Way to fucking go, Nick. Normally, the loosely defined Week 12s and 13s of a given season are the point where most of my watch schedule has already concluded, and I can thus get away with only writing a couple paragraphs for the Week in Review. Of course, now that I’ve transitioned over to writing about all the films and games I’ve consumed, rather than just the streaming anime, I’ve got a whole damn pile of crap to talk about, even though the anime season has largely ended. I am persistently excellent at giving myself more work than I really ought to, but fortunately, these new Week in Reviews have actually turned into one of the highlights of my weekly routine, and I’m frankly only complaining here because I will use literally any available narrative device to fill the space of these openings paragraphs. And with that space now fully occupied (nice going, me), let’s dive into the actual Week in Review!
I started off this week a classic from well before the classic eras I’ve been recently exploring, diving back all the way to 1922 to watch the original Nosferatu. Nosferatu was a fascinating experience for a variety of reasons, as I have very little familiarity with the silent film era, and thus greatly enjoyed seeing how story structures adapt to an absence of spoken dialogue.
When characters cannot actually speak to each other vocally, and every line of dialogue must occupy the entire screen, our modern methods of conveying exposition or characterization are largely unusable. Nosferatu thus has a naturally lean narrative, and feels almost like an illustrated picture book, where the “illustrations” take the form of full motion film sequences. And with title cards already built into the narrative’s core structure, concepts like a character picking up a book, only for the camera to jump to a full page of text from that book, actually feel cohesive and natural. You’d think the format would feel stiff, but there’s actually a certain kind of elegance built into silent film’s structure; much is conveyed through expressions rather than explicit dialogue, and what title cards exist feel like genuinely impactful narrative punctuation.
Max Schreck’s Count Orlok is also a frankly terrifying presence, with his imposing appearance and remarkably strained posture casting a genuinely menacing shadow over the whole production. With decades to come before film would fully embrace naturalistic acting over exaggerated theater, Nosferatu’s characters are big and bold, acting like human embellishments of their ornate, beautiful surroundings. Nosferatu was both a compelling film and a remarkable glimpse into a part of film history I’ve yet to explore; I’ll have to check out more silent film classics soon.
I also watched the Coen brothers’ A Serious Man, one of their most subdued films of recent years. A Serious Man is an unabashedly low-drama character study, centered on the life of Larry Gopnick. Gopnick is an established professor in the mid-60s, hoping for tenure as every element of his life crumbles around him. His kids don’t respect him, his wife wants a divorce, he’s possibly being blackmailed by a student – and what’s more, none of the rabbis he talks to seem to have anything useful to tell him.
Conveyed with the Coen brothers’ sumptuous cinematography, as well as an even more restrained wit than their usual deadpan comedy, A Serious Man is an epic representation of the most intimate and understated of stories, and seemingly one of the most personal films the Coens have created. The joys and responsibilities of Jewish life are baked into every element of the drama, and the Coens are able to bring a sense of universality and fatiguing routine to the potentially esoteric nature of trying to live according to scripture. Michael Stuhlbarg’s performance as Gopnick himself is terrific; all the wilting fatigue of this man’s every action feels both relatable and hilarious, as he quietly gapes while his life collapses around him.
A Serious Man is like if American Beauty were instead about a fundamentally decent man with absolutely zero ability to exert his own will; only in his dream sequences, which are all genuinely hilarious, is Gopnick truly able to express his feelings. The film is defiantly understated, and most of its punchlines come in the form of Stuhlbarg’s quietly sad expressions as yet another improbable tragedy befalls him, making A Serious Man as a whole feel like yet another articulation of Gopnick’s attempted diligence and seriousness. But often it’s the quiet, personal stories that are actually the most universal – and through Gopnick’s attempts to find meaning in his trials, A Serious Man intelligently grapples with questions of purpose and character that speak to us all.
Jumping to recent features, I also checked out the 2019 Spanish film The Platform, which turned out to be a fine addition to 2019’s formidable “fuck capitalism” film roster. The metaphors aren’t really hiding beneath the surface in this one – in fact, the metaphor is the film, as the whole narrative is constructed about a prison that represents society, and a platform that represents the wealth of society. In this prison, inmates live in cells that all have a giant square hole in the center, in one giant vertical block. Every day, a platform bearing a marvelous feast starts at the top of this giant pillar, first stopping at Floor 1, then 2, and so on. Each pair of prisoners must eat from this same platform, meaning that those on the top floors eat very well – and those on the lower floors must hope against hope that something is left for them.
The Platform’s central conceit sets the stage for a viciously pointed human story, as we see a variety of philosophies regarding the nature of people and society all play out, stoked by the urgent fire of that damnable platform. It’s essentially like the last third of Parasite reframed as a high-concept scifi thriller, pinned down by strong performances by lead actors Ivan Massague (our idealistic protagonist) and Zorion Eguileor (his jaded cellmate). “Capitalism undercuts solidarity by forcing us to compete against our class companions” is not the endpoint, but the starting assumption – and from there, The Platform engages in a bombastic series of character studies, as we watch the effects that this hyper-capitalist simulacrum has on the psychology and philosophy of its leads. It’s also just a punchy, exciting dystopian thriller – I wouldn’t call it a truly great film, but it’s both entertaining and brimming with righteous anger, and I had a fine time with it.
My house also watched a couple of strong martial arts films this week, starting with Jackie Chan’s terrific Police Story. Jackie Chan also directed this film, and you can see his understanding of playful, ambitious action storytelling all throughout Police Story’s dynamic setpieces. The actual narrative of Police Story is a pretty standard “loose cannon cop has to take care of a key witness” affair, and I frankly wasn’t that thrilled by this film’s middle act, which leans on the sort of slapstick combat which is Jackie Chan’s bread and butter, but which doesn’t really appeal much to me. However, both the opening and closing act of Police Story need to be seen by basically any martial arts fan, or fan of action film more generally.
In the first act, an ambitious sting operation sees Jackie Chan and dozens of fellow police officers slowly infiltrating a mountainside shanty town, going corner-by-corner through a complex web of interconnected buildings on a steep hillside. Then, their cover is blown and all hell breaks loose, with gunfights erupting all across the alleys and windows of this entire neighborhood. The sequence climaxes in the criminals attempting to drive their fleet of escape vehicles straight down the mountain and through the town, resulting in one of the most stunning displays of visceral, CG-free mayhem I’ve seen in an action film. Couple that absurd setpiece with a few equally strong martial arts segments throughout, and another genuine stunner at the finale, and you end up with what is quite likely the best Jackie Chan film I’ve seen.
I also watched one more Shaw Brothers production, 1982’s Legendary Weapons of China. Directed by 36th Chamber veteran Lau Kar-leung, and costarring the always-impressive Gordon Liu, Legendary Weapons sets up a playful ensemble narrative, wherein an old kung fu master is hunted by several assassins, another kung fu master, and a magician, all of whom have their own distinctive motives and modes of battle. Legendary Weapons feels more intricate in its plotting than most Shaw Brothers films, and its fight scenes embrace a playfulness Kar-leung would later put to good use on the second Drunken Master film. There’s are wonderful sequences of two ninjas fighting for the same kill, and an extended faux-battle reminiscent of 36th Chamber itself.
Legendary Weapons builds its ensemble cast with such confidence and flair that I actually felt disappointed when they started exiting the stage; the film feels like two thirds of a genuine epic cut off rather abruptly, even though its final battle is still terrific. It’s a sign of this film’s excellence that it left me wanting more, though; Legendary Weapons represents some of the biggest Shaw Brothers names at the peak of their powers, and feels confident, playful, and exciting from start to finish.
