Sukiyaki Western Django

Once upon a time in Japan, a nameless gunman comes to a remote town where two clans feud over the control of the town’s hidden treasure of gold. The gunman helps the locals – more specifically, a beautiful young widow, her son, and his grandmother – fight the two warring clans to restore order to the town and then rides away.

The above summarizes the basic plotline of Sukiyaki Western Django (2007), which resembles the seminal spaghetti western, A Fistful of Dollars (Sergio Leone, 1964). Sukiyaki Western Django is also derived from another spaghetti western classic, Django (Sergio Corbucci, 1966), which is evident from its use of similar images such as a machinegun hidden in a coffin and a cemetery filled with freshly made graves topped with crosses. The film’s director, Miike Takashi, who is best known for gory scenes and extreme violence in his films, creates a Japanese-style western – hence, a “sukiyaki” western – by combining conventions of the western genre with visual elements of the samurai film. Miike replaces the two rival clans of Americans and Mexicans from the original Django with the Genjis (also known as the Whites) and the Heikes (or the Reds) and transposes their battle into feudal Japanese history.

There are several markers of “Japan-ness” in the film including Buddhist imagery, a samurai sword and bushido used by the Genji gang’s leader, and a torii gate that marks the entrance to the town. The cultural and generic blending of the American/European western with the samurai film seems natural given that A Fistful of Dollars is a remake of Kurosawa Akira’s samurai film, Yojimbo (1961) and John Sturges’ western, The Magnificent Seven (1960) is an adaptation of Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai (1954). In fact, Sukiyaki Western Django ultimately serves as a prequel to the original Django by accounting for Django’s cultural heritage.

Yet, Sukiyaki Western Django has no intention of offering a serious reflection on the cultural legacy of Japanese filmmaking or a tribute to Kurosawa Akira’s films. The film relies on empty spectacle and playful pastiche while utilizing anachronistic props and cross-cultural references. Although the film is set in feudal Japan, dynamite, shotguns, and a machinegun are juxtaposed with samurai swords and crossbows. Furthermore, the Heike gang’s leader identifies himself with Henry VI after reading William Shakespeare’s book and often delivers Shakespearian lines like “Confess thy error. This time, we win!” It should come as no surprise then that the film features Quentin Tarantino, who is a huge fan of Miike’s and who is notorious for his pastiche films, as a sukiyaki-eating gunslinger who provides the film’s backstory. The film’s anachronistic qualities reach their peak with the aging Tarantino’s character reminiscing about his son Akira, whom he named after the Japanese anime, Akira (1988) because he was “an anime otaku [or obsessive fan] at heart.”

I think that Tarantino had much more fun in this cameo role than most of the audience watching the film. It is difficult to identify with any of the characters because they portray specific archetypes rather than well-motivated characters with three-dimensional depth. The narrative’s use of flashbacks accompanied by excessive voice-over narration also reinforces a sense of detachment from the characters. Moreover, Miike’s decision to have the Japanese cast speak in English is another odd choice given the actors’ difficulties with the language, which makes the use of subtitles obligatory. This choice shifts the audience’s attention away from what they are saying to how they deliver their lines in awkward English.

I find it very interesting that the director seems most enamored with the sheriff who suffers from a split personality, given the large amount of screen time dedicated to this comical yet inessential character. Just like the sheriff who hears two conflicting voices, Sukiyaki Western Django becomes a schizophrenic film spilt between East and West and filled with contradictory source material. It is entertaining to some extent to discover intertexual references, but I am not sure what kind of subversive meaning those references carry in this film. The representation of women demonstrates conflicting notions of a feminine role as well. It is intriguing that the film represents the legendary gunfighter called “the Bloody Benten” as a female. However, this presumably strong female character is not enough to compensate for the extremely disturbing violence against the beautiful widow-turned prostitute, who isn’t even given a name and is treated like a sexual toy by both gangs in the film.

JaeYoon Park © 2009

Achilles and the Tortoise

A few days have passed since I watched Achilles and the Tortoise (2008) but I still think about its meaning and what the director Kitano Takeshi is trying to say. The film’s images lingered with me and I would wake up and jot down my thoughts on the film in the middle of the night. To me, that’s an indicator of a good movie.

Achilles and the Tortoise is the third installment in this Japanese director’s self-referential trilogy about creativity. I haven’t seen the first two of the trilogy – Takeshi’s (2005) and Glory to the Filmmaker (2007) – which received mediocre responses from critics, but I still anticipate watching them as a fan of Kitano's deadpan and often bizarre sense of humor.

The film starts with a short animation that describes the “Achilles and the Tortoise” paradox by an ancient Greek philosopher, Zeno, in the form of a “kōan” that consists of a series of questions and answers between a Zen master and his student to resolve a riddle or a paradox. In this paradox, a fast runner named Achilles runs a race with a tortoise, in which he allows the tortoise to start nine meters ahead of him. With contrary to our rational thinking, however, this paradox suggests that Achilles can never overtake the tortoise since the pursuer will always have to reach the point where the pursued has already been. Thus, the race goes on indefinitely while the slow tortoise will always be one step ahead of Achilles.

After this short animated sequence, the film follows Machisu Kuramochi’s life-long and unsuccessful quest for art and fame spanning from his childhood to the days of his youth and to his middle-age years. The director Kitano Takeshi himself stars as the aging artist and two other actors play Machisu as a child and as a young man. Kitano also painted all the artwork featured in the film. In this fable-like story, it is pretty obvious that Machisu is the Achilles trying to catch up with talented and revered artists before him such as Picasso, Mondrian, Miro, and Basquiat. He wants to become rich and famous and to be accepted by the art world but he seems to constantly miss the mark. His obsession with art and fame only leads to a poor and ridiculed life. However unappreciated his paintings may be, Machisu has a loving and loyal wife, Sachiko, who stands by him. Sachiko makes a living during the day so that her husband can focus on his art and devotes herself to helping him paint by night.

Throughout my viewing, I couldn’t help but wonder, “aren’t we all in a constant state of running trying to overtake the “tortoise”?” Whatever that “tortoise” means for each individual, we all desperately pursue something abstract that seems to run a little farther away as we make progress in our lives. In the process, we get frustrated, we are criticized, we lose our running mates, our friends and family members die, relationships fall apart, and yet the race continues.

Kitano paints (pun intended) his film with sad and gloomy stories about a failed artist to the point where this artist’s quest becomes morbid. The film then ends rather abruptly when Machisu’s wife, who has left him after finding his insane quest unbearable, returns to him and takes him home. And then a brief yet hopeful title appears on the screen: “And so Achilles did catch up with the tortoise.” Huh? Is this another paradox or a riddle, Master Kitano? So, all I have to do is find someone who understands my passion or even my obsession? Someone who accepts me as who I am? Not that I think it’s easy to find that person. But what about the tortoise? The tortoise I am chasing is just an illusion?

I have come to a conclusion that Achilles and the Tortoise is a film about “perception” – that is, the perception of art or the perception of what is perceived as art, the perception of creativity, the perception of success, the perception of the tortoise, etc. I’m struck by the notion that I may never reach an understanding of what a particular film is truly about. I guess I have to keep running and chasing in the hope that I will resolve this kōan by Kitano someday.

Postscript: Where did all the paintings go? I would like to buy one, particularly “Black Continent.”

JaeYoon Park © 2009

The Good, The Bad, and The Weird

Have you ever seen a Korean western? From its title, Kim Ji-Woon’s The Good, The Bad, and The Weird (2008) definitely evokes Sergio Leone’s classic spaghetti western, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966). Its narrative structure (civilization versus wilderness and law versus lawless binaries), settings (a mythical space filled with rampant outlaws), iconography (guns, horses, cowboy hats, cigarettes, endless horizons), and soundtrack à la Ennio Morricone all confirm that this film heavily relies on the generic conventions of the western. Yet, the film is also a hybrid blending elements of action, adventure, and comedy. The director, Kim Ji-Woon is known for his experimentation with different genres and is particularly good at alternating between moments of tension and comedic situations.

The story is set in 1930s Manchuria during the Japanese occupation and revolves around three Korean “bastards” – the film’s original Korean title is translated as “the good bastard, the bad bastard, and the weird bastard” – who are each looking for a mysterious map.

What, then, are the motives of these three “bastards”? Money. Apparently, this motive links the three. Yet, the Good (Park Do-Won) is hired by the Korean Independence Army and therefore pursues “good” money. He is a tall and good-looking bounty hunter and wears a cowboy hat. Although he kills people, he does so with elegance and precision. His mission is to obtain the map before the Japanese Imperial Army thereby securing money to support Korea’s independence movement.

The Bad (Park Chang-Yi) is hired by a rich pro-Japanese Korean who “sold out his own country” and therefore pursues “bad” money. He is a ruthless killer who is motivated by greed and the desire to become a legend. His facial scars, asymmetrical hairstyle, and black wardrobe signify his evil nature.

The Weird (Yoon Tae-Goo) is a train robber who happens to obtain the map and becomes the target chased not only by the Good and the Bad but also by the Japanese Imperial Army and the Chinese Ghost Market Gang who are after the treasure’s untold riches. He is a petty thief who abides by his own rules and dreams of owning land in Korea. But might his rustic appearance and comedic demeanor mask a far darker side?

The pursuit of the map also becomes personal as the Good seeks the bounty on the Bad’s neck and the Bad pursues the Weird because of a personal grudge. There are three action sequences in the film that particularly stand out for their spectacle of violence. The first is in the train where the Weird stumbles onto the map and flees with it in his possession. The second is at the Ghost Market where the Good and the Weird team up and fight against the Bad and the Ghost Market Gang. Finally, the third chase scene takes place in an open field nearby the Russian border where the Japanese Imperial Army joins the race with its unmatchable firearms and forces.

What, then, does the map lead to? The map’s treasure is the film’s biggest twists and simultaneously represents the promise of modern civilization and the corrupting force that rips civilizations apart. I won’t reveal the treasure here in order to not spoil your future viewing experience, but it is definitely something that could have changed the modern history of Korea if only the Korean nation had had the power and skills to have access to it.

While the treasure in the film is something of a mystery, the film’s true treasure is Song Kang-Ho’s performance as the Weird. He appeared in Kim Ji-Woon’s films twice before starring in such black comedies as The Foul King (2000) and The Quiet Family (1998). Song’s acting prowess, which is evident in both his verbal delivery and physical performance, makes me say without doubt that he is one of the best actors and comics currently in Korean cinema.

JaeYoon Park © 2009

24 City

I saw Jia Zhang Ke’s recent film, 24 City (2008), at the Athens International Film and Video Festival in Ohio in late April. Before starting to write about this film, I have to admit that a month or so has passed since I watched it and it was the very first Jia Zhang Ke’s film I’ve ever watched.

With my laziness being shamefully acknowledged, I can say that I really enjoyed watching 24 City. I had very little knowledge about the movie and its director except that Jia was one of the Chinese Sixth Generation directors, who were known for their underground filmmaking produced outside of the state government’s support. To be honest, I was more familiar with Zhang Yuan and Wang Xiaoshuai among the Sixth Generation directors.

24 City focuses on the story of former workers and their children at Factory 420 – a state-owned factory established in the1950s to provide military aircraft. The city of Chengdu, where Factory 420 used to be, has now transformed into a state-planned urban center, called 24 City, filled with high-rise apartment complexes and five-star hotels. The film mostly consists of a series of talking-head style interviews with the former and present residents of Chengdu – diverse in terms of their gender, age, and social mobility – while they recount their life experiences in the last 50 years or so.

At the beginning of the film I thought that it would be a very long and depressing two hours. However, as time went by, I felt that the film was not a conventional documentary whose primary purpose was a faithful documentation of real events and people. At one point I began to realize some of the interviewees were performing their roles and their actions were apparently staged. My suspicion about the fictional components of the film came to be certain with the appearance of the actress Joan Chen playing a former middle-aged female worker. According to this character’s own account, her nickname was “Little Flower” because of her physical resemblance to Joan Chen – Little Flower (1980) is a Chinese film in which Joan Chen starred. One of the interviewees, a personal shopper and former factory worker’s daughter who purchases luxury goods from Hong Kong for the rich in China, also looked familiar to me. I searched this actress’ name on the Internet Movie Database and found out that she was also an actress who had starred in a few films by Jia Zhang Ke.

I think that it’s a clever choice on the part of the filmmaker to fictionalize parts of the film blurring the boundaries between reality and fiction. The film generally evokes sympathy with previous and present residents of Chengdu and nostalgic feelings toward the good-old days in pre-industrialized China. However, fictional interview footage functions to pull the audience out of the nostalgic, melodramatic identification with the subject by creating a critical distance between the subject and the audience. This postmodernist interplay between nostalgia and irony is the strongest aspect of the film.

The life stories that the interviewees (both real people and actors) told the audience are in fact very sad, but I don’t think the director wants us to remain sorrowful for what has happened to the residents and the city of Chengdu since the 1950s. I think that the film invites us to critically examine, rather than romantically identifying with, the disconnection and disorientation experienced by Chinese people in the past few decades in the midst of fast urbanization and industrialization. This type of anti-romantic view is what distinguishes the Sixth Generation directors from their predecessors, Fifth Generation directors, such as Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige.

JaeYoon Park © 2009