I’m not sure if the term originated from Kim Ji-woon himself or from some publicist trying to market the film to international and genre audiences, but “kimchi western” has become the unofficial genre designation for The Good, The Bad, The Weird. But what, exactly, is a “kimchi western”?

Well, if Kim’s film is any indication, then it’s the sort of western where the main villain, with his coiffure, mascara, piercings, and stylish black suit, looks more apt to be slinging guitars in The Killers than slinging guns at high noon; where the villain’s gang looks like a mix of Road Warrior extras and hip-hop gangstas; where folks kill bugs by throwing knives at them, and then shoot their knives; where shootouts occur as our hero careens through the air on zip lines and elaborate pulley systems; and where diving helmets are just as appropriate for headgear as “ten gallon” hats.

Or to put it another way, it’s the sort of western where the style is the substance — and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Frankly, it’s a relief for me to be able to say that, because for years, I’ve never really been able to bring myself to like Kim Ji-woon’s films (e.g., The Foul King, A Tale of Two Sisters, A Bittersweet Life). I’ve always appreciated and admired those films — Kim is nothing if not a consummate stylist, and a film like A Bittersweet Life is great to watch for its visuals, cinematography, etc. — but I’ve never really enjoyed them. Visuals aside, they’ve never struck a deeper chord with me.

Which is not to say that The Good, The Bad, The Weird is all that deep or thought-provoking (though it does have its moments, including a tragic little coda). First and foremost, it is a lot of spectacle pulled off with a lot of flair and panache — and a little genre-tweaking cheekiness — and at the end of the day, that’s plenty for me.

As you might guess from the title, the film begins as a riff on Sergio Leone’s masterpiece. “The Good” (Jung Woo-sung, who made a big impression on me in 2001’s stunning Musa) is a noble bounty hunter and sharpshooter chasing after “The Bad”. “The Bad” (heartthrob Lee Byung-hun) is a vicious psychopath who has been hired to steal a treasure map being sent to a Japanese official, and plans a stunning train heist — the film’s first big action sequence, and immediate proof that Kim is going for broke here — to do so.

“The Weird” (Song Kang-ho, who provides nearly all of the film’s best moments) is a seemingly bumbling thief who happens to hit the same train begin targeted by “The Bad”, and makes off with the map with both “Bad” and “Good” in hot pursuit. “Weird” believes the map will lead him to a secret cache of Qing Dynasty treasure, but the reality is a bit more complicated, especially when other factions send their forces after the map, too.

Throw in a bunch of Manchurian bandits, a senile grandmother, an opium dealer, and the Japanese army, and you’ve got a film spiced through and through with interesting and humorous characters. However, the focus remains squarely on the titular trio, and it’s to Kim’s credit that the film rarely becomes chaotic or sprawling no matter how many individuals fill up the screen.

Throw in Kim’s customary sense of style, some amazing desert cinematography, and some impressive set design — at the time of its release, this was the most expensive South Korean film of all time — and it’s a feast for the eyes. (Though if the action scenes in the last two Bourne films left you feeling a little queasy, you might want to brace yourself before heading into this one.)

And finally, throw in copious amounts of Santa Esmeralda’s version of “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” (last heard in Kill Bill, Volume 1), Lee’s mugging and Song’s bumbling, and some stunning sequences (including a final chase across the Manchurian desert that grows larger and more ludicrous as it progresses), and you have a film that is a thrill to experience — a film where “style as substance” isn’t a disparagement, but rather an accurate summation in the very best sense possible.

Oh, and it’s a lot of fun, too.

One of my favorite movie review quotes comes from Chris Vognar’s review of Donnie Darko, in which he writes that Donnie Darko “may be too ambitious for a debut feature, but ambition and imagination still trump mediocrity any day of the week.” Over the years, that has become my “go-to” phrase to describe movies that may contain considerable flaws, but that are nevertheless enthralling, enchanting, and fascinating. Which is a perfect way to describe Jamin Winan’s Ink.

And just how is Ink too ambitious? I suppose that if you’re making a film that deals with dreamworlds, altered states of consciousness, and other planes of existence, you get a free pass to skip on a standard or linear narrative structure. Saying that might bring to mind such films as Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Being John Malkovich, but Winans (who also wrote the film) is not quite Charlie Kaufman.

Ink is, to put it simply, jumbled, pitting together multiple narratives that exist within alternate timelines and states of existence. That certainly makes for a headtrip while watching the film, but it also means that the film occasionally collapses under the weight of its convoluted storyline. And it doesn’t help that Winans employs a fair amount of hyperkinetic editing during the movie’s action and chase sequences, editing that doesn’t so much thrill you as it does give you a headache.

But therein lies the rub: by employing a narrative structure that doesn’t make a lot of logical or rational sense (although it’d be interesting to see someone attempt to plot it out à la Primer), Winans frees his film to go for broke, emotionally speaking. Ink definitely wears its heart on its sleeve, and is packed with themes of redemption, guilt, forgiveness, the cancerous effects of materialism and pride, the importance of fathers, and the power of stories — to name a few. I was quite moved at several points during Ink; even if the film didn’t make the most logical sense, it certainly cut to the heart.

The danger then becomes that the film might go too far towards this end of the spectrum, and instead of drowning in narrative quicksand, end up drowning in melodrama, or even worse, come off as emotionally manipulative. Here, too, Winans’ “ambition and imagination” come in handy, by giving us glimpses of a larger mythology that cuts through any emotional sap by setting the viewer’s imagination ablaze.

In the world of Ink, there are two factions that watch over us when we sleep: Storytellers, who remind people of their value and worth via good dreams and memories; and Incubi, who infect people with fear, pride, and hatred via nightmares. These two factions constantly war with each other, striving for the souls of mankind — or at least, our self-esteem.

There are other entities in this world as well, including the Pathfinder, an indvidual “blinded by God” who is capable of hearing the beat of the world (which basically means that the coolest scene in the movie belongs to him) as well as the titular character, who kidnaps the (soul? mind? astral body?) of a young girl in order to become one of the Incubi for reasons unknown. The movie doesn’t explain all of this in tremendous detail but rather, gives viewers just enough hints and clues to draw us in and put our imagination to work. (For what it’s worth, part of me hopes that Winans explores the mythology of Ink some more, perhaps in other media.)

Bringing life to these hints and clues are the film’s impressive visuals. There’s no hiding or ignoring the film’s $250,000 budget. The special effects may not have much in the way of a Hollywood sheen, but that’s actually a good thing here. Their roughness and “kitchen sink” approach — such as the reversed film effect used to “reset” objects (e.g., chairs, tables, lamps) that are smashed during a dreamworld duel — gives them a sense of dimension and “earthiness” that makes the trippy scenes more believable than any display of multi-million dollar CGI could. This is especially true of the Incubi, who walk around in black leathery garb and hide their faces behind static-riddled viewscreens that accentuate their grotesque smiles. They bring to mind the most nightmarish elements of Gilliam and Jeunet, but on a shoestring budget.

Finally, there’s an extremely clever usage of soft focus cinematography, color palettes, and visual styles to help convey the film’s many alternate worlds. It’s a wonderful example of “show, don’t tell”, and it makes for some of Ink’s most arresting imagery, such as when the film cuts from a man walking absentmindedly through a hospital to the Storyteller/Incubi battle of which he is blissfully unaware even as it erupts around him. (If nothing else, it’s one of the most vivid representations of spiritual warfare I’ve seen.)

I first learned of Ink over a year ago and instantly added it to my “must see” list, based on the strength of its trailer (which I’ve embedded below). But real life kept preventing me from seeing it, even though it was sitting in my Netflix queue for a good portion of the intervening time. I’m sorry that it took me so long to see it, but I’m happy to say that it was worth the wait. Deeply heartfelt, with captivating visuals and indelible images, Ink handily sidesteps its flaws. Some might be put off by its narrative challenges, or even by its low budget look and feel, but I suspect that, for most viewers, those will ultimately fade away in light of what Winans’ “ambition and imagination” have achieved here.

Ink is now available on DVD and Blu-ray. You can also watch it via Netflix Streaming or Hulu.

Back in January of 2009, I came across a trailer for a low-budget indie sci-fi/fantasy film called Ink. I was immediately intrigued by the trailer’s Gilliam/Jeunet/Gaiman vibe, but it wasn’t until last week that I finally got to see the film.

I’ll be posting my full review of Ink here at Filmwell soon — Spoiler Alert: I liked it… a lot — but in the meantime, check out Uncle Jack, a 5 minute short that Ink’s director, Jamin Winans, did for Pentax in February of 2010. While certainly a good deal less fantastical than Ink, Uncle Jack contains a similar sense of cleverness, style, and interest in stories and storytelling.

I don’t envy anyone who sets out to make an H.P. Lovecraft film. When people think of unfilmable — or at best, extremely difficult to film — authors, such luminaries as James Joyce, Kurt Vonnegut, and Thomas Pynchon usually top the list. However, I contend that Lovecraft is up there as well, and three reasons immediately spring to mind.

First, film is a visual medium, one where the cardinal rule is “show, don’t tell”. And yet, the joy of reading Lovecraft, indeed, the cornerstone to enjoying Lovecraft, I think, is Lovecraft’s telling of it, i.e., wading through his wierd language. Not his dialog, since most of his stories are essentially inner monologue and narration, but rather, his long, rolling sentences, undulating paragraphs, lofty cosmicist philosophizing, and ten-dollar synonyms for “weird” and “creepy”.

It certainly borders on macabre purple prose at times, but Lovecraft goes on and on with such conviction that you either dismiss it outright and move on to something else, or you just give in and enjoy it for the arcane, archaic pleasure that it is. A classic example:

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the single glimpse of forbidden eons which chills me when I think of it and maddens me when I dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out from an accidental piecing together of separated things — in this case an old newspaper item and the notes of a dead professor. I hope that no one else will accomplish this piecing out; certainly, if I live, I shall never knowingly supply a link in so hideous a chain. I think that the professor, too, intended to keep silent regarding the part he knew, and that he would have destroyed his notes had not sudden death seized him.

Second, his stories are often first person accounts or take the form of long, dictated papers and diaries, full of narration in which his protagonists describe, in great detail, the cosmic and eldritch horrors that they have encountered. It’s a structure that if transferred “as is” to the silver screen brings with it all manner of first-person gimmickiness — you thought Wong Kar-Wai’s narration was heavy-handed. However, it works wonderfully on the printed page, conferring upon Lovecraft’s stories a sense of both authenticity and immediacy.

And finally, and perhaps the greatest challenge, is that Lovecraft’s mythmaking is so grandiose, so bizarre, and so otherworldly, particularly in his most celebrated stories (e.g., At the Mountains of Madness, The Call of Cthulhu), that filmmakers either need to go big or go home. Alien cities buried in Antarctica, strange islands whose geometries defy the very laws of mathematics, alien creatures of whom the briefest glimpse can drive the sturdiest soul stark raving mad — Lovecraft sets the bar high. It seems unlikely that even supremely imaginative directors, even one so gifted as Guillermo del Toro (who has been planning a version of At the Mountains of Madness for years), would be able to reach it. How do you create cosmic horrors capable of leaving their beholders insane, and do so convincingly without slipping into gory, violence-laden histrionics, or worse yet, goofiness?

All of this brings us to 2005’s The Call of Cthulhu. How does this little film, directed by Andrew Leman for the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society on what was almost certainly a shoestring budget, stand up to the aforementioned hurdles? To put it mildly, this little forty-seven minute gem of a film handily sweeps aside nearly all such hurdles to Lovecraft adaptations in one fell swoop, and for one simple reason: the filmmakers essentially made The Call of Cthulhu as the kind of film that Lovecraft might have seen in his day… a black and white silent  film.

It’s a simple aesthetic choice, but a brilliant one. The structure of a silent movie, with its intermingling of visual and textual elements, is perfect for the structure of Lovecraft’s storytelling. What’s more, the archaic look of the movie, which gives it the air of a long-lost cinematic artifact, jives well with the fact that Lovecraft’s stories were both obsessed with archaic relics and artifacts — Lovecraft looked more lovingly on previous civilizations than the one in which he lived — and that Lovecraft’s mode of storytelling itself has an archaic feel to it.

Storywise, the film is a pretty faithful retelling of Lovecraft’s most famous tale, which recounts a young man’s investigation into the diaries and journals of his professor uncle that dealt with the strange global cult of the titular deity. The film hops back and forth in time and spans the globe as the man narrates his attempts to put the pieces together, only to realize that his uncle was on to something horrifying. But try as he might, our protagonist can’t resist the lure of this forbidden knowledge even as it slowly drives him mad (natch).

The filmmakers’ choice to go black and white was also a masterstroke from a technical perspective. Filming in black and white allowed the filmmakers to worry less about the realism of the sets — which comes in very handy in the film’s climax, during which a group of hapless sailors explore the city of R’lyeh on an uncharted island (described by Lovecraft as possessing “vast angles and stone surfaces — surfaces too great to belong to any thing right or proper for this earth, and impious with horrible images and hieroglyphs”). Here, the filmmakers draw heavily from the aesthetics of 1920s German Expressionist cinema (e.g., The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari), and the result is a set that looks more real and convincing — and alien — than anything created with CGI. (Incidentally, the film is completely 100% CGI.)

Unfortunately, the filmmakers stumble a bit when big bad Cthulhu is finally revealed and ventures forth from his crypt to wreak unholy havoc. I’ll be honest: the Great Old One looks more like a muppet than a cosmic horror as he lumbers forth into the sea, and it sort of kills the moment — which proves part of what I was saying earlier. But it’s only a slight misstep in a film that succeeds brilliantly and absolutely on so many other levels — as an adaptation, a spiritual homage, and on its own as a horror film.

More information, including trailers, can be found on the film’s homepage.

On a related note, the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society is currently turning The Whisperer in Darkness into a full-length feature, this time a talkie inspired by the classic 1930s Universal Pictures horror films. It looks to be another inspired decision, and another fine entry into the Lovecraft library.

For many folks, the Nineties represent the finest decade of Hong Kong filmmaking, and I’d be hard-pressed to disagree with them. So many filmmakers — Wong Kar-Wai, John Woo, Tsui Hark, Jackie Chan, Johnnie To, Stephen Chow — were either at the top of the their game during that decade, or arrived at the top of their game as a result of that decade, and in the process, directed films that, for are all intents and purposes, are Hong King cinema.

You’ll see what I mean as you peruse through LoveHKFilm’s “Top 100 Hong Kong Films of the Nineties”.

• Numbers 100-81
• Numbers 80-61
• Numbers 60-41
• Numbers 40-31
• Numbers 30-21
• Numbers 20-11
• Numbers 10-6
• Numbers 5-1

Two things are certain about the legacy of Neon Genesis Evangelion. First, the fourteen years or so that have passed since its TV debut have done little, if anything, to diminish the shadow that it casts over the entire anime landscape. Indeed, nearly any anime title that involves giant robots, (young) characters struggling with psychological trauma and alienation, labyrinthine and esoteric conspiracies, and/or apocalyptic scenarios will inevitably be compared to Hideaki Anno’s series and run the risk of being dismissed as “Evangelion-lite”. (No offense, RahXephon and Argentosoma, but I’m looking in your general direction.)

And second, Gainax — the studio behind Evangelion — has done nearly everything in its power to capitalize on the series as a merchandising bonanza. If you thought Disney’s merchandising efforts were over the top, you ain’t seen nothing yet: Evangelion has spawned numerous video releases and reissues, manga (comic books) series, toys, video games, music releases, apparel, playing cards, lighters, plush figurines, coffee, snack foods, footwear, pachinko parlors, and even iPods.

So suffice to say, when Anno announced his intention to remake Evangelion as a tetralogy of movies with new storylines, new characters, and a completely new ending, there were probably more than a few anime fans and otaku who rolled their eyes and dismissed it as yet one more cash grab. But Evangelion’s allure and legacy are powerful forces, and its heady brew of teen angst, Freudian psychology, Kabbalah and Judeo-Christian imagery, and awesome robot-smashing action cannot be so easily dismissed (even if it doesn’t always make the most sense on paper).

Evangelion begins fifteen years after the “Second Impact”, a cataclysmic event that destroyed Antarctica, did irreparable damage to Earth’s environment, and wiped out half of humanity. But now, mankind faces an even greater threat: the “Angels”, strange monstrous beings whose existence was foretold by the Dead Sea Scrolls (cue the religious esoterica!) and who seem drawn to Tokyo-3, one of humanity’s last strongholds.

Unfortunately, Earth’s military might is nothing compared to the Angels’ power. Humanity’s only hope lies in the top secret organization Nerv (cue the esoteric conspiracies!) and its EVAs, giant robots (cue the robot-smashing action!) that can only be piloted by young teens (cue the teen angst!) born after the Second Impact. Shinji Ikari, the series’ protagonist, is one such teen. Summoned to Tokyo-3 by his father Gendo — who is Nerv’s commander and who abandoned him at a young age — Shinji is as un-heroic as you can imagine, a weak-willed young man with no self esteem or confidence whatsoever.

Torn between a desire to run from conflict and human contact, and a desperate need for approval and self-identity, Shinji agrees to pilot an EVA the day he arrives at Nerv HQ. And while he can’t remember anything from his dramatic battle with the strange Angel known as Sachiel, it’s quickly apparent that there’s more to this young teen, and his EVA, than previously thought.

It’s difficult to know how much to say about Evangelion. On the one hand, saying too little could easily cause others to dismiss the title as yet another “giant robot vs. monster of the week” title, the kind that permeates your local Best Buy’s anime section with cliché after cliché. But one of the pleasures of watching Evangelion — the series, anyway — is to see just how far down the rabbit hole Anno and Co. go, and I certainly don’t want to spoil that. With the new Evangelion tetralogy, Anno seems keenly aware of the dilemma. The so-called Rebuild of Evangelion is Anno’s attempt to create a definitive version of the series for a new time and era, one that is primarily focused for drawing new people into the franchise while simultaneously offering something both new and nostalgic for longtime fans.

Evangelion: 1.11 You Are (Not) Alone achieves mixed success in this endeavor. There’s no way to get around the fact that You Are (Not) Alone’s 100 minutes feels extremely episodic in nature. It’s a streamlined retelling of the original’s first six episodes, and unfortunately, what gets streamlined is that which built up the drama that kept people coming back in the series’ first third or so, during which it’s largely a routine “monster of the week” title. In other words, the characters — i.e., Shinji, Rei, Misato — feel far less developed. Of course, there’s every reason to believe that this will be corrected in the later films, but even so, what makes Evangelion so compelling is its characters’ plights and backstories, and you just don’t get that here beyond some surface-level pouting and father issues.

Things do pick up in the film’s final act with the attack of the Angel called Ramiel, a giant crystalline octahedron intent on drilling straight through the earth to the GeoFront, Nerv’s subterranean headquarters. And the movie’s final scenes imply that the second film, Evangelion: 2.0 You Can (Not) Advance, will diverge quite a bit from the original series, and truly shape up to be the original vision sought by Anno.

My feeling is that You Are (Not) Alone is primarily Anno’s attempt to placate the otaku who might otherwise be concerned by the thought of a rebuild; that it’s his attempt to show them that the rebuild is not completely doing away with everything they know and love. By starting off with what is essentially the first six episodes, and introducing few, if any, substantial new elements, You Are (Not) Alone has little to appeal to new viewers unless they already have some level of curiosity to finally check out an anime title that folks have been talking about for years. (But just between you and me, I’m a little skeptical that Anno’s rebuild will draw in too many new viewers: this is still Evangelion we’re talking about here.)

If this all sounds dismissive, let me clarify: I did enjoy the movie. For all of its flaws, it’s still Evangelion. And there are plenty of scenes that are simply awesome, and ought to appeal to any otaku worth their salt. The new series is not being done by Gainax, but rather by Studio Khara, a brand new company created just for the rebuild, and their work is astounding. The animation has been significantly cleaned up and CGI is used throughout quite well, from the awe-inspiring transformations of Tokyo-3 to Ramiel’s shapeshifting and devastating attacks. Visually, the movie remains faithful to the original series; it just looks a lot better — especially if you’re watching it on Blu-ray.

And there are classic Evangelion scenes strewn throughout You Are (Not) Alone that brought a smile to my face: the reveal of the GeoFront; Shinji’s first encounter with Pen-Pen; and his first view of the crucified Lilith, the source of human life and the reason behind the Angel’s attacks.

Ultimately, I like You Are (Not) Alone not so much for itself, but for what it represents: a stable (for all its flaws) foundation for a re-imagining of one of the most important anime titles of all time. It’s far too early to tell if Anno’s rebuild will be a success or not. Methinks that the second film — which, from all accounts, is where the deviation from the original series truly begins — will be a bigger indicator of ultimate success. But Evangelion has always been a title that is far greater than the sum of its parts (i.e., religious mysticism, conspiracies, teen melodrama, kick-ass robots), and nothing I saw in You Are (Not) Alone changes that assessment. However, we’ll need to wait several more years in order to see just how much greater this particular incarnation really is.

Note: I had initially planned to post this review in December of 2009 after watching the initial DVD release, Evangelion: 1.01 You Are (Not) Alone. However that release was plagued with several transfer issues (e.g., the night scenes in the final act were well nigh unwatchable). Those issues have been fixed with Evangelion: 1.11. Three minutes of footage have also been added, which doesn’t sound like much, but Evangelion: 1.11 does actually feel a little smoother and less episodic than its predecessor. If you’ve already seen Evangelion: 1.01, then I do recommend watching Evangelion: 1.11. In some ways, it really feels like a completely different, and better, movie, and not merely a shameless cash-grab by the producers.

Steven D. Greydanus (of Decent Films fame) has posted a wonderful overview of Hayao Miyazaki, his films, and their influence on American cinema.

Miyazaki’s American proponents hoped Ponyo would be his breakout film stateside, but mainstream success in America continues to elude him. That is a shame, and our loss.

Hayao Miyazaki is one of the most important living filmmakers many readers haven’t heard of. He can easily be called the world’s foremost living director of animation. Even if you haven’t seen any of Miyazaki’s work, you’ve probably experienced his influence on American films.

[...]

While his influence is impressive, then, Miyazaki’s vision remains unique. The worlds he creates — the teeming post-apocalyptic jungle world of Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, the strange 19th-century science fiction of Laputa: Castle in the Sky, the surreal spirit world of Spirited Away — are as singular as they are captivating. There is a haunting quality about Miyazaki’s works; the viewer has the sense of having visited a place with a character as distinct and vibrant as any place in the real world.

Partly this is due to the artist’s painterly style and extraordinary eye for persuasive detail; partly it is the effortless authority with which he blends reality (or realities) and whimsy to create settings that seem copied directly from life, even if the particular architectural, technological and cultural milieus he draws on never coexisted in any one place and time, or in some cases never existed at all.

[...]

For all viewers, Miyazaki’s whole body of work (less one or two sub-par exceptions) offers unduplicated vistas of imaginative wonder and beauty, images of startling power, admirable and likable heroines and heroes, humanely conceived supporting characters, elusively engaging storytelling, wholesome moral themes, and unexpected sly humor. He is the sort of artist whose work doesn’t just entertain audiences, but wins enthusiasts. For those who haven’t yet discovered him, Miyazaki is a taste well worth acquiring.

Greydanus pretty much hits on every single reason why I love Hayao Miyazaki’s films, and then some.

PopMatters explores some of the themes lurking in of my favorite anime series:

The animated series Cowboy Bebop is a blend of classic film noir motifs mixed into a futuristic setting that reverses the roles of gender and character. Consisting of a concise 26 episodes and one movie that doesn’t drag out the story, the show managed to raise the bar for not only anime, but television in general. Taking the stereotypes from film noir and paralleling the story of (Jacques Tourneur’s) Out of the Past, it bends the noir formulas of the film so that sometimes the man is fulfilling the femme fatale’s role and the woman is the doomed protagonist. It blends the formulas of both noir and anime as it takes the crooked partner story and mixes it with the classic anime buddy formula. The gloomy poetry of men walking into certain death is combined with Eastern philosophy over a backdrop of country music and Bebop jazz.

Note: The article contains several major spoilers if you haven’t already seen the series or the movie.

Studio Ghibli’s next film will be an adaptation of Mary Norton’s The Borrowers. Entitled Karigurashi no Arrietty (lit. The Borrower Arrietty), the film will be the directorial debut of Hiromasa Yonebayashi, who has worked as an animator on previous Ghibli films, including Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea, Howl’s Moving Castle, and Spirited Away.

The original, Carnegie Medal-winning 1952 novel revolves around the “little people” — 10 centimeters (about 4 inches) tall — who live underneath the floorboards of an English country house. (The Japanese title literally means “the little people under the floor.”) 14-year-old Arrietty and the rest of the Clock family live in peaceful anonymity as they make their own home from items “borrowed” from the house’s human inhabitants. However, life changes for the Clocks when a human boy discovers Arrietty. Ghibli’s adaptation will transport the setting from 1950s England to the Tokyo neighborhood of Koganei in 2010.

More information can be found here and here. The official Japanese website — see image above — can be found here.

Karigurashi no Arrietty will open in Japanese theatres in the summer of 2010.

Kevin Ma’s review of Mother:

As strong as the script is, the strongest aspect of Mother is the continuing maturation in Bong’s directorial style. Every shot and every camera movement is well-calculated, with no shot ever staying with a single frame for too long. Bong avoids the showy long-takes of his previous films, though the camera movements remain impressive at drawing attention to themselves. He also amps up the tension in a brilliant, Hitchcockian manner, often opting for extreme close-ups on specific actions or his actors’ faces. The result is an often intense film by a confident filmmaker who doesn’t need to resort to cheap loud scares to keep the audience on the edge of their seats.

[...]

Like his friend and fellow filmmaker Kim Ji-Woon, Bong takes genre conventions and twists them to fit his own brand of storytelling. While Kim simply gives conventional genres new visual aesthetics, Bong pushes his genres to extremes. Just like using a true-life murder case in Memories of Murder for social commentary, Bong uses the murder mystery in Mother to push maternal sacrifice at a primitive level. Naturally, the film isn’t as audience-pleasing as The Host (despite moments of dark humor), but what’s lost in entertainment value is compensated plenty by superb storytelling. The Host may be a better commercial movie, but Mother is the better film.

Kevin Ma’s review of Thirst:

Despite its extreme elements and packed plot, Thirst does drag a bit in the middle, when Sang-Hyun’s search for new sources of blood without committing murder eventually becomes a little repetitive. However, Park uses his strength as a visual-oriented director to keep the film engaging. The exquisite camerawork and art direction (including a room with completely white walls that plays a major role in the film’s third act) are easily the strongest seen in Korean cinema all year, making the film’s absence from the Grand Bell Nominations all the more confusing. Even though some of the special effects could be stronger — especially considering the film’s partial Hollywood funding — Park’s camerawork alone makes the film consistently intriguing to watch.

Nevertheless, it is time to wonder if Park has any other tricks up his sleeve. Even through Park has proven himself to be capable of more, since Oldboy his visual style has become so distinctive that it’s become something he can fall back on to cover up shortcomings in pace or storytelling. As spectacular visually as Thirst is, the tiredness of Park’s style is beginning to show. Then again, even if Park does intend on changing his style, there’s no reason for his audiences not to have a little fun along the way, and that’s exactly what Thirst is — classier-than-usual genre fun.