its designated bad guy “breaking good“. It pays that the story does not insult your intelligence either, with each character having justifiable reasons for their actions.

John C. Reilly pulls off Ralph’s portrayal successfully. A character actor better known as Cal in Talladega Nights and the impressionable musician Dewey Cox, Reilly’s Ralph is a twist in the underdog hero. He’s brutish, yet endearing in his own way.

During his quest Ralph meets a girl named Vanellope, as played by Sarah Silverman. I was wary of Silverman at first, as I believed her similar to other comediennes like Janeane Garofalo. Fortunately her portrayal of Vanellope was lovable in this movie, especially since she becomes central to the plot.

Levamme at the time was at war with the Tenzou Empire, and the Empire dealt a low blow with their attempt to kill the noblewoman Fana, the night when she accepted a marriage proposal from Prince Carlo. The Army reluctantly entrusts Charles with the mission to escort their soon-to-be Princess to their largest warship and allowing him the use of the Santa Cruz, a fast scouting plane.

Throughout their journey, a bond develops between princess and pilot. Charles finds affirmation for his lofty aspirations from escorting the princess. Fana, cloistered all her life, learns more of the outside world and the plight of the “Bestados” through her pilot.

Originally written as a novella by Koroku Inumura, The Princess and the Pilot was adapted to the silver screen in 2011 by Madhouse Studios. It was not the kind of movie that I immediately wanted to watch as warfare, romance in warfare, or aviation for that matter, were never prime interests for me. The presence of Ryûnosuke Kamiki however convinced me to seek this film and at least check it out.

Unlike notable outsiders in society like Catcher in the Rye’s nihilist Holden Caulfield, Charles does not let his status as the outsider nor did his past experiences affect him as a person. He has suffered discrimination, and yet he is neither bitter, nor holding grudges against the society that took him in. If anything, his upbringing made him more empathic and more determined to stay in the sky.

Kamiki understands this, and portrays Charles with a sense of responsibility for his actions, not just for his charge Fana, but for others as well. The pressure to minimize casualties during his mission can be felt in the first dogfight, as the flying ace performs complex aerial maneuvers to evade enemy fire and divert them back.

Seika Taketomi plays Fana. Her character is a departure from the spoiled and whiny damsels in distress in other works that make you wonder if they were even worth saving. Initially reserved, she reveals herself as a strong character as the story progresses. Taketomi’s down-to-earth portrayal of Fana makes the course of her character journey effective and becomes more apparent by the film’s end.

The film is mainly traditional animation, with the featured aircraft awkwardly rendered in CGI. They seem so out of place without the added roughness that enable them to blend in with the characters and the backgrounds. Of course, the near perfect appearance of the planes become redundant when you realize that The Princess and the Pilot has other priorities, and that they will be damaged during the breathtaking dogfights anyway. And speaking of breathtaking: the vastness of the skies as well as the cinematography during the flight scenes, so intense it is almost acrophobic.

I first read about Un Chien Andalou in the student magazine Salient, while perusing its pages for movie recommendations. It was first released in France during 1929, when the avant-garde surrealism movement was making a scene. This film was a collaboration between Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí as an experiment in surrealist filmmaking, utilizing free form association and dream logic to construct the film’s structure and “narrative”.

Despite the disturbing nature of the subconscious mind I find myself drawn to this film, given my fascination with the unconventionality of surrealism, of which Dali specialised. I am glad Un Chien Andalou stayed in the public domain, and full copies can be watched for free online.

The film Un Chien Andalou is a short but epic story spanning two decades, known for its shocking scenes involving eye trauma, death, decay, debauchery, and religious guilt. Underneath all this troubling imagery I saw a story about love, rebellion, and writing your own destiny. Of course, you can throw out my synopsis out the window, as Buñuel and Dalí made it clear that nothing in Un Chien Andalou meant anything at all.

With said content, particularly with the eye trauma, I was expecting intense violin string grinding reminiscent of Hitchcock’s Psycho. True to their mission, Buñuel and Dalí ensured that even this silent film’s soundtrack was dissonant to the action on the screen. That infamous eye scene, such a notable example, was accompanied by upbeat tango music. This same track replays two more times throughout Un Chien Andalou, interrupted only by Richard Wagner‘s morbid yet nonetheless operatic Liebestod from Tristan und Isolde; providing class to what is essentially a collection of nonsense stringed together. 

This movie got Buñuel to make more films of the same vein throughout his career. Fans of the surreal directors David Lynch and Alejandro Jodorowsky, as well as the limited yet immersive films of Satoshi Kon, are advised to have a look and make some rhyme and reason with the short that started it all.

Mint is heir to the throne of East Heaven. Banished by the council due to her lofty ambitions, she wants the Relic in order to reclaim her birthright, and rule the world.

Rue is a boy of mysterious origins, seeking the Relic to save the life of a friend. Unbeknownst to Rue, the search is linked to his own past.

Exclusive to Sony’s Playstation, Dewprism was a rather obscure game from Square(Enix), famous for the Final Fantasy series and their subsequent spin-off games. Though I managed to get a copy during its release, I never gave a thought for Dewprism at first. This was due to my priority for other engaging games like Suikoden II and Lunar: Eternal Blue.

I was convinced to play it thoroughly when I saw the opening for Mint’s side of the story. All of East Heaven, especially Mint‘s sister Maya, were adamant that our spoiled but high-spirited heroine was unfit to rule. Wanting to make things right, and mainly because I saw a little of myself in Mint, I played the game and had a good time pummelling things senseless.

Dewprism has simple game play that goes well with its straightforward plot. It uses the real time battle system of past games like Secret of Mana rather than the turn based system prevalent in traditional role-playing games, as you only play the one character at a time. The basic controls and actions will not daunt beginners, though they give enough room for complexity that will encourage experts to challenge themselves. This dynamic battle system became a prototype for the game play of SquareEnix’s later titles such as Kingdom Hearts and Final Fantasy XII.

The soundtrack was composed by Junya Nakano, who gave a serene ambience to the game. He brought sense of sentimentality to the town of Carona, a tone of playfulness in one of the game’s (intentionally) out of place locations, and an exciting urgency to the boss battles. The music almost makes up for the lack of voice acting, not that Dewprism needed it.

Nowadays people would dismiss the graphics of Dewprism as outdated, compared to newer, more sophisticated games. At a glance, this view is justified as the monsters you encounter are more refined as opposed to the blocky rendering of the humans. If you looked past their frozen smiles, you will find many interesting character designs. Mint’s vibrant colors make her stand out from the toned down “real” backdrop, and the use of asymmetry apparent in Rue’s costume hints on his “otherness” to the other characters.

Over five hundred people attended the Dominion Post sponsored event, mainly armchair travelers and fans of Palin’s works. Drinking the complementary refreshments, I cannot help but feel out of place. It seemed I was the youngest in an audience for a man best known for playing cross-dressing lumberjacks and soldiers who slap people with fish.

Post-Python, Palin has written and presented about his travels since 1980, when he talked about the grand pastime of train spotting for BBC’s Great Railway Journeys of the World. Since then, he has tackled more ambitious expeditions, starting with the recreation of Phileas Fogg’s challenge in Around the World in Eighty Days.

Palin decided to travel Brazil due to its recent emergence as a big player in the global economy. These, he explains, came about from its rich exports and an economic independence due to its access to its own staple resources. Brazil has a rich history and culture blended from Latin American, African and Portuguese nations, which is worth experiencing and treasuring.

He was off to a good start, and entertained the audience with colorful anecdotes from the book. He recalled his interview on hot topics in national Brazilian radio like gay marriages and abortion. He consulted a local fortune teller about England’s soccer future. He trekked along the Amazon and he sampled the local wildlife. (Piranha sashimi, would you believe?).

After the storytelling and questions portions of the launch, people lined up for Palin to have their copies of Brazil signed. I managed to sneak in the Fish Called Wanda DVD as well.

The director was known for making gangster movies during the 90s. Since then Miike’s films have become crazier, more extreme, and more depraved. Western audiences developed a cult following for his splatter films, given his approach was similar to directors like Quentin Tarantino and David Cronenberg.

Unlike those two film figures though, Miike was never afraid to tackle other genres. The Bird People of China, Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, and Ninja Kids!!! are “tame” compared to his more famous works, yet Miike never compromised his trademark touches.

I found Miike in my mind when I saw The Great Yokai War, so far the only movie he made that I ever watched.

Tadashi lives with his grandfather and aunt in Sakaiminato. During the local festival, he is entrusted with the mantle of Kirin Rider, the warrior in charge of protecting all things good. He was reluctant to accept the title at first, and yet Tadashi found himself urged by the native monsters, also known as yokai, on a quest to reclaim the Great Tengu’s sword and fulfil his role.

It was perfect timing, too. Katō, a dark wizard embittered by humanity (specifically Japan), has been abducting and torturing yokai, infusing them with hate and setting them loose on the unsuspecting populace. Zealously assisted by the spider woman Agi, Katō plans to dispatch his ultimate monster Yomotsumono on Tokyo and cause widespread destruction. It sounds like a tough job, but then again Tadashi cannot deny he had an interesting summer vacation.

Ryûnosuke Kamiki plays Tadashi in his first leading role. He showed complete commitment under the outrageous direction of Miike, despite being submerged, frosted, badly scratched, and not to mention scared senseless. While it was true that Kamiki yelled and shrieked his heart out most of the time, there were many instances that showed signs of his talent. The phone exchange with his mom at the beginning of the film for example was poignant. And you can really feel the intensity when Kamiki hacks through the hate-charged monsters with the Great Tengu’s sword.

Etsushi Toyokawa plays his part with subdued malice, true to the past cinematic portrayals of Katō Yasunori. Working with minimal dialogue and gestures, Toyokawa’s Katō appears elegant and introspective, as if always focused on plotting humanity’s downfall. His controlled acting is balanced by Chiaki Kuriyama’s active and sadistic portrayal of Agi.

Miike’s epic is defined by his use of CGI and stop motion puppetry. These gave the monsters a ridiculously cartoonish feel, and there were times I felt like smiling rather than cowering when Tadashi faces the unnerving metal goons. Thankfully Miike compensated with even more craziness: by getting extras to don make-up and costume and participate in the Great Yokai Party, thus providing contrast to the already absurd visuals.

Five years later, I regularly listened to the local morning FM radio station. The DJ mentioned Weird Al’s name again, followed by a sound clip of his familiar voice singing a parody of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”. It was only then that I learnt he was a trained musician, specializing in accordion tunes, and was best known for making parodies of songs on the side. He was so influential in pop culture that The Simpsons had two episodes that featured Al, as himself. I can forgive him for merely playing himself as “Weird Al” is quite a character, unlike most of the guest stars that appeared in The Simpsons just as an excuse to be in the show.

Before I listened to The Essential “Weird Al” Yankovic Album, I always thought all his parodies involved food somehow. It seems The Simpsons have not told me the whole story.

Al’s weirdness covered a variety of topics. There are the food-themed songs like Eat It, Fat, and Lasagna, the latter being a parody of the folksong La Bamba. He also made reference to Star Wars (as you do) through Don McClean and The Kinks, thrashed an already ridiculous song made famous by Nirvana, and commented on society’s double standards via the rap stylings of Coolio and Chamillionaire.

Without directly overwriting lyrics over famous tunes, Al played around with the styles of other musicians. He lampooned the meanderings of folksinger Bob Dylan, the absurdity of Devo, and the easygoing tone of The Beach Boys with his satire on gun safety.

Parody is not the only thing you can expect from Al. Some of his songs are long roaming ballads; basically stand up comedy sketches with musical accompaniment like his experiences in Albuquerque, his trip to see a giant ball of string, and his adventure to get some fast food takeout.

What was remarkable about Al’s songs, especially the parodies, was how he kept the music as close to the spirit of the originals. He took the time to actually get the same melody with the same instruments. And no matter how dark Al got, particularly with his sarcastic love songs You Don’t Love Me Anymore and One More Minute, he never resorted to gratuitous profanity. It was a wise choice, and I appreciated that.