RockstromBlog

While I really saw these about halfway through 2010, I figured I'd add these to the small amount 2010 catchup because I think that anybody who hasn't yet seen these should fix that ASAP! I'm doing them both together as both had the same writer and director, Rian Johnson, and are also worth watching together as a refreshing contrast to each other.

 I'll look at them in the order which I watched them (the opposite order in which they were produced), Brothers Bloom to Brick. Bloom was something I'd seen around a lot before 2010(it was released in 2008) Trailers had caught my eye with that intial "hmm I should watch that" reaction we all get, though I never actually got round to watching it when it was in cinemas. It then became that movie I always promised myself I'd hire next time but again, I passed it over. Finally, a friend at uni was telling me about this movie he loved and when my brain caught up and I remembered that I had not yet watched it, that same friend berated me for 10 minutes for not getting it. He lent me his copy and after the first scene I knew he was right. When I returned it I was immediately recommended Brick by the same person. Upon watching it I was incredibly surprised that even on a budget 42 times smaller, Brick was by far the better movie and remains one of the best films I've seen to this day. And with that accolade I'll move to straight into looking at Bloom (How was it you keep a fool in suspense?) Bloom is hard to define. While it's generally termed as a "post-modern caper", that doesn't quite encompass it. As per a caper film, the main characters are criminals, con-men in this case, who bluff their way through various schemes and heists. However, in keeping with that theme, the film feels as if the director is constantly shuffling the way he wants the mood and style to be. Weaving through the entire film are underlying currents of comedy (both jaunty and dark), whimsy, romance, drama and existentialism. The first scene (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUz0L4emNko) sets up the mood as a comedic crime jaunt, it is also one of the few scenes with narration and is the only one delivered entirely in limerick form (by celebrated magician Ricky Jay, look him up on youtube and then go watch the David Mamet movie Heist). Following that the narration steadily ceases and the movie begins to shift between drama and comedy, with a theme of existential life-questioning being delivered in both. The ending (without spoilers) also contains an strange dark tonal shift which I can only describe as a light-hearted edginess which makes sense when you see it.

Despite the constant changes in tone, the film doesn't feel Schizophrenic. By that I mean that the film isn't unsure of what it wants to be or uncomfortable in its shifts. Every nuance of a scene is deliberately meshed in order to create the picture. Having now watched it a couple of times I've tried to view the scenes differently, as there are things happening both in and out of focus in many of the shots and can be easily missed. That could be seen as a type of flaw but again, it seems to sit well with the style of the film. Misdirection, sleight of hand and illusion are all reoccurring motifs of the story and dialogue, and Johnson also incorporates this into the core of how the film is made and presented.

The cast is very small and has that self-aware ensemble vibe about it. Mark Ruffalo (Insomnia, Collateral) and Adrien Brody (The Pianist, Predators) are the titular Brother's Bloom and are supported by Rachel Weisz (The Mummy, The Constant Gardener), Rinko Kikuchi (Babel), Maximilian Schell (Deep Impact, Joan of Arc) and Robbie Coltrane (Harry Potter, Goldeneye). None of them stand-out, so to speak, but that doesn't mean they aren't fantastic to watch, its more like each actor fulfills their role perfectly as part of the story. It should be noted however that for one of the many odd scenes of the movie Rachel Weisz learned how to skateboard, play ping-pong, play the banjo/violin/guitar/piano, disc jockey, unicycle, backflip. For another scene she was also taught a clever card trick that is shown in one long three minute shot. Rinko Kikuchi possibly steals the show however as mostly-mute explosives expert "Bang Bang" (she isn't one of only five people to have been nominated for an Academy Award for a role where she never speaks a word for no reason).  Brother's Bloom rates for me as a bright balloon floating away into the sky. The feelings it brings are simultaneously happy and sad in a good way, and you can't help but watch it. Fans of Wes Anderson films (Darjeeling Limited, The Life Aquatic) or I Heart Huckabees will very likely enjoy this. Oh and the soundtrack is amazingly kick-ass too, one of the best I've heard and was all written by Rian's brother Nathan.                                          While I can't say I knew what to expect when I watched Brick after seeing something as whimsical as Brother's Bloom, I can say that even the few expectations I had were tied to the balloon and drifted away with it into the sky. While you might say that, conventionally, everything is different between the two movies, the stamp of Rian Johnson is clear to be seen on both. While Bloom meandered deliberately through varying mix of styles; Brick, alternatively, is much more clear-cut in its focus, yet still garnished with multiple elemental layers.

It is at once both very conventional yet completely original. One the one hand the film is a drama set in high school, yet on the other hand that drama takes place as a film-noir hard-boiled detective story. The main character, Brendan, is played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt (Inception, 10 Things I Hate About You, (500) Days of Summer) who continuously is proving himself to be one of those actors like Will Smith, Edward Norton, Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp, who seem to have that ability to turn what may have been an average or bad film into something memorable. Both of Johnson's films have a strong metafictional feeling of self-awareness in their delivery but Levitt above all the others seems to connect with that the most. As you watch his character go through the film's events he comes across as something akin to Phillip Marlowe, the character created by Raymond Chandler that popularised the re-written Sherlock Holmes detective stereotype into the darker, edgier Private Eye of the 30's. At the same time, if you were to take a mental step-back to view the scene again, the spell is sort of humorously broken as you look at high-school kids talking in the lingo of slightly modernised 1930's gangsters. But then moving a further step back you can see that Johnson has still grounded his fantasy story in reality. The story itself is very believable, its just been given a fantastical makeover.

Visually, the film has just as much going on peripherally as the Brothers Bloom, though delievered more subtly. The focus is intent on the vital elements of each scene, yet many clues are also hidden in plain sight, slightly out of focus. When I say 'in' or 'out' of focus I don't mean it in terms of whether something is sharp or blurry on the screen, I mean it in terms of the construction of the shot. The camera, actors and setting have all been deliberately placed so as to put the key elements in focus where your eyes naturally rest, while also leaving extra clues in the same shot for the more astute to find. As I mentioned in my Sherlock review there are various types of puzzle and mystery stories, and Brick is the type that rewards you for paying attention, allowing you the chance to be the detective yourself and pick up on the little details that add up to the resolution. The amount of effort that goes into just the peripherals alone made me appreciate the lengths that Johnson goes to in order to create his story.

I've been seeing a lot of new films recently, and by 'new' I mean that I hadn't yet seen them, somewhat due to my recent employment at a video store. As such, and because I felt like it and my sister keeps bugging me to write things to alleviate her boredom during her music rehearsals, I've taken it upon myself to do a review of each new movie I see this year - and perhaps some of the new games or books I get.

I don't really like using a formal rating system for these sorts of things, as sometimes its very hard to pinpoint my exact feelings on what I'm reviewing so for the most part the rating will be a comparison to an animal or a suitable inanimate object or something. With that in mind I'll get right to it with one of the 2010 things.

Sherlock:

No not the Robert Downey Jr., Guy Ritchie blockbuster explosion "wow!" version (although I did actually like that). The one I'm talking about is the 3 episode BBC series created by Steven Moffat (Dr. Who, Jekyll) and Mark Gatiss (Dr. Who, The League of Gentlemen). Rather than following the steampunk-ish action hero-ish direction of the Guy Ritchie flick, the BBC version pushes the setting forward to modern times. The titular character, played by Benedict Cumberbatch (Atonement, The Whistleblower) now assists New Scotland Yard and is armed with a smart-phone and the internet rather than a pipe and magnifying glass.

Dr. Watson, played by Martin Freeman (Love Actually, Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy) has also been somewhat modernised with his military issue Colt.45 replacing the old service revolver and a brand new war in Afghanistan to be a veteran of. As the original story helped cement the idea of 'dynamic duo' into modern storytelling, the relationship between Holmes and Watson was vital towards the success of the show and both lead actors manage to pull it off with great success. Cumberbatch clearly relishes his role as the arrogant Holmes; a man completely self-aware of his own intellect and content with rubbing it in the faces of those not as clever as him, which is just about everybody in the series. Freeman seems to be the real star of the show however as Watson, acting as the human, empathetic foil to Holmes' aloof, arrogant genius. Although I got drawn in by watching Holmes solve the crimes with his powers of deduction, it was Watson I found I was able to connect with as he is more on the level of the audience - reacting to Holmes' movements rather than making his own. On the other hand he also proves to be quite capable in his own right which is also much more interesting than the bumbling fool that seems to have become a popular, and wholly boring, image of the character. I have two main criticisms of the show, neither of which are particular detriments to it on the whole but just sort of niggled at me while I was watching it. Both became evident about halfway through the first episode and stuck with me for the rest of the series. The first one is that I was watching it and I just kept thinking to myself "God this feels a lot like Dr. Who." Now, I am of course aware that Dr. Who is actually based in part on Sherlock Holmes, but the delivery of this modern Sherlock is more than a little reminiscent of the modern Dr. Who, which both the creators and many other crewmembers were a part of. I love the new Dr. Who don't get me wrong, David Tennant sits somewhere very high on my man-crush list, but look at these two promotional shots and you'll see what I mean:

  The two main characters do lots of yelling and running while talking very fast about things we're only partially intended to follow. Ok, that describes a few different series but its the way the whole running/yelling is delivered in Sherlock and Who that gives them a feeling that is particular for both shows. The writing, the use of the camera in certain shots and the general delivery just kept putting me in mind of Who. Its not a bad thing per se, it just niggled at me.

(Sorry about the weird extra paragraph thing in the middle, I couldn't fix it earlier but now its working again) I just watched Angry Joe (from thatguywiththeglasses.com) do his review of Scott Pilgrim vs the World and he raised that certain ire in me that results in me staying awake at 5:30am to write a response. If you haven't watched his review, do so before reading this article or it will make little sense and you'll just be wasting your time to a greater degree than you already are as you read now. If you're just aiming to waste time anyway, then watching his review is optional and you'll still get a completely subjective view on Scott Pilgrim vs the World in the end. It's odd that I had the exact same reaction to Angry Joe's review of Scott Pilgrim vs the World as he did to the movie in question. I'm not really a fanboy of this film yet I still felt like Joe was somewhat missing the point (as I saw it anyway) in his perspective on the movie, especially in regards to those first thirty minutes. Yet, ironically enough, roughly a third of the way into the review he suddenly started making sense in his critique of this bizzare yet entertaining film. The first thirty minutes of Scott Pilgrim are particularly interesting, possibly for the reasons why Joe seems to hate them.

First off however let me just state that I haven't read the graphic novels, therefore am not basing my perspectives on anything discussed regarding them, nor would I do so even if I had read them. Like Joe said "I DON'T CARE!" Judging a graphic novel alongside a movie doesn't work. They are two different styles of medium and you experience them in different ways. Compare and contrast ideas, portrayal, accessibility, visuals etc; that's all fine. But judging the adaptation by saying it 'didn't do it right because the comics had "such and such" instead' is just a waste of time. I'm just discussing what I got out of the movie and that's it. Digression over, I'll get back to whatever it was I was talking about.

Right, the first thirty minutes. I'm rather surprised that Joe, as someone who predominantly reviews, discusses and plays video games, didn't see those minutes in the same way that I did. That was the opening cinematic to the video-game fun to come. In general, and for a long time, games have had cinematics and early levels to help contextualise what the hell the whole thing is going to be about. Important plot details, the beginnings of character development, setting, style, mood, all that crap is explained within that first stage of the game, getting it out of the way before the real kick-ass gaming begins. Scott Pilgrim's opening minutes does just that. The same concept is stamped straight across Scott's fantasy world as we see him going through the motions of life. Even heroes have to pee and live some form of domestic life inbetween the action, and thus we see the (admittedly) painstakingly slow build up into the actual main plot of the film. We're introduced to Scott's life as it is and subsequently the plot device that is Ramona arrives and the conflict, of the emotional rather than violent variety, begins. Now, I think Joe is dead on about his comparison between Ramona and Knives (and that name still makes me giggle. Seriously, imagine having a girlfriend named K-N-I-V-E-S). Of the two, Ramona is on the whole not that interesting. She's by no means UNinteresting though, being the older of the two she has that maturity that Knives demonstrates a lack of and as we see the diversity of the Evil League of Exes we know that there's definately a history there worth exploring. However, we see Ramona after she's ostensibly learned the lessons of her experience dating people ranging from weirdos, narcissists and just complete psychotics. She's pushing away from the strange and bizzare, trying to be normal which puts her somewhat at odds with Scott's fantastical world.

So the image we're initially shown of Ramona is of someone who is just by all accounts nothing special. However as the movie lurches into Action-Mode, Scott finds himself facing epic boss battles and possible death in order for the privelge to date her, also coincidentally freeing her of the League although this is just a side-effect and not really a goal of the largely self-centred protagonist. All this for a girl he barely knows but feels a certain fixation on, almost as if its connected to that strange and scary thing: Destiny. Are the bells ringing yet? Sound familiar? If I mention the names Zelda, Yorda, Mono, Beatrice, Lois Lane, Mary-Jane Watson, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel or Buttercup; does it help at all? Damsels in varying degrees of distress each needing rescue or just the plain old love and adoration of a Hero to make their life happy. Ramona Flowers bears something of a resemblance to everyone's favourite MacGuffin character Princess Peach in that for some reason every villain, hero and toadstool in the world just wants to own her, jump her bones or even just stalk her despite the fact she really doesn't do much of...well anything.

Still with me on this? I've just essentially listed out the subtext of the film I garnered from that first, very important, period of the movie. Not a lot "happens" plot wise, but the actual character development is there underneath it all before the epic quest begins. The epicness of that quest is even questioned in those "boring" thirty minutes before the action even begins as we're introducted to how much of a twat Scott Pilgrim is, which provides room for his character arc throughout the film.

Oh, and what's with the gripe against the editing style of that first bit? Joe the 8th Evil Ex says its jumpy, confusing and crappy until the battle scenes start but from what I could tell the visual style doesn't change at all, minus the energy effects that permeate the fights. It stays jumpy but you just notice it less as you get hooked in, hell even one part of the Chris Evans fight is off camera when Scott defeats the stunt doubles.

I can't really criticise Joe for how he viewed that first period though because in the end he ironically reacts to it as Angry gamers often do towards the beginnings of video games, i.e. "Get to the fucking fighting already, this isn't Final Fantasy!". And no it isn't, but if I was to contextualise the core part of Scott Pilgrim into game form its almost like someone spliced Devil May Cry, Shadow of the Colossus, and The Sims together with just a pinch of that deeper storytelling seen in the Final Fantasy series, but just a more Western type of Emo than Japanese. Flashy fighting in a series of massive boss fights strung together with various bits of a contrastingly domestic and archetypal plot.

(This was a piece I just submitted to Monash University's Verge Anthology which they'll hopefully accept)

Our Mind Travels Further

A nonexistent memory compels me. Sitting in the back of my mind, it nudges, causing my legs to move, almost out of my control. Why do these stairs intrigue me? Cold, damp stone steps, leading up through the forest, into the mountain. The staircase juts out of the face of the mountain, blue stone mingling with the light green of moss, growing from the ceaseless damp of the forest. It zigzags upwards into fog, the destination obscured. Somehow I know this place. I’ve never been here in my life, never seen photos, and never even heard of it. Even as I’m thinking this, my legs carry me closer to the first step.

From behind me, the guide tells me not to bother. She’s been here a hundred times, there’s nothing but the statue of a cat up the stairs. There’s nothing important. I’m inclined to believe her. Behind me are buildings of wood and stone, their perfect, curved roofs designed to flow the moisture in the air and from the rain down into the gutters. Shrines that, hundreds of years earlier, samurai would have made a pilgrimage to, a dedication of years of their own lives, searching for spirituality. As is always seen in the holy, spiritual places of Japan, the atmosphere is of an imposing gentility. Every shrine and temple is adorned with decorations, crests and symbols denoting their importance. Red, gold and blue paint worn with time, they are yet well taken care of, the monks who live in this lost area of the mountains devotedly maintaining their home.

The stairs have nothing. No Torii gate, no statue, not even a plaque. Compared to their colourful surroundings they were out of place. There are small images that dot the thick, stone handrail that runs up its right side but the moss has obscured most of them. One still partially uncovered peeks at me and it stirs a memory, but it is lost as my father places his hand on my shoulder, distracting me from my confused reverie.

My father. Bringing me to Japan was something he always spoke of. For fifty years he had trained in Aikido, learning a martial form passed down through centuries, specialising in a style of swordsmanship that was used by the greatest warriors of this country’s history. The movements he knows and practices, the meditations he lives, would have been known to men standing in this very place during a different age. I have grown up not on stories of Australia or Europe, but of samurai, Zen teachings, Japan. To be in such a place was to be part of those stories. Take away the tourists of our group and we could well be standing in a temple during the time of the samurai. This place does not feel foreign. Both of us have that feeling in our souls, that we are content, peaceful. And strangest of all our feelings: one of coming home. And we each knew that the other could feel it.

My father asks me what I’m doing. He tells me that the rest of the group will be heading down the mountain soon. I ask if we can go up the stairs. He looks at the staircase, saying that Yuri told us that nothing was up there. Nothing important. He hasn’t looked away though. He scans the jagged path, contemplating the mist, almost as if he can see through it. Is he drawn to them as I am? I ask again, it’ll only take a little while. I just want to see what’s up there. I don’t say it out loud, but I need to go up there. I recognise it like the way we recognise places from our childhood. Dad looks at me, then back down to the group. My sister turns to us, the silent question in her eyes. Dad is silent for a moment and then calls that we’ll meet them at the bottom. He turns back to me and just says “Ok.”

The stairs are light to climb. As I climb I trail my hand along the moss on the stone rail and along the walls where the stairs have been carved deep into the mountainside. Like a blind man finding his way home, every touch sends waves of familiarity through my senses. The air gets damper the higher we climb, the forest trees dripping water lightly around us. An image flashes through my mind, almost as if its right in front of me but I lose it once again. As the stairs lead us around the mountain’s curvature we reach a small platform that lies just below the mist that hides the peak from view.

As Yuri had told us, there was the statue of a cat. Nothing else. Nothing important. The cat somehow disenchants me. It shouldn’t be there, it’s out of place and unfamiliar. It is not even in the centre of the platform, almost randomly placed to the side, as if the statue itself felt incongruous and did not want to be there.

I don’t understand it. Why did every part of me urge me to follow this path, yet the result feel so wrong?  I consider fleeing. Back down the staircase, away from this misleading place. Just as I move I’m stopped once again by my own self. Something holds me there for a second longer. I take one last look back and on the wall a small carving catches my eye. How could I have missed it? How could I have forgotten? The pattern I had seen scattered throughout the shrine, hidden on the stairs by moss and the ravages of time; the mõn, the crest of the man who had unified and reformed the nation I was standing in. Shogun Ieyasu Tokugawa.

A name not commonly known by Westerners, the man resides in history as a legend to rival Hannibal, Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan. A man who changed the course of history. Had changed the world.

I run my hand over the crest and know why I am here. I beckon to my father who sees the crest and understands as I do. Following the wall it turns a small corner and before us is another staircase that rises ominously into the mist. This is my path, this is the way I must go.

It feels like we are going further this time. I can’t see very far ahead of us. The mist, the trees and shape of the mountain concealing my way. I don’t know how far we’ve gone or how much of the path is left. Dad has fallen behind, taking photos. I’m by myself on the stairs, disconnected from everything except this pocket of existence, surrounded by fog, between worlds. There could be nothing outside except a void. I don’t stop. I continue to scale the mountain, step by step, the fog thinning as I rise. I turn the final corner and step out of the mist into the real world.

I’m on another flat plateau but this is larger than the last. Before me is a chest high octagonal wall, each segment two or three metres long and directly in front of me are the gates. If there is such thing as gates to another world, then these are it. Unlike the nexus of carvings on the shrine at the summit, the ornamentation on these gates is a strangely simple style of intricacy. The dichotomous nature of this place is tangible. These gates have no handles and cannot be passed through, yet they guard a wall I could easily climb over. However it would be physically impossible for me to do so. Guarding the gates are two dragons, sitting like scaled bloodhounds at the feet of their master. The stones in their eyes glow red, stealing the souls of those who look into them. Every part of my being knows that this door commands respect, and will not be defied.

There is a path around the wall, viewing in to the central dais. The dais is raised on eight progressively smaller platforms, stepping up to the tomb. Stories live in our imaginations and memories, yet now the story was made real. This grave had no decorations. No engravings, words or crests. Above it is an almost typical Japanese headstone. As with all Japanese headstones a short, cylindrical pillar is mounted on the zenith, holding up a small curved roof, identical to the style of the shrine below, protecting the tomb from rain. Any who looked upon it knew that they were in the presence of a colossal force.

I instinctively bow towards the tomb, as if the spirit of the man was somehow watching, thanking him for being allowed to this place. To be buried here, separate from the world, yet in a place more real than anywhere I’ve ever known, it is a perfect moment that lasts an eternity.

I don’t live here. I’ve never been here before. A memory I shouldn’t have tells me I know this place. I will have leave here, return through the mist to the world below. I am forced to go back to my country. I know that I am leaving myself here, above the mist. I know that I’m not going home.