Lino Brocka in San Francisco

I was recently asked for some comments on Lino Brocka by cinesource magazine, a filmmakers' industry newspaper in the Bay Area. Four films by Brocka are being shown at the San Francisco International Asian American Film Festival in March, 2010. You can find the report here.

www.cinesourcemagazine.com

My original comments which I sent them are below.

Lino Brocka

I invited Lino Brocka to Hong Kong when I premiered his masterpiece INSIANG in our Hong Kong International Film Festival after its debut at Cannes. Over the years that I knew him, Lino was a dynamo of energy whose mind and body were in perpetual motion, a man who constantly seemed to live on the brink of financial collapse (he wanted to talk more to me about his finances than his films!), and an eternal optimist who somehow kept making great movies. We last spoke in Los Angeles where he was visiting family. He was full of gossip and plans for the future. A few weeks (or was it months later?), he was dead. When I think back on Lino, what strikes me is that he is certainly one of the great filmmakers of the 20th century and in the first rank of classic Asian filmmakers along with Satyajit Ray and Akira Kurosawa.

Knowing Lino made his films all the more interesting to me because they are not exactly reflections of his high-strung energy, of his ebullient outward personality. Rather, they are somewhat quiet contemplations about the individual and society, and how individuals at first victims of social injustice try to fight back. Whether they succeed or not is the chronic condition of Filipino life, as lived in Lino’s time especially under the corruption and cronyism of the Marcos dictatorship. Often his protagonists were women who suffer oppression in both their personal and work lives – think of Insiang, and Bona – these great titular roles of films which present their heroines manipulated by both men and women to whom they are close. As an openly gay, politically outspoken filmmaker, Lino clearly identified with this oppression and the need to fight it.

Lino’s depth of understanding of his society – an understanding sprung from personal condition, artistic intuition and political insight – meant that his films proceed from the basis of his audience, not the filmmaker’s ego, and that is what makes him a great artist. His cinema is not about “me” as so many of today’s films shamelessly proclaim, but about the respect of “you.” And his audience responded, at home and abroad. His domestic audience was largely working-class, and I suspect, mostly women who were drawn to the stars like Nora Aunor and Hilda Koronel. Through Lino’s lens, these stars gave dignity and value to their portrayals of working-class women in the audience.

A cinema based on an audience oppressed in a class society was Lino’s legacy, and it’s yet to be followed by today’s filmmakers perhaps because they do not fully understand the extent to which he was politically and socially engaged at the time (the younger generation of Filipinos have little idea of the destruction caused by the Marcos regime!). However in the past few years there have been retrospectives of Lino’s work beginning with the Torino Film Festival, Italy in 2005, and continuing in Vienna in 2009. Some of his works, like INSIANG, are now available on DVD and ready for a new generation to watch and understand. It’s timely that San Francisco will now get a chance to see some of his works on the big screen.

Good Afternoon, Vietnam!

I recently gave a talk to young Vietnamese filmmakers.

Please click on title above for the link to the report.

The Lush Interview

Hosanna Leong interviews Roger Garcia on Singapore radio, September 3, 2009.

Click on link below (website page with interview will open and start playing after a slight delay depending on your connection and computer speed. Scroll down to bottom of website page for audio control).

Singapore Lush Interview

PREMIER SCREENING OF BLOOD TIES IN SINGAPORE


L to R Chia Yee Wei (Director), Roger Garcia, Jason Lai (Producer)

Toys Gone Wild

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

Poor planet Earth. It's always being invaded by strange creatures, or getting in the way of asteroids from outer space, or - for the umpteenth time - threatened with the Apocalypse. Earthlings are scorched in vast numbers as their cities crumble. Survivors do not fare much better - men are abducted, women raped, children enslaved. If it's not aliens, it's the environment. Earthlings pay the price for ignoring signs of global warming (and who can blame them when those signs are freezing snow, pouring rain, electrical storms and a President - in The Day After Tomorrow - who looks like Dick Cheney?)

Michael Bay's latest addition to the Hasbro Transformer toy genre is the second film in the series and begins by laying waste to Shanghai. There's no organic connection between this and anything else. But it doesn't matter anyway because this teaser is really a revenge fantasy of the American worker against outsourcing toy manufacturing to China (even if the Shanghai scene was shot in Pennsylvania). However I doubt if that's what the censor at 国家广播电影电视总局 (aka State Adminstration for Film, Radio and Television) had in mind when he asked for trims of a Chinese police car being crushed.

It takes Michael Bay about two and a half hours to explain these aliens who have insisted yet again on bringing their battles and personal hang-ups to earth. The mythology is not too different from a Star Wars movie and to be fair to Michael Bay, it also took George Lucas about the same amount of time to explain the same story. Revenge of the Sith, Revenge of the Fallen - same difference! But I think the Cesar-inflected hard-edged look of Michael Bay's Autobots are preferable to Lucasarts' soft-toy floppiness of Jar Jar Brinks. (Cesar was the French artist who made a career out of exhibiting blocks of crushed, compacted cars in the 1960s.)

Reportedly Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is one of the worst reviewed mainstream films of recent times so some critics may dispute its characterization as a movie. I'm not one of those but the film should be seen as a component of a totality that includes - and this was a surprise even to me - hands-on playing with toys.

Now, just as not everyone has directed a movie, not everyone has played with Transformer toys. It's not that difficult. As a prelude you "deconstruct" them from familiar Earthling vehicles (truck, sports car, compact) into creatures that could have been Masters of the Universe until the onset of the Great Recession (more of a threat than Aliens or Global Warming). In this supreme mode, your toys are ready for battle. You hold one in the left hand, and hold one in the right hand. Then you weave and bob them around each other, exchanging glancing blows which sometimes knock off an arm or a leg. It all leads to the inevitable climax which is to smash one figure into the other in any number of creative ways (feet first, head down, crotch angle and so forth) all the while making a range of sounds that go from squealing to spittle static to full-throated explosions. And you have to do this all before bedtime.

There is collateral damage of course. Other toy figures (often of the military variety but occasionally some hapless barnyard animal types or dinosaurs) scattered on the carpet are crushed underfoot, upholstery gets ripped, that oh-so-precious china handed down for generations is smashed.

So too with Michael Bay's choreography in his latest action ballet. In fact I have not seen a film that quite so accurately simulates the feeling - albeit on a fairly gigantic scale - of playing with toys. The toy characters - by which I mean the Autobots, Prime, Decepticons but one could also include star Shia LaBoeuf (where's the beef?) Megan Fox (what's with all these animal names?) - are all brought to life by the swoops, dives, jumps, barrel rolls orchestrated by CG and camera technicians. The Transformers beat each other up from California to Egypt flattening ancient temples and passing camels with wanton abandon. The intervention of US airforce planes and ground troops, despite heroic background music, is rendered as irritating as gnats at the end of their short lives.

Probably for the first time in film history, we have a film whose mise en scene is wholly based on playing with toys as opposed to playing with story, or even girls, both of which Bay tiredly includes. It's obvious that he's more interested in the movement and grinding conflict of robots, the transformative arcs of cars and motorbikes. For example, the camera lingers on the curves of a motorbike as much as the nubile Megan Fox. And the dynamics of twisted, clashing, clanking metal as Prime engages Decepticon in gladiatorial combat is more interesting than LaBoeuf's TV soap opera struggle with his dumb parents.

In truth, the sensation of watching Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is overwhelmingly like reverting back to childhood and playing with toys in your hands while running amok in your parents' living room making strangulated dog sounds. To some, it is pure nostalgia. To others (usually big sisters with bratty brothers), it is as irritating as it ever was. And still to many more, it evokes irrelevant bemusement (aka entertainment).

While Steven Spielberg (a producer of this film) evokes childhood as a state of innocence (think: starchild at the end of Kubrick's 2001 A Space Odyssey ), Michael Bay presents childhood as a state of violence without consequence. Toys serve the will of the imagination rather than the circumstance of reality. With all its desert war scenes, and apocalyptic ideologue-driven inter-galactic war, it suggests that recent American foreign policy has been something of a childhood phase which we've all grown out of. You might say that's one of the reasons why this movie - apart from its politically-regenerative title - has been one of the fastest and largest grossing box-office movies of all time.

The Real Bruce Lee?

I just watched the truly appalling "The Real Bruce Lee" with Bruce Lee, Bruce Li, and "new sensation" Dragon Lee and "produced" by Serafim Karalexis. Even its use of 1950s Hong Kong Bruce Lee film clips is inept. To claim as the credits do, that it is "directed and edited by Jim Markovich" (he of the equally despicable "Riot on 42nd Street") is surely stretching the limits of credibility and borders on the insulting. This is what happens when you pick up cheap videotapes (and it really is cheap - it's one of those 30 minute VHS cassettes where the 90 minute film has been recorded at extended play to save tape) at the local supermarket.

My Cannes 2009 - V

Epilogue

The most interesting film in Cannes - from the point of view of symbolism, metaphor and all-round significance - was very short and concise; was seen by all the Cannes audiences but will not be seen outside the festival; and featured no stars, indeed it contains no actors nor any dialogue.

What fascinating work is this? Of course, it's the festival trailer.

A CGI work sans actors and words, it nevertheless conveys perfectly an attitude, moral philosophy, and hegemonic aesthetic all in one, and all in the space of about a minute.

The film (and it deserves this moniker more that some of the other rubbish on display) begins UNDERWATER. To a music soundtrack that mimics Bernard Herrman's score for Hitchcock's Vertigo, the "camera" ascends the red carpet stairway whose correspondance with reality is all too real since the audience (at least in the Grand Palais) has just walked up the real version of these steps. We surface - presumably on the Bay of Cannes - water all around but still those stairs and that crazy compelling music lead us onwards and upwards. The stairs go higher and soon we are in the clouds (good weather, no rain, no thunder, no lightning) and keep going until we are in OUTER SPACE! Yes we are in Star Wars territory; there is no frontier, just twinkling stars. Suddenly a huge sign flips up in front of us, it says in gold, and surrounded by gold palms, "Festival de Cannes."

This film contains not just an apotheosis fantasy (that confirms the semiotics of the tribute ritual I described in My Cannes 2009 - 1), but also an evolutionary myth that in its simplest form suggests that cinema has evolved much like life itself. It moves from the basic form (fish) from water, to surface (ok there isn't actually land in this movie but which film really has its feet on the ground anyway?), all the way up to the stars where "heaven" is the Cannes film festival.

To paraphrase, you have died and gone to Cannes. The trouble with Cannes-as-heaven is: would you really want to spend eternity with these people, let alone these films?

My Cannes 2009 - IV

Impressions...

Attendance: Opening night - Empty streets, last orders in bars at midnight. Closing night - crowds on the Croisette, Majestic Bar empty, restaurants quite full. Conclusion - more people at end than at beginning!

Water: no free bottles this year, so tank up on free Nespresso - but then you get quite wired on this highly caffeinated fuel. No wonder I couldn't sleep in some of the more boring films.

Le Petit Paris Bistro: can get quite expensive. Got stomach ache after eating a salad there. A lot of Italians go there for breakfast - so I was told.

Sushi Time: actually it's a Korean restaurant. Decent bibimbap.

Le Monnot: reasonable Lebanese food. Good dinner.

Majestic Bar: still one of the best places to see people. $12 pastis...

Carlton: lot of people looking lost, looking for a deal.

Gay Night at American Pavilion: The US contribution to international village culture - not very gay but a lot of fun. One of the few places to get a worthwhile sized cup of coffee.

Le Crystal: despite non-stop European soccer blaring from the TV screen, still a good place to sit and have a pastis (for $4) while people-watching. For some reason (unknown to me) a lot of manly looking women walk past this place.

Chez Astoux: classic seafood place and decent plateau des fruits de mer. But with a dinner bill of almost $300, I do expect a little less rudeness from the maitre d'. Next year, another place.

Chez Louis: shared antipasti (French style) and shared desserts book-end individual entrees. Variable but good atmosphere - hey, there's John Boorman at the next table.

Taiwan party: a mixture of panache, chaos, good food, and great location, still the best place for Asian celeb spotting - hey, there's Shu Qi, and Anthony Wong... and Ang Lee and Zhang Yuan, and Tsai Ming Liang and...

Hong Kong party (known this year as China Party): good, unending flow of French champagne. Long live one country, two systems!

Red carpet: how do they keep it clean?

My Cannes 2009 - III

Film Notes

Agora (Alejandro Amenabar) - 4th century AD in Alexandria is not only the home of the fabled library of the Ancient World, but also a hotbed of different religious factions - pagans, Jews, Galileans (aka "Christians") all ruled over by the Roman Empire. Instead of being fed to the lions, the Christians have now been legitimized by the Romans and their militant wing, the Palebeni, parade around in filthy black designer rags looking and behaving like the Taliban. Over a number of years, the Christians gain religious (and political) control by provoking the pagans and terrorizing the Jews. In the process the Christians destroy and burn the library with its scientific and philosophical texts. All of this is mixed in with the narrative of Hypatia (Rachel Weisz) an astronomer who grapples with the major questions of the day: do the planets revolve around the earth, why does the position of the sun change, how do I handle that hunky student who declares his love for me by playing the pan pipes in front of my dad? Great production design with epic values but the film suffers from the weight of trying to balance all-out kick-ass religious war with explanations of the ellipse that will be lost on the teen demographic who prefer mano-a-mano Ancient style over Egyptian interpretations of Greek math. Weirdo shots of Alexandria and Egypt from outer space punctuate the film and confirm what we've known all along - the pyramids were built by aliens who also authored Egyptian cosmology; and they loved to watch all this from their eye-in-the-sky perch.

Addendum: French actor Michel Lonsdale plays Hypatia's dad. A favourite since appearing as an exhausted theater director in Rivette's Out One: Spectre he appears here to be channeling Charles Laughton in the unfinished I, Claudius. A curious grace note to a curious film.

Les Yeux Sans Visage (Georges Franju) - nice restoration of Franju surrealist classic establishes the pedigree for the gruesome fetishes of this year's Cannes entries like Antichrist, Kinatay, and Enter the Void. A surgeon's assistant kidnaps suitable young women so that her boss can do secret face grafts on his daughter (who lost her face in a fire). He hasn't succeeded yet so the hapless "donors" end up dead and strewn all over the place. Franju's insistence on the details of cutting off one face to transfer to another, and the generally dungeon-like conditions of his operating room set the tone not only for dismemberment films like Kinatay but also the terrorism of the innocents in the Saw and Hostel series.

Here (Ho Tzu Nyen) - a guy murders his wife and gets sent to a loony bin to recover. The inmates all make therapy videos where they act out stuff - unfortunately it's all really boring and neither Straubian, Warholian, Fellini-esque nor even Herzogian. But the parade of people is quite earnest and serious - would you expect anything else from a film from Singapore? Some of the people in the film are really from the asylum but hey, you wouldn't really know it as they seem kind of normal... but maybe not by Singaporean standards. British shrinks preside over the crazies and explain what it's all about in a really dry way - I tried to sleep through those parts but failed. Possibly the major flaw in this film is its protagonist (the wife killer) - he is butt ugly with greasy long hair that would stain the collar of any shirt adorning his unattractive torso. He seems nice enough - for a pyschopathic killer - but he's definitely not date material. Actually his greasy face is pretty horrific, you think he really needs to stop eating fried noodles. Apparently rehabilitated, he's sent home where he freaks out again and thank God, they return him to the nut house, hopefully forever. In between all of this is stuff that could be read as political metaphor - the "tea party" as affirmation that you're normal (read: acceptable to the ruling politicos), the imprisonment of minds (read: the island nation), and so on. As a short film about an ugly psychopath this might have worked. As a treatise on the imprisonment of minds, it's numbing.

Antichrist (Lars Von Trier) - Charlotte Gainsbourg (CG) and Willem Dafoe (WD) are having wild sex at home watched by their baby son who then promptly falls out of a window and dies. OK - sex and death are immediately signalled by Lars (LVT). CG goes into a deep funk and contrary to all the rules about intimacy with clients, WD who is a certified therapist - takes her on as his patient. They hike up to a cabin in their woods - she, looking very LL Bean in yellow parka and he looking tres European in blue wool jacket. This is after all supposed to take place in the Pacific Northwest where LVT has never been since he has a fear of flying (and it seems of the US). In this cabin in the woods, the therapy turns into something that looks like Ingmar Bergman doing Eli Roth, or maybe more accurately Tobe Hooper doing Stanley Kubrick. Anyway it's all art in the service of horror with WD having a stone wheel attached to his lower leg (some kind of Sisyphus ref), and CG cutting her clit off with a pair of scissors (LVT discovers the female phallus and it scares the crap out of him). The very end (I won't give away the end before the end) is some kind of reference to Carl Theodore Dreyer (another Dane), Cecil B. DeMille, Martin Scorsese and probably God Himself. WD stands on a hill looking like Christ (and there is a reason why WD is cast in this film: after all he played Jesus in The Last Temptation of Christ) in films by all those aforesaid Anointed Ones. The movie is dedicated to Tarkovski - we don't quite know why other than his Russian orthodoxy makes him Christ versus the Antichrist of the USA. It's framed as a series of chapters but really since each intertitle is written artfully on a chalk board, it's more like classroom catechism, and it also shows that after his (real-life) post-breakdown therapy, LVT still harbours unmitigated anger against women and his therapist. Plus ca change, baby! Antichrist is not as bad as the bad review in Variety, and it is at once serious and thoughtful. Second best film in Cannes? Maybe.

Samson and Delilah(Warwick Thornton) - according to this movie, life on an Australian Aboriginal reservation consists of sniffing glue all day (Samson), helping granny make native art (Delilah) until she kicks the bucket, all against an unending drone of reggae music played by three guys who seem to have nothing else to do in life. S & D share one characteristic - they don't talk (S is a particularly inarticulate loser) so when they escape the reservation and end up in White Man's town, they are Alienated and live under a freeway. At this point, the film tries to spice things up by pairing them with a talky homeless guy who takes pity and shares his canned spaghetti and spam with them. Even writing about this film seems tedious so let me just say that this is a film with about five endings of which the most desirable one is where we think they have both expired - D gets knocked down by a car while S is sniffing glue so he doesn't notice it; S then hides under a blanket and sniffs glue for days without moving - fade to black. At this point you think oh how tragic but then there is a FADE UP and D comes limping back to the freeway home on a CRUTCH (for crying out loud!) and the blanket QUIVERS - S is still alive! All that spam and glue have kept body and soul together. The film goes on for another lamentable 10 or more minutes as D takes S to her hut in the middle of some godawful desert, skins a kangaroo, and feeds them. Please put us out of our misery - yes, the film ends there! This film is a project by the Adelaide Film Festival so unfortunately it has a life. Also it won Camera d'Or at Cannes which leads you to wonder what the jury was smoking when they watched this irritating pile of kangaroo doo. Worst film in Cannes? Possibly.

Visage(Tsai Ming-liang) - Poor Fanny Ardant, first her famous husband Francois Truffaut dies on her and then she has to soldier through this tedium of scenes that are supposed to reflect on the Salome narrative (though it's hardly explained here). Tsai regular Lee Kang Sheng is supposed to be making a film in Paris with Antoine (Jean Pierre Leaud) but he seems too busy jerking off guys in the bushes, fooling around with deer, and clambering around the bowels of the Louvre, to actually get behind a camera (we never see a camera, only a TV monitor). At the same time his mother in Taipei has died but you wouldn't really know it because she's still around as a ghost and anyway with that actress you don't really care if she's dead or alive. Various references to cinema (predictable), and Louvre artists (David, Delacroix, Rembrandt) don't add up to anything understandable. French iconnes Jeanne Moreau and Nathalie Baye also put in an appearance but if you nod off, you'll miss them because they appear in a very short scene sitting at a table, waiting for someone who never appears. Wonder how much they got paid for that day's work...My main impression was that if you asked a French director to make a Tsai Ming-liang type film,this would be the result. However the best film to deal with the relationship between painting and cinema is still Godard's Passion. Against that, this one looks like some youtube doodling. Final thought: we've all watched Jean-Pierre Leaud grow up in the cinema. He's now 65 years old and looking like a seedy, dirty old man. It would be an act of kindness, not to mention beneficial to his career, if he never appeared in a film again.

Map of the Sounds of Tokyo(Isabel Croixet) - another Spanish movie shot in English (cf. Agora). This time however it's set in contemporary Tokyo and features a Tsukiji fish market girl who not only knows how to slice a mean piece of sushi but is also a hit woman on the side. She's contracted to off the Spanish owner of a wine store but falls in love with him. So, instead of checking his movements and the best time and place to terminate him, they check into a love motel and have a lot of sex in a mock up of the Paris metro. It's all shot in a Wong Kar Wai emulation - with saturated photography and Latin-style music (OK they're Spanish filmmakers so the latter makes some sense). Since I hope you will never see this film I'll give away the ending: the hit-girl dies saving the Spanish lover from being shot by the henchman of the guy who ordered the hit. It's a typical racist Western fantasy (usually male so it's doubly offensive that this is made by a woman) of the Madam Butterfly Asian sacrifice for the White Knight. Anyway this film is so stupid (think: tourist travelogue with guns) that not only do you wonder what it is doing in COMPETITION in Cannes, but why anyone would want to make such drivel.