JFL

Spirited Away is not only an astonishingly enchanting spectacle, but it is also one of the most meaningful illustrations of why Hayao Miyazaki should not be referred to as the “Japanese Disney”. Even though this appellation is used in a commendable effort to introduce this exceptional artist to potential viewers who have never heard of him (and such viewers still exist), it also cruelly robs the films of Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli of their distinctiveness. What the works of this completely solitary director have in common with the films turned out by the Disney factory is, at most, the superficial fact that they are commercially successful and animated. And such is the case with the frequent description of Spirited Away as the “Japanese/anime Alice in Wonderland”. After all, it suffices to compare Miyazaki’s film with the Disney adaptation of Alice from 1951, which is a typical product of precision studio production – an optimised product that is not the work of a single creator, but of a team, where the position of director was occupied by several animators specialising in different aspects of animation, while the same approach is applied to the script, which passed through the hands of thirteen different specialised screenwriters, who modified the source work into an attractive form. This model is identical for all classic animated films from the Disney studio; even in the era of the studio’s renaissance, direction was (with rare exceptions) divided among at least two animators. Conversely, Studio Ghibli essentially focuses on works by individual filmmakers, with Miyazaki and Takahata each involved separately in their respective films as directors and screenwriters. Miyazaki has lent his creative auspices to the projects of other, younger directors as the author of their screenplays. Whereas in the absolute majority of cases the Disney studio adapted books or based its films on classic myths and legends, Miyazaki’s pictures mostly come from the master’s own imagination. Even in the exceptional case where the story is based on a particular work (Kiki’s Delivery Service, Howl’s Moving Castle), the resulting film goes its own way and is rather only inspired by the source work. Miyazaki has never concealed his inspirations and his work is fascinating in how, among other things, he is able to combine elements from Japanese and European literature, culture and history into unique visions that gain the weight of universality through the similarities of their motifs with classic works. In the case of Spirited Away and Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, both works are about a girl who enters a fantasy world and looks for a way out, but in all other respects they are fundamentally different, to the point of being contradictory. Alice offers intensified sensations that serve to attract children’s attention, while the story is conceived as wordplay based on nonsense and absurd logic. In the book, Carroll reflected on and ridiculed a number of systems, norms and rituals of the upper crust and (apparently) based individual characters on actual archetypes. In line with that, the narrative itself establishes the heroine’s adventure as a dream in which things that are known to her from the real world take on a fantastic form. During her stay in the dream world, she does not undergo a more fundamental change or development and adulthood remains only a promise; on the contrary, her emerging personality and growing self-confidence are celebrated. Though Miyazaki lays out a fascinating world before the viewers’ eyes, he focuses solely on the female protagonist Chihiro, for whom that world becomes a catalyst of sorrow from the parallel real world and, primarily, her initiation into adolescence. Adulthood is not conceived here as a set of social norms or self-confidence in behaviour, but rather as the state of being free of stubbornness and self-centeredness and thus gaining empathy and an awareness of one’s own identity and roots. The individual supporting characters represent various forms of these qualities and go through the same developmental arc together with Chichiro (No-Face and Yubaba's child). Specific plot motifs (taking on names such as enchantment, memories) thematicise identity and the building blocks thereof. Chihiro thus grows out of being an obstinate and internally confused girl who finds it difficult to cope with moving to a new home when, thanks to her experience in the spirit world, she turns her fear and helplessness into enchantment and empathetic interest, while also recognising the value of her name and the weight of her own past and memories. In terms of style, Spirited Away is Miyazaki’s longest and least genre-specific film. The film’s conflicts and twists do not take the form of adventurous clashes as in Nausicaä, Laputa or Mononoke. Instead, they take place against the background of the heroine’s story, as she increasingly gains composure and calm – therefore, an unforgettable highlight of the film is the captivating slow train ride through a landscape transformed into an ocean.

Although the protagonist calls himself Ford Fairlane, he is actually just the renamed Diceman, and therein lies the downfall of this now forgotten and, in its time, allegedly cult movie. That brash, flippant and bombastic rockabilly boor was (and still is today) the stand-up persona of the film’s lead actor, Andrew Dice Clay. Though the Diceman is only a role that is evidently incompatible with Clay’s personal demeanour, it is based on the principle of caricature; he is not a satirical character such as Stephen Colbert’s persona in The Colbert Report. Colbert ridiculed his inspirations, his audience knew what he was doing and, through him, laughed at what he was caricaturing. Furthermore, the foundation of the entire show consisted in familiarising the audience and guests with the fact that it was a parody. Conversely, recordings of the Diceman’s performances at the time offer a chilling image, where the caricature-based exaggeration becomes the framework that legitimises the use of boorish vulgarities, which the audience applauds while failing to see the perversity, ossification, ignorance and limitations of the character, because that character is not a clown or a mirror placed in front of the audience, but rather an assertion and validation of their own values. There are many cases in which caricature-based satire remains misunderstood and the people whom it makes fun of become its devoted and enthusiastic audience, as was the case with Married with Children and Australian icon Barry McKenzie. In contrast, the Diceman shows no signs of reflection or uncertainty for his audience, at best coming across as a pragmatic project that enables one person to earn a living by behaving like an asshole and other assholes are more than happy to pay him for his efforts. Because of Dice’s involvement, The Adventures of Ford Fairlane becomes a schizophrenic film in which Dice is the ideal performer to play the lead role of an uncouth rockabilly detective, while he is also the reason that the entire film gives off a whiff of repulsiveness. After all, schizophrenia is an essential element of the film, which straddles various tendencies and directions, as a result of which it does not belong anywhere. The protagonist’s rockabilly stylisation and his boastful glorification of 1959s machismo and sexism serves as a late contribution to the wave of exaggerated and campy ’50s retro represented in cinema by a number of films ranging from Grease (1978) through Streets of Fire (1984) and Radioactive Dreams (1985) to Cry-Baby (1990). Conversely, self-reflection and pointing out the clichés of genre films and their characters turned film toward the trend of sophisticated, more or less meta genre movies, with The Last Boy Scout (1991) and The Last Action Hero (1993) at the fore. Unlike those enduring and retrospectively appreciated films, The Adventures of Ford Fairlane crashes and burns on its central character. Fairlane is an anachronism, but not only does he not admit it (as in The Last Boy Scout), but the whole world around him does not notice it at all. The same is true of the extent to which he is merely a movie character who realises that he is an unrealistic construct when, unlike in The Last Action Hero, he never has to step out of his comfort zone. On the other hand, thanks to everything that has been outlined here, Fairlane was, in his time, an ideal hero for adolescent film buffs. In their predisposition to an egocentric view of the world and wallowing in their supposed superiority, they were blind to the fact that the protagonist is simply an unlikable dick, but they were able to see in him a big tough guy emanating wit, good humour and coolness, and then declared the whole film to be somehow progressive and unappreciated. That youthful ignorance is the basis of the ratings here, where ecstatic responses mostly are predominantly from the time when the database was established, or from witnesses who saw the film when it came out on video, while the more sober and disappointed responses evidently come from older viewers who were curious about this highly praised phenomenon.

Unfortunately, this has already been done before, in a more conceptual, sincere and self-contained film version. This pilot for a potential Amazon series clearly draws on Mabrouk El Mechri’s phenomenal JCVD, but instead of that film’s balancing on the edge of reflection, homage, mockery and admiration, it is rather an attempt at Tropic Thunder turned on its head. Johnson is yet another contribution of the current line of quantity TV, which is built not on progressiveness, but rather on the comforting variation of what has already been seen and loved. In the age of quality TV, it was true that the main advantage of series was that, unlike films, they had more room to manoeuvre in terms of character development and could thus be less formulaic and thus more complex. In the current state of the flourishing competitive market and a return to classic television consumerism, the focus is on capturing the audience with an attractive and optimally familiar concept and stretching it out endlessly. The main thing is to attract attention, and screenwriting dodges will ensure that viewers keep coming back for more. Johnson is thus another contribution to the main current trend of series production – milking well-known movie brands for all they’re worth. Except at Amazon they properly understood that the brand consists not of the title of the film, but of the main character. On one hand, the pilot is clearly very likable and ticks all the boxes for engaging the chosen audience (generations of Van Damme fans and film buffs). There is thus obvious potential for a long-running series, but, on the other hand, it is impossible to imagine that it could offer a more intense viewing experience than simply re-watching JCVD, followed by Tropic Thunder. The pilot actually works best as a sort of fast-paced commentary on JCVD (it contains variations on the film’s most affecting scenes – Van Damme performing variations on the iconic rush and mountains, meeting fans everywhere and even crying – but due to the absence of dramaturgical structure and context, it lacks the film’s emotional impact).

One of the most terrifying cases of trailer syndrome – individual scenes played up to the maximum, but the whole is fatally incohesive, not to mention the tragic lack of dramaturgy or the half-baked nature of the screenplay. The narrative gives the impression of being a rough bunch of ideas thrown together after the first brainstorming session that no one bothered work out and refine, let alone assess with a clear head. At the same time, the initial ambitious plan to combine the tradition of ’80s children’s horror with the harrowing and repulsive naturalism of the French extreme horror-film production of the new millennium sounds like a great idea, but it simply doesn’t work in practice. The two stylistic approaches differ in basic matters to such a degree that they cancel each other out. Eighties children’s films like The Goonies, from which the filmmakers apparently drew the most inspiration (an underground labyrinth, a pirate ship, a simpleton in a monstrous body), are built on illusion, adventure and innocence. Conversely, French hyper-realistic nihilism turns children into unlikable assholes, taints illusion with rot and, instead of guilelessness and naiveté, employs extreme corporeality, derangement and distasteful grotesqueness. Whereas adventure movies from Amblin and the like are focused on bringing friends and family together, the right opposite has to happen in Aux yeux des vivants. The film unavoidably gives the impression that its creators skipped one essential step between brainstorming and shooting, which was to acknowledge that this was never going to work and put an end to the project. Unfortunately, they didn’t do that, probably because of their own fame and the support provided by the French government, which finances absolutely anything and everything.

The most surprising aspect of Green Room is the non-filmic aspect consisting in the fact that it polarises the audience at all. One would expect that people would simply enjoy a flick that serves up an absorbing survival story in exchange for a drop of suspension of disbelief. Green Room is neither a realistic drama nor an ambitious revision of genre rules, but rather an ingeniously and not quite traditionally constructed genre film. Like Wolf Creek, for example, it takes its time initiating the confrontation. When it comes this time, genre excess does not emerge, but rather realism continues to be applied within the boundaries of the genre. From that, it is apparent that the film does not play completely according to formulas or, said more precisely, that it does not develop the situation predictably through clichés, but spontaneously through the characters and the playing out of the claustrophobic situation. Thanks to that, the overarching survival stand-off narrative gets some fresh blood in its veins. The gradual alternation of attempts to survive and the revelation of facts that are unknown to both the viewer and the characters keeps the tension building. Thanks to the fact that the filmmakers stay grounded in terms of eye-catching genre elements (from overwrought heroism and pompous negativity to superficial attractions), the traditional alienation of the film does not bring up any questions about what will happen next or how it will turn out, and the impulsively behaving characters only carry the viewer onward to the next unconventionally constructed scene. But apparently not for everyone. Then the question is, why? Because today’s film fans have become so enamoured with overly sophisticated blockbusters and high-quality TV that they cannot enjoy a precise, non-camp genre spectacle that is not exceedingly wise, but is just inconspicuously clever?

Ah, the VHS era, when the success of a film was not determined by its qualities, but by its title and cover, or even its trailer. Could there be anything more fabulous than Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, especially with an attractive picture of scantily clad girls and a promise of the supernatural? Well, practically anything could be. The film concealed behind the masterful promotion is one of the most telling examples of video bullshit. This time, David DeCoteau is in charge of the hopeless blend of teenage pseudo-obscene flicks and horror comedy, while not properly delving into either. With this film, it is impossible to say what the individual scenes contain or how poorly it is made. Here, the only saving grace is amusement over what they do not contain, because the filmmakers did not have the money, skills or inventiveness to get the job done. You will learn from Sorority Babes that the gore, masks and effects of their time were surprisingly more expensive than basic stunts, so in the climax there will be one shot with an overturned car on the roof, but no blood at any time during the film. Which is a major shortcoming in a horror film that can otherwise boast only the futile jokes and tiresome dialogue of its idiotic characters. However, DeCoteau and company surprisingly show that the classic remark about trash, that nudity and sex scenes are cheaper than dialogue, may not be true if you find a sufficiently cheap screenwriter. But in the era of the VHS market, none of the above was a reason for failure; on the contrary, the fame of Sorority Babes remains thesmirking proof that a little was indeed enough to satisfy viewers of a certain age back in the day.

“Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind.” It’s hard to say whether the screenwriters of this soap-operatic action franchise are fans of Lilo & Stitch, but they definitely transformed that film’s motto into the defining principle of the Fast & Furious series. In the seventh instalment about family, not only does absolutely every character on the franchise team yammer on about it, but so does the main antagonist, which opens up endless possibilities for more and more sequels in the future. Furthermore, we can apply the quote to the way in which the series bid farewell to the late Paul Walker, which goes against the expectations of supposedly seasoned viewers. Otherwise, replacement of the director brought forth very few changes (which raises the question of who serves as the showrunner in major film series) and instead rather intensified existing tendencies. Though the film has officially merged with the Forza Motorsport video-game brand, it is still firmly rooted in GTA. In addition to the general over-the-top comic-book stylisation, this is apparent mainly in the narrative, which this time is constructed according to an adventure formula whereby in order to achieve a particular goal, it is necessary to obtain the means to do so, which are connected with the fulfilment of a number of secondary tasks. The alternation of action scenes and melodrama continues in Furious 7 and again the non-action scenes serve as a radical retarder in every sense of the word. Nevertheless, the fountain of blather about family has already taken on an utterly absurd dimension, especially in combination with the ridiculously ripped Diesel and cartoonishly executed scenes. The formulaic nature of the film goes beyond the boundary of insipid soap operas into the realm of hysterical camp, which, however, adds to its fun factor. After all, how seriously Furious 7 should be taken is laid bare in the opening scene, which reliably divides the audience into those who will focus on realism, logic, causality and other things that are out of place here, and those who are in tune with the film’s mix of outlandishly overwrought pathos, kitsch and delirious ostentation. The previous instalment in the series had already gone beyond Bond-esque spectacle to surreal bombast in terms of the conceptualisation and stylisation of action scenes, and that trend continues here. Unfortunately, that includes the desperate climax swimming in CGI. Luckily, we can understand it as material fatigue following much more imaginative previous scenes, both in terms of the action itself and the shooting thereof. The fetishistic details of shifting gears and stomping on the pedals were transformed into a spectacular sequence of impressions with a throbbing cadence of a few windows. This time, the camera remains stable in the details and, conversely, takes greater risks in larger shots, which is beneficial to the dynamics of the sequences. But on the other hand, as has already been mentioned, the change of director did not change the direction of the series. There is no ground-breaking remodelling as in the fifth instalment; instead, only the formula established by that film is varied and a few nuances are added. Whereas comic-book movies strive for some overlaps and emotional swings, Fast & Furious is pure escapist popcorn that is entertaining as both a silly action flick and campy melodrama, and imminently forgettable.

Bloodsucking Pharaohs in Pittsburgh is typical VHS trash–an enticing title, a poster that has very little in common with the film, a promising concept marred by a futile screenplay, and a few moneyshots released in the trailer. This hopelessly lifeless attempt to combine horror, crime and parody crashes and burns due to the utter inability of everyone involved to construct a joke or make a point. As for the promised splatter associated with Tom Savini’s participation, the film, in the interest of a minimal budget, which was spent on costumes and staging, is limited to a handful of static gore shots, but all of the killing happens off-camera.

At the level of the primary plot, this likably obscene variation of Shakespeare's classic wagers only on lengthy sequences whose purpose is to cram as much nudity and dirty jokes as possible into the film. Fortunately, the narrative is constantly disrupted by anarchistic scenes with Dadaist pranks, which with their spectacular dumbness, though not brimming with genius, push this amateurish film into the realm of classic shallow entertainment in the mould of Benny Hill and Kenny Everett.

Frances Ha is a more idealistic, outsider-ish, and melancholic Girls, thanks to which Noah Baumbach’s ground-breaking film has a better rating among most men than Lena Dunham’s phenomenal series. Whereas Dunham’s heroines are sophisticated and not ashamed to be open in their futility and awkwardness, Baumbach’s idealised ode to his new love and co-writer Greta Gerwig rather gives the impression of a deranged and self-centred manic pixie dream girl. The director and the viewers make up the male counterpart who comes to the enchantment of life through her. Like the narrative ideal of a number of indie films, Frances Ha is a pleasing and ostentatiously free-thinking fairy tale that enchants with its concept of friendship and love.