Like Anna Karina's Sweater

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 12 (Special NSFW Edition!)

"Don't ask me why, but there's an air of Ken Russell to that photo." So wrote Robbie W, in response to last week's quiz. Unfortunately, he went with 1991's Whore, when in fact the correct answer is the vastly underrated Crimes of Passion, from 1984. Bizarre even by Russellian standards, the film is a fascinating essay on sexual fulfillment (or lack thereof) that is as sleazy as it is brilliant. Kathleen Turner (in a role that will astound you) plays a mild-mannered designer by day who becomes the peroxide blonde prostitute China Blue at night. Trawling the streets of LA, she seemingly finds satisfaction in sordid trysts with her lowlife clients. Complicating matters is an obsessed psychotic preacher (Anthony Perkins, doing a slight variation of Norman Bates) who happens to possess a mighty scary dildo. Offensive at times, and just plain wrong at others, it's nonetheless one of Russell's greatest, and still ranks as Kathleen Turner's finest hour. Well, here we are at the end of another round, and for the final entry I thought I'd spice things up by choosing a screen shot entirely inappropriate for general audiences, and probably not too safe for work. (Click the image below to see the unadulterated version.) Name the film, and for a bonus point, tell me the song that is playing during this scene. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck, and be sure to check back next week for the winners!

Are you there Walt Disney? It's me, Margaret

Like absinthe and Fruity Pebbles, or Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, there are certain pairings that just don't seem quite right together. How about this one – menstruation, and the man who brought you flying elephants and dancing hippos. Well, back in the late 40s Walt Disney, in cahoots with Kotex products, created what might very well be the strangest entry in their library, The Story of Menstruation. (Am I alone in wondering if a biological process can be said to have a story?) Clearly made to be shown in schools, this ten minute marvel must have been what the girls got to see while the boys were shown such classics as "The Story of Wood" or "Why does it hurt down there?" Though factually there's nothing incorrect, it is odd that the film all but avoids the topic of reproduction, save for the cryptic-without-context mention that "any one of them [eggs] has the possibility of someday becoming a human being." This no doubt led some girls to wonder exactly how that could happen, but The Story of Menstruation has a more important agenda – cleanliness, and the demonization of PMS. Shattering the myth that bathing is prohibited during "those days", our Disneyfied menstruating heroine spends ample time in the shower or at her vanity, for as the motherly narrator proclaims, "it's smart to keep looking smart." Exercise is encouraged, and though riding downhill on a bike wearing a mini-skirt is acceptable, dancing the jitterbug (with a boy no less) is right out. The film likens getting emotionally upset to catching a cold, and both are strongly cautioned against. The latter can be avoided by eating right and getting plenty of sleep, while the cure for teary outbursts is to simply stop feeling sorry for yourself. (Why more women don't heed this sage advice is a mystery to me.) Like all good health- and sex-ed films of the 40s and 50s, Disney's The Story of Menstruation gingerly tiptoes around its topic, turning a perfectly normal maturation process into a matter of hygiene and mental health. (Remember girls, look good, smell good, and always be happy!) Yet these films were part and parcel of the cultural hegemony of white America in the 50s, which, in the interest of breeding social conformity, emphasized cleanliness, godliness, and of course blandliness. As the great Joel Robinson once said, "feelings are for ethnic people."

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 11

"Charlie! They took my thumb!" To me, The Pope of Greenwich Village has always been of those decade-defining films. The cast includes 80s icons who were at the top of their game (Eric Roberts, Mickey Rourke, Daryl Hannah) in the Reagan years, but who would quickly fade into B-picture or straight-to-video obscurity in the 90s. Along with After Hours (made one year later), it's also a final glimpse at the old New York City -- before the malling, Disneyfication, and mass gentrification of just about every neighborhood. Director Stuart Rosenberg (who died earlier this year) makes great use of location shots in some less-than-obvious areas of the city. I guess you could describe it as Scorsese-lite, and part of its success can be credited to its restraint -- it never tries to be more than it is. If you haven't seen it, do check it out. It still stands up remarkably well after all these years. I've been lazy the past few weeks, and as a result the quizzes too easy. With only two weeks left in the round, it's time to make things a bit more challenging. This week: yet another film from the 80s that I have a soft spot for, though it is fairly twisted. In which film will you find this less-than-orthodox family portrait? Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Violence. Despair. Repeat.

Turning Sogil Yan's autobiographical novel Blood and Bones into a feature film was clearly a passion project for director Yoichi Sai. His determination to have Takeshi Kitano play the lead role led to his waiting nearly seven years for the actor/director's schedule to free up. And why not, for who better to play an angry, violent, sadistic monster than the man who spent a better portion of his career playing corrupt cops, fearful gangsters, and one horrific schoolteacher? Yet for all the time and dedication Sai gave to the project, it's a shame to report that the resulting film is a tremendous disappointment. Based on the life of author Sogil Yan's father Kim Shunpei, Blood and Bones is set amongst the first generation of Koreans that migrated to Japan in the early 20th century. Spanning the period from approximately 1920-1980, much of the film's action takes place on a single street within the ghetto-like community that was home to the Korean immigrants. When we first meet Kim (Kitano), he rapes his wife in front of her young daughter, the first in a series of seemingly endless violent acts he will commit for the following 144 minutes. Members of Kim's immediate family aren't the only victims of his violent behavior. He becomes the neighborhood bully, wreaking havoc (including single-handedly destroying somebody's home) on anybody who crosses him. Given his hair-trigger temper, this basically means everybody. Nothing changes over the decades, and his reign of terror continues unchallenged well into his elderly years. Whether running a successful fishcake factory, or working as a loan shark, the threat of Kim's violence is ever present. Unfortunately, the film becomes trapped in a repetitive cycle of a) violent act, b) despair over said act, followed by c) yet another violent act. While some (unsuccessfully) fight back, others look for a way out -- from the daughter who enters into a loveless, abusive marriage as means of escape, to those who find suicide preferable over life under Kim's thumb. Structured as an extended flashback narrated by Kim's son Masao (Hirofumi Arai), the film fails to follow through with the premise of its opening sentence: "All my life, my father blocked my path like a solid wall." The expected father-son dynamic takes a backseat to what ultimately becomes little more than a series of set pieces for Kitano. Sai tends to lose narrative focus as well, and the film feels less like the individual recollections of a son growing up in the shadow a tyrannical father than it does a director fashioning a screenplay around its leading man. There isn't a single moment of levity to be found in the film, nor even the slightest reprise from the endless misery; even a quiet memorial scene ends in a violent fracas. The litany of tragic events is such that it begins to approach the absurd, and by the time the narrator tells us, "And then Kiyoko suddenly collapsed from a brain tumor", I honestly had to stifle a chuckle. Though one of only a handful of films that depicts the lives of Koreans living in Japan, Sai fails to sufficiently address issues of national identity and growing up as an 'other' in Japan. We do get a sense that they were all but ignored by the Japanese, and that there was little in the way of progress within these communities. (If it wasn't for the appearance of a new model car, or an airplane flying overhead, we'd have no idea that a decade had passed.) However, any and all individual struggle is between the characters and Kim, and not with their adopted nation, save for some brief moments where they flirt with communism, much to the dismay of the Japanese. Like his characters, Yoichi Sai is also a Korean who grew up in Japan, which is why it's somewhat surprising that, given his own experiences, the film opts for a relatively straightforward situational approach rather than applying the realism of, say, Shohei Imamura, who also created cinematic portraits of outsider groups in Japan. Much has been said of Kitano's performance in the film, and while he (as always) gives himself fully to the role, the character as written lacks the often contradictory elements found in many of his best roles. Here he's purely a monster, incapable of expressing any emotion other than rage. Yet the film never delves into the reasons behind his anger. Has it to do with his lack of national identity, or some other socio-political factor? It's never made clear. It is a pleasure to watch his performance though, particularly his ability to say so much with mere body language or even the slightest of physical gestures. Ultimately, and somewhat ironically, it may be Takeshi Kitano's presence that prevents Blood and Bones from being a better, or more compelling film. After waiting seven years, Sai clearly wanted to take full advantage of the great actor's skills, but he does so at the expense of his other cast members (who are all quite good) as well as the story itself.

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 10

Speaking of torture porn (with extra emphasis on the porn), Eli Roth has nothing on auteur/smut-merchant Bob Guccione, whose Caligula boasts legendary stars of stage and screen (Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, Peter O'Toole, and John Gielgud) as well as hardcore sex scenes with dwarves, amputees, and former Penthouse pets. But when you get right down to it, the making of Caligula is far more interesting than the film itself. Working with a script from Gore Vidal, and (initially) directed by Tinto Brass, Guccione managed to pull together a cast and crew of over 2500 to make his epic about the crazed Roman leader. However, the production was beset with a myriad of problems, and both Vidal and Brass demanded that their names be removed from the finished product, which included hardcore inserts directed by Guccione himself. Vidal hated the changes to the screenplay, and Brass was basically tossed out of the editing room by Guccione, who took over the entire project. His complete lack of experience shows, and the editing in the film is atrocious -- scenes are out of order, and occasionally out of focus (due to his use of wrong takes). When the film was released in New York in 1980, Guccione rented a theater and charged the then unheard of price of $20 per ticket. I can distinctly remember the ads in the daily papers, with their warnings of extreme sexual content. As pubescent fifteen year-old boys, my friends and I wanted nothing more than to see it. Fortunately (I guess), it wasn't until college that I saw the film, thanks to a VHS copy that made its way around the dorm. At the time I thought this was the most dangerous film ever made. Ah, sweet, sweet innocent youth. I am slightly ashamed at owning the DVD, but the included hour-long making-of documentary is worth its weight in gold, if just to hear Guccione pontificate in that sleazy, gravely voice of his. Actual quote: "This isn't pornography, it's paganography." Brilliant. This week: ever since Sunday night's Sopranos finale, I've not been able to get two things out of my head -- Journey's Don't Stop Believin', and grey Members Only jackets. Unable to locate a film in my collection that contains Mr. Perry's power-ballad, I had to settle on the latter. The combination of jacket, hair, and chain scream of a certain era, and this film was always one of my favorites from that decade. Name it. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!

Hostile Indeed

"You look at the war, you look at 9/11, the tortures at Abu Ghraib, the things going on down at Guantanamo — these are real horrors and we are all scared...I think these films help people deal with the real world." — Eli Roth, LA Times "How can I hate women? My mum's one." — Ricky Gervais, The Office For reasons I can't begin to rationalize, let alone comprehend, I attended the combination press/American Museum of the Moving Image screening of Eli Roth's Hostel: Part II a few nights ago. I began writing a lengthy rant, but had second thoughts after several hundred words. Is the film even worth it? Do I want to be accused of rising to the bait, as pal Glenn Kenny does of Jeffrey Wells, James Wolcott, and Dave Poland? I think not. However, unlike them, my outrage isn't over the existence or popularity of this new-fangled torture porn. America's fascination and preoccupation with American Idol or Paris Hilton's incarceration is a far greater contributing factor to my dismal weltanschauung than a bunch of fanboys getting their kicks over a third rate (non) horror flick.    What bothers me the most about Hostel: Part II is that employs the same bullshit tactic that BFF/producer Quentin Tarantino applied in Death Proof, namely that it's perfectly excusable to subject your female characters to all sorts of torture and violence as long as at least one of them gets to perform an equally putrid act of revenge in the end. It's a twisted idea of female empowerment that is as offensive as it is disingenuous. Yet unlike Tarantino, who is clearly in love with his characters, Roth seems to harbor a vile, nasty, misogynist streak towards his female creations, particularly Heather Matarazzo's Lorna. I never thought I'd find myself typing the following words, but Dave Poland is spot on about Matarazzo's torture scene: And not only did he think of this, but he hung an actress, however willing, upside down and naked, gagged and bound, screaming, as nothing but a piece of objectified meat as Roth's camera moves her breasts in and out of frame like some sort of sick porn tease. This is not the first time a director has done something horrible to an actress, but as the scene dragged on, I felt as though I was watching Ms. Matarazzo being raped on a spiritual level. This director did not identify with her as a human in the scene ... she is just the target for a bloody gag. Unlike her "hot" co-stars, Matarazzo's character is mocked, scorned, and abused from the opening frame, simply because she's geeky and awkward (and obviously not pretty enough for us to need to care about her.) Whether shown with snot running down her nose, or being spat on by a group of street urchins, Roth treats her as if she was still playing Dawn Wiener, which seems to be the sole direction he gave her, for she acts much in the same way she did eleven years ago in Todd Solondz's film. It's creepy to say the least, and Roth's gaze on her is sickening. Scanning through comment threads on some popular film blogs, I'm finding that fans of the film are defending the scene by noting that the torturer is a woman (who just happens to writhe nude in throes of sexual ecstasy over the act). This is Roth at his most pathetic, for he believes that this, along with the fact that one of his leading ladies survives until the end, provides him with an "out" — a means to distance himself from charges of misogyny. It's pure cowardice laced with smug self-satisfaction. Some years ago I saw an Italian film called Avere vent'anni (To Be Twenty), which follows the occasionally comic misadventures of two rebellious, sexually liberated young women who traipse their way through Italy, while working as prostitutes, saleswomen, or thieves. At the end of the film, in a thematic and tonal twist, the two are violently and savagely gang-raped by a group of men who then proceed to murder them in the most repulsive way imaginable. It's one of the most shocking and disturbing sequences I've ever seen on film, and director Fernando Di Leo makes no qualms about what his intentions are — these women are being punished for their wanton ways, and for both threatening and challenging the established (read: macho, sexist) order with their sexual aggressiveness. Though deplorable and hypocritical in its morality, I almost admire Di Leo for having the conviction to follow through with this extremely offensive cautionary tale — something Roth hasn't the gumption to do.  Roth likes to believe he's a badass, when in fact he's nothing of the sort. He's an immature, spoiled man-child who is to horror cinema what Vanilla Ice was to rap. "Are you ready for some fucked up shit?" was how a howling Roth greeted the audience the other night. Well, we certainly got the unqualified noun. [Had I known that the fearless Stu VanAirsdale would go toe-to-toe with director at the Q&A session, I wouldn't have made such a mad dash for the exit at the film's conclusion. Be sure to check out his full report. Priceless.]

Filmbrain's Screen Capture Quiz: Round 12, Week 9

Forget the United Nations. It's the power of the Pythons that will unite us all. Last week's quiz resulted in a tremendous amount of overly enthusiastic responses from nearly twenty countries, including one from Cheongjin, North Korea that simply read, Ni. Nice to know that both Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Like Anna Karina's Sweater have found their way into Dear Leader's kingdom. A busy week here at chez Filmbrain, as Benten Films is in the final stages of preparation for its first DVD release. (As I write this, I'm listening to one of the two commentary tracks.) Not much time for anything else, I'm afraid, but the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter by the day. . . This week, a film I'm almost ashamed to have in my collection, and I don't mean because of the sub-VHS quality of the disc. Yet in a way the crappy image is somehow fitting. Name the film. Submit your answers to this address. Good luck!