Like Anna Karina's Sweater

Have you heard the one about the magician and the comedian who decided to make a film. . .?

Comedian Paul Provenza and libertarian magician Penn Jillette (sans Teller) have created a first -- a feature-length documentary about a single dirty joke. But not just any dirty joke, the most depraved, disgusting joke of all time -- The Aristocrats. Yet while the idea is interesting, the execution leaves a lot to be desired. First things first -- Filmbrain doesn't find the joke particularly funny. Classic setup, amusing punch line, but the extended improvised middle is little more than an exercise in how creatively vile one can be. As someone in the film points out, society has changed tremendously, and the power to shock (or get a laugh) with mere vulgarity has weakened over the years. Riffs on shitting, bestiality, or anally fisting a child might be funny to some (yawn), but they are no longer shocking as fodder for the joke. It's the delivery that gets you laughing -- which explains why Gilbert Gottfried's apoplectic rants get some of the biggest laughs in the film. But to listen to somebody like Paul Reiser tell it -- you could almost hear the crickets in the screening room. Contrary to what Filmbrain had heard, the film is not simply a series of variations on The Aristocrats, but rather a history and analysis of the joke, as told by a cast of about a hundred. This is the first problem with the film -- it's too damn long. While it was perhaps generous of the directors to include just about every comedian in the known universe, do we really need to hear Carrot Top's or Rip Taylor's ruminations on the joke? You spend about a third of the film just marveling at the fact that some of these people are still alive (Larry Storch, Phyllis Diller), and that others still have careers (Emo Phillips). Of the comic geniuses that do offer some insight into the joke, there is a tremendous amount of overlap and repetition. There's only so much one can say about the joke, and it gets said time and time again. At half the length it might have made for a far more interesting (and funnier) film -- 90 minutes is just too much. The second problem with the film is that like The Aristocrats joke itself (which for the most part was just shared between comics), it's a bit too inside-y. Provenza and Jillette can be heard cracking up off camera, even at things that don't come off as very funny, and it is definitely guilty of casting a sycophantic eye on many of its subjects. (Filmbrain can only wonder what the film would have been like had somebody with even a hint of objectivity directed it.) Sure, there are plenty of funny moments in The Aristocrats, mostly by comics who take a unique approach to the joke -- i.e., Kevin Pollock doing his Christopher Walken imitation, or Sarah Silverman's turning it into a first-person account. Chris Rock, easily one of the funniest standup comedians working today, sort of writes off the joke by explaining that black comedians never had to worry about whether or not they worked blue -- there were no opportunities for exposure anyway, so what did they have to lose? A similar logic can be applied to today's comedians -- there's nothing dangerous about the joke anymore, nor are they risking anything by telling it on film. Gone are the days of seeing Lenny Bruce escorted off the stage in handcuffs for riffing on religion, sex, Jackie O, etc. And while hearing TV-friendly comedians tell a dirty joke might be amusing to some, the shtick grows old real fast. Judging by the almost unanimous praise on Metacritic, Filmbrain is clearly in the minority. But then again, his idea of hysterical is this, this, or this.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 5 -- Week 3

You know your Cassavetes, don't you! A new record was set last week in the number of correct entries, and many of you weighed in with your own thoughts on the better-than-magnificent, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie. Girish shared a little-known fact about the film -- David Bowie visited the set, and can purportedly be spotted in several of the audience scenes. The three actors are, of course, Ben Gazzara, Seymour Cassel, and character-actor extraordinaire, Timothy Carey. Gazzara and Carey first appeared together back in 1962 in the rarely shown prison flick Convicts 4. Adrian C sent a link to a truly fascinating interview with Carey -- learn about his farting, his penchant for black women, and all the great films he turned down over the years -- a must read. This week -- though Filmbrain captured better (and more difficult) screenshots from this film, this one is just plain cool. Though it's a dead giveaway, whose Bible are we looking at? Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Son Flowers

Jim Jarmusch's latest feature, Broken Flowers, begins much in the same way as 1981's Stripes -- with Bill Murray's girlfriend dumping him. This time, however, it's Julie Delpy walking out the door, and not for his lack of ambition, but rather his lack of commitment. Murray plays Don Johnston (with a 't'), a reluctant, improbable Don Juan who seems to be content sitting on his sofa listening to music (be it Fauré or Marvin Gay) or watching television -- it's hard to tell for sure, as his stoic nature reveals not even the tiniest hint of emotion. He's an independently wealthy committed bachelor whose only social interaction is with his Ethiopian friend Winston (the phenomenal Jeffrey Wright), who lives next door with his wife and kids. The arrival of an anonymous typewritten letter on pink stationary sets the plot in motion, as Don learns that one of his former flames gave birth to his son twenty years ago. Winston, who fancies himself a bit of a gumshoe, is determined to figure out which one of them wrote the note, and persuades Don to visit all of them, searching for clues in the process. Thus Don ventures forth on the proverbial journey that takes him outward across America so that he may look inward at his soul -- the kind of plot that is highly combustible in the wrong hands. But not to worry -- Jarmusch knows all too well what he's doing. To begin with, he chose four wonderful actresses to play the roles of four very distinct and unique women -- there's not a shred of commonality between any of them, other than their trysts with this latter day lothario. Sharon Stone plays Laura, the NASCAR wife with the teenage temptress daughter (aptly named Lolita). Frances Conroy is Dora, the former radical turned sterile zombie wife to über-salesman Christopher McDonald. Jessica Lange's Carmen gave up her prestigious law career in order to become an animal communicator, while Penny (an unrecognizable Tilda Swinton) is the poorest of poor white trash. Don's visits go from awkward to downright disastrous, and with each successive ex he becomes bolder in his line of questioning -- there is evidence in each household such that any one of them could be the author of the mysterious letter, and Don's patience (and interest) is waning. Part of the film's success (beyond the performances, which are all stellar) is the way in which Jarmusch tells the story. The ham-fisted symbolism and heavy use of cliché is intentional, and he succeeds in subverting them to the point where they genuinely regain meaning. It's pretty ballsy to have a scene of Don visiting the grave of an ex-girlfriend, and then to have it start raining -- and to do this unironically. It is precisely on this point that Jarmusch fans will be split -- the wry, sardonic wit of his early films is absent here, and some will find this new approach little more than a commercial sell-out. Yet as Aaron H pointed out on Friday, the accessibility of Broken Flowers (when compared to Dead Man, or even Ghost Dog for that matter) does not equate it with commercial pabulum. The mainstream folk that ventured into indie waters for Lost in Translation will no doubt be let down by this stripped down, quiet work which doesn't resolve itself in the way they are used to. Comparisons to films like Sideways or About Schmidt are reductive at best. To call this "just another white guy with a mid-life crisis" movie is to miss Jarmusch's point exactly. What Dead Man did for the Western, and Ghost Dog for the....well, inner-city Samurai assassin film, Broken Flowers does for the ur-romantic dramedy. Bill Murray gives the strongest performance of his career, and Filmbrain strongly disagrees with those that claim he is playing the same sad-clown character that carried him through a trio of Wes Anderson films, Lost in Translation and even Jarmusch's own Coffee and Cigarettes. Yes, the Bill Murray trademark deadpan is evident throughout, but what's missing is the sarcastic nature, the sly one-liners, and the sense of privilege found in Herman Blume, Bob Harris, or Steve Zissou. Murray evokes a real sense of pathos, yet without a trace of sentimentality, and there's a complexity to Don that was non-existent in the aforementioned characters. Don internalizes things to the point where we wonder if he's able to feel anything at all, and it's only in a moment of brief flirtation with a young florist that we get a sense of how this stone of a man could ever have been such a cocksman. His character is very much like the men in several of Hong Sang-soo's films, and though there's a greater distance between Jarmusch and his characters (Hong is often both autobiographical and self-critical), the similarities, especially in their approach towards women and the past, is striking. Jarmusch created the role exclusively for Murray, and it's his most subtle, nuanced, and reserved role to date. Broken Flowers is chock full of the type of scenes that Filmbrain loves best -- awkward, uncomfortable conversations between former lovers that ring too true, complete with pregnant pauses, extended silences, and furtive glances -- and he admits that his reaction to the film is perhaps a bit more subjective than usual. Even so, this is unmistakably Jarmusch -- the idiosyncracies, the deliberate pacing, even the eclectic soundtrack will all feel very familiar to fans of the director's earlier works. Jarmusch may be courting a wider audience, but unlike peer Gus Van Sant, he hasn't gone all mushy and created a Good Will Hunting. The misleading trailer tries to sell it as just another Bill Murray comedy, but don't be fooled -- while there are indeed humorous moments, Broken Flowers is a dramatic character study more akin to Ghost Dog than to Ghostbusters. Quite possibly one of the best films of 2005. Broken Flowers opens on August 5 nationwide. The MPAA has rated it R for, amongst other things, "MAJOR DRUG USE", which must mean ten seconds of somebody smoking a joint, for that's all Filmbrain can remember.

Jim Jarmusch is back!

No time for a full review today, but Filmbrain just wanted to share that Broken Flowers is Jim Jarmusch's best film in ten years, and is more than deserving of the Grand Prix Award it won at Cannes. Bill Murray gives the performance of his career (you've never seen him like this), the supporting cast is magnificent, and the story (which is far more dramatic than comedic) has an almost Hong Sang-soo feel to it. Stripped down, mature, and perhaps slightly subversive, it's a film that will no doubt cause a rift amongst Jarmusch's fans -- some will complain that Broken Flowers, with its tale of a fifty-something man revisiting pieces of his past, is a mainstream commercial sell-out. How very wrong they will be -- this is JJ at his independent and artistic best. Check back Monday for a complete review.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 5 -- Week 2

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return" -- A quote from Nature Boy, uttered by just about every character in Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge, the answer to last week's quiz, and a film that Filmbrain is not ashamed to admit he adores and watches whenever he's blue. A big hello to all first-time participants -- nearly all of you were able to identify the PoMo musical. Perhaps one of you will manage to take the crown away from three-time winner, Aaron H. This week, a film that everybody should have seen by now -- if you haven't, you must make it your number one film watching priority. Name the film and three actors pictured below. For a bonus point: name another film that the actor in the middle appeared in with the actor on the left. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

The Rococo and the Punk

Tetsuya Nakashima's Shimotsuma Monogatari (known here by the god-awful title Kamikaze Girls) completely caught Filmbrain by surprise, and much like Survive Style 5+, it's a highly stylized film that is much more than mere eye candy. A new twist on the buddy-picture, the film tells of the unlikely friendship that develops between two teenage girls, both social outsiders, and who both happen to be stuck in the sleepy Japanese village of Shimotsuma. Momoko (Kyoko Fukada) is obsessed with the delicate frivolity of the Rococo era, and decked out in doll-like Lolita wardrobe (bought at Baby, The Stars Shine Bright) she dedicates herself to a life of grace, beauty, and pleasure -- "It's not wrong to feel good" is her credo. Ichiko (Anna Tsuchiya), is her polar opposite - a member of the Ponytails biker gang, she spits and scowls with a yakuza swagger, dresses in two-tone, and with her mullet, black eye shadow and lipstick she could easily pass for a lost member of The Runaways. The two meet when, in an effort to raise money for her fashion needs, Momoko turns to selling cheap Versace knockoffs that her failed gangster father produced. Though they barely get on (Momoko is at the receiving end of a few of Ichiko's head-butts), they are simultaneously fascinated and disgusted with each other, and the two begin spending more and more time together. With just a hint of a plot, the film follows the developing relationship of this mismatched duo, and its success is due to the wonderful pairing of Fukada and Tsuchiya -- two young actresses who have a classic sense of comedic timing, and who play off each other in a way that many other buddy-film duos don't. The Japan of Shimotsuma Monogatari is purely a girrrrls world - one where men are practically non-existent, and those that do appear are either useless testosterone-pumped dolts or twee fashion designers. In fact, Ichiko is the most macho character in the film, and her performance is modeled on the countless low-ranking Yakuza characters found in the films of Fukusaku, Kitano, Miike, etc. (Her naturally husky voice suits the role perfectly.) Like Survive Style 5+'s Gen Sekiguchi, Nakashima also began his career in advertising, and he uses that to great advantage here with a series of back-story vignettes for the two girls that play out like self-contained short films. Though the Guy Ritchie influence is unmistakable, Nakashima brings plenty of his own vision to the film, and his screenplay is easily one of the funniest of the year. In a society where conformity is the norm, it's nice to see a lighthearted approach to the problems of individuality and "fitting in" -- imagine All About Lily Chou-Chou, but without the angst, violence, rape, and teenage prostitution. Still, the film is quite universal in its approach to the frustrations and limitations of life far from a big city. Take away the giant statue of the Ushiku Buddha that looms over Shimotsuma, and it could easily be set in a small town near you. Shimotsuma Monogatari is a rare thing -- a teenage comedy that is intelligent, skillfully crafted, and which almost sustains itself until the final reel (where, admittedly, it does get a bit silly). The good news is that the film has found a distributor, and will be released in NYC, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle in the Fall. Don't miss it!

Oh well, whatever, nevermind

Some years ago, a friend of Gus Van Sant's dragged him to see Bela Tarr's Sátántangó, the greatest seven-hour film of all time. Said Van Sant, "It was exactly what I needed to see at that exact moment in my life. It also summed up some things that I'd been thinking about for a long time and been influenced by but never put to use. The film was accomplishing those things, and a lot of that had to do with the timing of the story and how long he would take to describe certain actions that are simple yet the more you watch them the more they grow in their illumination. It was very inspirational." The result of this experience was Gerry -- a masterpiece of minimalism that is Van Sant's best film, and a welcome return following a disappointing mainstream three-picture run in Hollywood. (Yes, Filmbrain hated Good Will Hunting.) The Tarr influence was perhaps even stronger in Elephant, his take on the Columbine shootings. While not quite as perfect as Gerry, it was still a fascinating thing to behold, and its long takes, behind the shoulder walking shots, and liberal use of time loops (where the same scene is repeated from a different perspective) was straight out of Sátántangó. Van Sant's latest film, Last Days, is the final (?) chapter in his trilogy about death (and walking). Though not a biopic, it is inspired by the life of Kurt Cobain, or rather by the days leading up to his suicide. While Gerry was a buddy pic (of sorts), and Elephant a collective, Last Days is (for the most part) a one-man show. Pretty boy Michael Pitt is pretty damn good as Blake, the shaggy, mumbling rock star who glides ghostlike through the film. We hardly ever see his face, and much of his performance relies heavily on lumbering, lethargic movements, which at times have an almost balletic quality to them. Though there are a handful of people on the periphery of Blake's life -- from the parasitic entourage that live in his dilapidated mansion, to the band and family members who try desperately to reach him by telephone -- they function as little more than white noise. Blake makes no attempt at communication (he often hides or scampers away from them), and they, for the most part, pay little attention to him. It's only when a door-to-door Yellow Pages salesman shows up that Blake makes a genuine effort to communicate -- he longs for contact, just not with those closest to him. The first half-hour or so is tremendous -- Blake stomping through the woods, building a fire, singing Home on the Range, coming home, attempting to eat a bowl of cereal, walking through the house in a black negligee -- it's a shame the entire film isn't like this. The introduction of the other characters changes the mood tremendously -- and not for the better. Sure, it's nice to see Kim Gordon on the big screen, but her scene, like Harmony Korine's, doesn't really bring much to the proceedings. Mamet-staple Ricky Jay gets to tell one of his infamous magician stories, and though it resonates somewhat with Cobain's death (a suicide, deemed "death by misadventure") it too seems awkward and out of place. The problem with Last Days, at least when compared to Gerry and Elephant, is that it draws too much attention to itself -- you become more conscious of the conceits and the narrative "tricks" than in the previous films. The use of time loops, for example, which was used to great effect in Elephant (actively following several characters over the same period of time) isn't quite necessary here -- and it comes off as more of an afterthought, and somewhat gimmicky. The other characters (Asia Argento, Lukas Haas, et al.) just aren't significant enough to warrant their own perspective. Then there are the moments that suffer from being a bit too obvious -- the kind of things that Van Sant avoided in the other two films. The mansion as metaphor for Blake -- strong and guarded on the outside, but crumbling on the inside. Or Blake stepping into his daughter's bedroom to find three kittens purring by the crib. (This coming after record producer Kim Gordon asks him if he's spoken to his daughter lately.) Unlike Gerry and Elephant, which Filmbrain was completely drawn into, trance-like, from start to finish, Last Days has too many moments that pull you out -- as if Van Sant was tapping you on the shoulder and whispering in your ear. It's not that it ruins the film, but does make it seem like a step backward from Elephant, rather than forward. Still, there are quite a few great moments in Last Days, including one which might be the most memorable of 2005 -- Blake, in negligee and boots, slowly slumping to the floor in a drug-induced stupor while a Boyz II Men video plays in the background. Pitt performs two musical numbers in the film, including a multi-layered guitar-sampler-drum piece that is shot from outside a window, with the camera slowly pulling back during the entire sequence. These two scenes, along with Harris Savides' cinematography, and the musique concrète sound design are reasons enough not to miss the film. J. Hoberman (Village Voice) considers Last Days to be Gus Van Sant's masterpiece, and the best of the trilogy, calling it "productively reductive" -- certainly a true statement for the first third. Filmbrain would probably agree with Hoberman's assessment if Van Sant had let the entire film play out this way -- as a true solo performance. Instead, Last Days turns out to be an uneven affair, where pure cinematic poetry is marred by moments that border on the pretentious. That said, with each day that passes, the desire to see it again grows stronger.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 5 -- Week 1

Filmbrain never imagined that a Cannes Palme d'Or winner would stump so many of you. Many guesses, but just over a baker's dozen were able to identify the finger-chopping scene from Chen Kaige's Farewell My Concubine, one of the last great films Kaige directed before he ventured into bad erotica (Killing Me Softly) and lightweight festival-fare (Together). We have a third place winner! Congratulations to Sophie L. from Los Angeles by way of Northern France -- the only participant in the lead to submit a correct answer to last week's quiz. You are the winner of the Tenth Anniversary Edition DVD of Martin Scorsese's Casino. Filmbrain would like to thank everybody who took part in Round 4, and hopes to see all of you back for Round 5, which begins today. Yes, Round 5 of Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz has arrived. For those that are just joining, here's a quick overview of the rules. Each Wednesday, a new screen quiz will be posted. Screen captures come exclusively from DVDs in Filmbrain's personal collection. Some quizzes will have a bonus question attached, but you needn't submit an answer for both - partial credit will be given. Answers can be submitted until the following week's quiz is posted. At the end of twelve weeks, the three individuals with highest number of correct guesses will be showered with both praise and prize. To begin with -- an easy one, just to kick things off. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Poor Imagination

[NB: This review contains spoilers. But then again, if you've never seen the original film or read the book, spoilers are the least of your problems.] EVERYBODY has a particular film that is the ne plus ultra of his or her childhood. It may not be your first, or even necessarily your favorite, but it's the one film that hovered over your youth, that you watched time and again, and that still never fails to offer security blanket-like comfort. For Filmbrain that film is Mel Stuart's Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Gene Wilder, four naughty children, great songs, orange Oompa Loompas, and a factory full of endless wonder -- what child wouldn't love it? (Admit it, you also wished you were Charlie Bucket.) When talk of a remake first surfaced some years back, naturally Filmbrain was full of woe -- why would they bother? When it was revealed that Tim Burton would be directing, there were glimmers of hope -- surely the man who brought us Pee-wee's Big Adventure and Beetle Juice was an ideal candidate (actually, Filmbrain thought David Lynch would be a better choice). Then the rumors started flying around the Internet -- robot Oompa Loompas, Marilyn Manson as Wonka, etc. Then came Big Fish, which was syrupy-coated Burton, and a tremendous letdown for many of his fans. Would he ever be able to return to his darker, more playful former self? Well, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is finally here, and the good news is that it's far, far better than Filmbrain imagined it would be. However, Burton (as he did in Big Fish) drags the film down into an almost Spielbergian treatise on bad fathers and the importance of family. The best thing about the film is that it is faithful to Roald Dahl's original novel. Yes, this means no Slugworth testing the children's virtue, and no shenanigans with fizzy lifting drinks, but it does include the tale of Prince Pondicherry as well as the story of the cocoa-addicted Oompa Loompas. Another pleasant surprise is the cast -- the kids are all wonderful (four hateful little shits), as are their guardians, with actor David Kelly making a perfect Grandpa Joe. (However, is Augustus Gloop a CGI creation? His skin tone and facial features have a more-generated-than-real look that is quite off-putting.) Freddie Highmore (who starred with Depp in Finding Neverland) makes a fine Charlie, though Burton overplays the poor-kid as selfless martyr thing. The Oompa Loompas once again sing after each child's accident (using lyrics from the novel), and composer Danny Elfman has crafted four amusing songs, each in a different style, including the infectious Veruca Salt song, a pop-psych ditty that could very well be an outtake from the last Polyphonic Spree album. The early, pre-factory scenes have that wonderful Edward Gorey-esque look that Burton is (or was) known for, and the entire town is a cross between late Victorian and post-apocalypse. (A newspaper headline declares "High Levels of Pesticide in Water".) The slanted Bucket house, positioned on the edge of town and in the shadow of the factory, is simply perfect, as is everything leading up to Wonka's appearance. Then things change, and not for the better. Though the top hat and plum colored velvet tailcoat are present, the manner in which Burton and Depp decided to portray Wonka is both disturbing and more than a bit irritating. Instead of the Wilder's wry, tormented genius, he's now a fey manchild with a lilting voice -- think Dana Carvey as the Church Lady crossed with Crispin Glover. Michael Jackson comparisons are inevitable, though perhaps magnified given the recent trial. (Unlike Jackson, Wonka hates most children.) Depp has said that he was inspired by Captain Kangaroo and Mister Rogers, though there's no denying that Anna Wintour look. Far more misanthropic than anything Dahl wrote, he's completely lacking in the charm that allowed Wilder to get away with those insulting one-liners. To add insult to injury, Burton includes a series of flashbacks to give Wonka some back-story, and these moments bring the film to a screeching halt. Christopher Lee plays Wonka's father (mom doesn't appear to exist), a dentist who deprives young Willy of all sweets, and keeps him in a frightening array of orthodontic headgear. Is this the best John August (Go) could come up with? The world inside the factory is not nearly as imaginative as the world outside. The Chocolate Room is a dead ringer for the one in the original, but it looks even more like a soundstage. There's nothing particularly scary about the boat ride, nor is there anything remarkable about the other rooms. The Veruca Salt sequence (nut-cracking squirrels instead of golden-egg laying geese) is the one exception -- an unsettling scene that has a real nightmarish quality to it. Things progress through the factory pretty much by the book -- no surprises, but enough witty lines and funny scenes to keep it flowing nicely. Where Burton really blows it is at the end -- instead of leaving well enough alone, he feels the need to tack on an additional ten weepy minutes to teach us that family is more important than chocolate. Feh! A perfectly serviceable adaptation of a great kids novel spoiled by an unnecessary lesson in values. Filmbrain wishes Burton (and his pal Spielberg) would work out their daddy issues elsewhere. Still, there's a lot of fun to be had with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and it's worth seeing for the Oompa Loompa music and dance numbers alone. After all, there are worse ways to spend two-hours this summer.

The Dreamers

When it comes to films about obsessive sexual relationships, too many fall into the 9 1/2 Weeks category - shallow, flashy, soft-core fantasies with choreographed quasi-erotic set pieces complete with Bryan Ferry or Sade soundtrack. Pretty to look at (perhaps), but without any real attempt at exploring the true psychological nature of sexual obsession. At the other end of the spectrum are films like In the Realm of the Senses or Last Tango in Paris -- far more subdued affairs that, while explicit, delve into the effect the relationship has on its participants, and attempt to capture the essence of obsession. Granted, it's quite a challenge for a director -- without a certain something between the actors, there is little hope of succeeding. Both Oshima and Bertolucci were lucky to find talented actors brave enough to take on the roles, and who delivered performances that had no traces of the artifice found in many sexually explicit films. A potential addition to the shortlist of great sexual obsession films is Park Chul-soo's Green Chair. Made in 2003, but shelved until this year, it is based on the true story of a thirty-two year old divorcee who was arrested for having sex with a nineteen year-old (the age of consent in South Korea is twenty.) Park's approach to the material is fairly unorthodox, and what begins as a detailed portrait of love and lust ends up bordering on the surreal. (This should come as little surprise to fans of the director's earlier work, which includes the equally bizarre 301/302 and 7 Reasons Why Beer is Better Than a Lover.) The film opens with Mun-hee's (The Isle's Suh Jung) release from police custody, where she was sentenced to 100 days of community service. Meeting up with her underage lover Hyun (newcomer Shin Ji-ho), they flee the hounding journalists and repair to a motel for a marathon sex session, pausing just long enough for meals in which to fuel up. Bathed in the unflattering light of the somewhat squalid hotel room, the lengthy sequence has a very naturalistic feel to it, and is highly erotic. However, it is here that the dysfunctional and highly fragile nature of their relationship is revealed. Mun-hee goes from being the patient older lover, who instructs and directs the inexperienced Hyun through their encounters, to shouting at him for his suggestions, and insisting that she never wants to see him again. Time is lost during the sequence, and we have no sense of how long they've been holed up in the room. What makes Green Chair so interesting is the triptych-like structure that Park employs. After the purely physical first third, he then dives into the psychological makeup of the relationship. The second-third finds the couple living with Mun-hee's friend Su-jin (Oh Yun-hong), and the emphasis here is on the details and nuances. There are moments of love and happiness, and of insecurity and jealousy; of proud defiance, and of lingering doubt. Moving from comedy to near-tragedy in a heartbeat (and back again), it's a wonderful portrait of three outsiders, and a criticism of a hypocritical society that vilifies a woman simply for having the dominant role in a sexual relationship. The final third (and the film's strongest sequence) is a surrealistic dinner party that is straight out of late-period Bunuel. Celebrating Hyun's passage into adulthood, the couple throws a lavish party that finds an unlikely roster of guests, including parents, an ex-husband, an arresting officer, and a young woman obsessed with Hyun. Everything is laid on the table here, and everybody gets to have their say, especially the loving couple. Beautifully written, and comically absurd, it is a powerhouse ending to a film that already consists of one surprise after another. Though the title is a mystery (not a green chair to be found anywhere -- could it be a euphemism?), Green Chair is a daring, unconventional, sexy, comic-drama that is full of unexpected pleasures. A minor masterpiece of sexual obsession, led by two winning actors that convincingly bring these characters to life. It also happens to be one of the best love stories to hit the screen in quite some time.