JFL

Ender’s Game is very good as an illustration of its source material. The film retains the full range of motifs from Card’s phenomenal book. In spite of that, however, the conversion from one medium to another still doesn’t work nearly as well as it does in, for example, Watchmen. The weakness of Ender’s Game in this case lies in the fact that, unlike Watchmen, it doesn’t involve a narrative in which the characters are symbols or, more precisely, different facets of a central theme, but rather that the title character is at its centre. Throughout the book, Ender undergoes complex development and the narrative carefully constructs the different facets and aspects of his personality. All of this is left out of the film and, in an effort to preserve all of the key plot points, the film simply rushes from one scene to the next instead of engaging in the deeper depiction and psychologising of the character. It is necessary to acknowledge that when the viewer analyses the film, it’s possible to find fragments of a rather complex character. However, when actually watching the film, one finds that Ender inevitably remains only a puppet dragged from one twist to another. If the filmmakers had used the interludes between sequences to focus on the protagonist and his loneliness and inner feelings instead of on gratuitous money shots of space, Ender’s Game might have turned out even better.

Given the name of the director, the creative talent involved (the storyboards were done by the brilliant Rebeca Sugar) and the production company, Hotel Transylvania is a major disappointment. It’s just a run-of-the-mill animated movie for kids made according to the most primitive template, where personality is lacking and mediocrity is invoked in the interest of playing it safe. Making a mish-mash of pop culture allusions and showing the supposedly civilian faces of iconic fictional characters might have still been captivating eleven years ago in Shrek (though this is a technique known from mainstream family movies dating as far back as the 1980s), but not so much today, when cultural recycling is one of the hackneyed and, thanks to the broad availability of information, actually the simplest and most careless principles of pop culture. At one time – granted, it was a few year ago already – Sony Pictures Animation was considered to be the new hope in the field of animated movies for the whole family, as it gave space to imaginative creative and technical visions. Now, however, it’s quite tempting to make the generalisation that it’s just milking franchises that have caught on and trying to come up with new ones, but they take the form of cash cows that have no significant creative ambition and just throw all sorts of attractions at viewers willy-nilly with the hope that something sticks. In the context of the studio’s current output, Hotel Transylvania is a solid but unremarkable standard movie whose strength lies in its precisely conceived images, but it remains the least distinctive entry in Tartakovsky’s filmography.

Jackie Chan continues to willingly prostitute himself for the ideological needs of mainland China, this time even selling out not only himself but also his most famous movie franchise and its iconic hero. Like the actor who portrays him, Chan Ka Kui had his memory and identity erased, adopted the Mandarin name Zhong Wen and became a Chinese super-agent. Police Story 2013 is supremely ridiculous, undisguised agitprop for the Chinese law-enforcement organisations that takes to kitschy heights the dedication of police officers to protecting every single human life and fanatically following the rules. Add to this a misguidedly overwrought screenplay, whose author had apparently been intently watching the Die Hard franchise (especially the third and fourth instalments) and trying to graft its premise onto some kind of pseudo-Rashomon –  the result is even more absurd than the given combination sounds. After the brilliant Little Big Soldier, the second pairing of Jackie Chan with Ding Sheng raised high hopes. The only thing about Police Story 2013 that can be appreciated is the brazen broad-mindedness with which the screenplay uses flashbacks to cram extra arena fights, car chases and a bit of parkour action into a narrative that’s primarily set in a single interior, even though they have nothing to do with the main plot.

In Anderson’s nostalgic and grotesque retro worlds, this one may be the most literal and gaudy, but at the same time it represents a (perhaps too) literal confession not only to its own protagonists, but to the filmmaker himself. “To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it. But, I will say, he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace.”

Take Two with Phineas and Ferb is an appalling attempt to squeeze the last drop out of the currently most popular Disney franchise by turning it into a talk show in which Phineas interviews real celebrities. As such, the concept of a talk show combining animation and recorded real-life celebrities can actually work, as confirmed by the brilliant Space Ghost Coast to Coast from the rival Cartoon Network, except that show was built on absurdist, phantasmagorical humor and personalities who are able to approach its stylisation with detached humour. Conversely, Take Two with Phineas and Ferb offers mostly vain starlets who have nothing to say and only jabber about artificial show-business myths. On the other hand, the blame falls primarily on the show’s creators, who ask the guests absolutely stupid questions and invasively pepper their answers with unbearable pre-recorded laughter, which is heard at least once every five seconds so that viewers know they are watching a terrific joke.

Violent Panic: The Big Crash is surprising as a completely unique phenomenon not only in the filmography of Kinji Fukasaka, but also in Japanese cinema in general, even though it is also an interesting memento of its time. At the beginning of the 1970s, several genre categories were established in the category of popular trash cinema and their strength and popularity among viewers brought the medium of film a victory in another round of competition with television. However, the revitalised yakuza flicks and pinky violence exploitation that propelled Meiko Kaji, Reiko Ike and Miki Sugimoto to stardom ultimately proved to be merely a short-lived trend. Those movies appealed to viewers with their initial freshness, but as soon as their innovative elements became a formula and standard practice, that was the death knell for these genres. Violent Panic: The Big Crash thus represents one of the developmental dead-ends that the Tóei studio went down in search of a replacement for its two main genres, in which viewers had lost interest. In this case, the studio surprisingly took inspiration from American film production and the popular genre of car movies in the mold of now cult titles like Vanishing Point (1971), Two-Lane Blacktop (1971) and, in particular, the later hit Gone in 60 Seconds (1974), but it also surprisingly mixed the serious and fateful storylines of these films with the slapstick humour seen in Its a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World  (1963). Interestingly, the two icons of the aforementioned declining categories met here – in front of the camera, Miki Sugimoto in the paradoxically atypical role of the emotionally tormented sidekick of the protagonist (the supporting role of the sexually unbridled policewoman was played by another familiar face from Jajoi Watanabe’s pinky violence movies) and, behind the camera, Kinji Fukasaku, the formalistic master of fierce and hyper-realistically chaotic yakuza flicks. We now know that the attempt to establish a new commercially lucrative style failed and the film remains a historical curiosity. Besides the simple fact that, given the nature of their lifestyle and their country’s geography, the Japanese are not as fixated on cars as Americans, we can point out the film’s miserable screenplay as its main weakness. The relatively engaging main storyline about a bank robber on the run is intertwined with a parallel comedy storyline about an incompetent cop and, unfortunately, it is also needlessly and very sloppily connected to other storylines of the exploitation narrative involving a dandy from a car repair shop who becomes a victim of the perverted owner of the only powerful car in the whole film. If it weren’t for Fukasaku, whose frenetic style of unbridled camerawork and quick cuts elevates particularly the first half of the film to the level of a breathtaking exercise in cinematic form, the film as a whole would be depressing. Nevertheless, even Fukasaku’s style can’t conceal the fact that the final car chase and pile-up has no choreography and, in comparison with the brilliant bank robbery sequences of the first half, no topography of action.

The Secret of Magic Island is an extremely bizarre project, behind whose creation is hidden the rather incomprehensible ambition to make a fairy tale for children in which all of the characters are played by real animals. On the other hand, it is necessary to acknowledge that the filmmakers flawlessly fulfilled their stated intention. However, that doesn’t mean that the film actually works. In fact, the opposite is true. Instead of focusing on the narrative, the viewer is constantly amazed by how the filmmakers executed specific scenes and shots with animals, or rather how much patience (and/or luck) was required to shoot one particular shot with several animals of different species standing side by side.

(Not only) popular cinema is like a snake eating its own tail. Every new generation of filmmakers naturally draws on what they themselves watched during their childhood and adolescence, updating elements and motifs of past decades for themselves and new generations. This tendency became strongly apparent in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when films frequently reflected the popular and trash genres of the 1950s and 1960s – whether directly, such as in the retro Grease and Streets of Fire, or only in the form of thematic inspiration and updating, as in the work of the most influential popular director of the time, Steven Spielberg. In the present day, we have come to a phase when a generation raised on the pop culture of the 1980s is getting the space to realise their visions inspired by the icons of their childhood. After Super 8 and before Earth to Echo, we have here a Norwegian variation on the iconic films of Steven Spielberg, or rather of Amblin Entertainment. Ragnarok specifically draws from the Indiana Jones movies, Jurassic Park and The Goonies, while taking the formula of fantasy-imbued family adventure movies and enhancing it with Scandinavian legends and history. Unlike Spielberg’s boyhood films, the female characters and the motif of strengthening the family, typical of contemporary Scandinavian productions for children and adolescents, play a more prominent role here. Paradoxically, these elements are not sufficiently fleshed out and, as a result, the narrative rests on the shoulders of the central father character and the archaeologist Sigurd, which is the only shortcoming of an otherwise precisely shot film packed with suspense, adventurous escapades and surreal mythology. Instead of focusing on a single character in the manner of Indiana Jones, the film would have benefitted from giving more attention to the other characters in the team along the lines of Jurassic Park and The Goonies. On the other hand, perhaps the dramatic arc of the father, who reassumes the role of the hero in the eyes of his children, is an appropriate update of the aforementioned inspirations in a time of crisis for the traditional family. In the end, however, the film rather raises the question of what “fourth-hand pop culture”, i.e. films made as homages to films inspired by films derived from films of generations long past, will look like in thirty years.

Whisper of the Heart may radiate simplicity and subtlety, but it is by no means an ordinary story. First love is rather more of a backdrop, albeit a captivating and moving one, for a much more substantial narrative about the gradual blossoming and refinement of a talented young man. In this respect, Miyazaki’s screenplay is pleasantly surprising in the serious and complex way it develops the motif of the search for self-realisation and following one’s own dream. Instead of superficially uplifting formulas and simplistic bits of wisdom about the great talent in whose thrall the creator finds himself, we have here a detailed treatise on the fact that, though it brings fulfilment and satisfaction, the journey to self-realisation primarily requires determination and diligence. All of this is wrapped up in a captivatingly fragile narrative that, despite viewers’ expectations and the promotional trailers, avoids excursions into the world of fantasy. Rather, it mesmerises with perfectly observed small gestures, details and coincidences of everyday life and a heartfelt celebration of the beauty of things and works created by the hands of craftsmen (from an old clock to a violin to a handwritten story). In its time, the film had an even more powerful message that brought hope and an appreciation of the everyday to Japanese people who were just beginning to intensely feel the bursting of their economic bubble. After the era of emphasising material values and virtual finances, Studio Ghibli thus showed the youth of that time values of a more permanent and, in terms of personal fulfilment, more rewarding nature. Though the film was made under Miyazaki’s screenwriting and production supervision, the creative input of first-time animator Yoshifumi Kondó can be seen in the charming simplicity and realism, which contrasts with the style of both Miyazaki and Takahata. His sudden death had a significant impact on Studio Ghibli, for which Kondó was to become the new core director who would eventually take over the reins from the aging masters. It wasn’t until fifteen years later that Hiromasa Yonebayashi followed in Kondó’s footsteps, but only in terms of his career, not in terms of his style.

Though at the time of its release The Wizard aroused a wave of indignation among critics, who saw it as a blatant advertisement for the Universal Studios amusement park and Nintendo consoles and games, including the hot new Super Mario 3 (which undoubtedly was in part a reflection of the outrage toward the power of Japanese industry, which at the time was buying up American businesses), today it is a wonderful relic of its time. In the present day, a narrative that plays up video games and their role in children’s lives may seem a bit much, but if we have a look at television shows from that period, such as GamesMaster and Bad Influence!, we see that the film was rather a representation of games and the lifestyle associated with them. The Wizard is a time capsule that captivates us with – in addition to the millieu of video-game arcades and stand-alone games present in the broadest variety of public spaces, from bus stations to diners – a look into a gaming call centre which, in the current age when help is only a few mouse clicks away, seems like something from another world. In terms of the story, the film is basically typical 1980s kitsch packed with formulaic elements from movies for adolescents. The story of a fractured family that is gradually brought together by Nintendo games is developed into a narrative that is very reminiscent of Rain Man – the typical 1980s scamp Fred Savage accompanies his shy and seemingly autistic younger brother, who turns out to be an invincible video-game master, on a shared getaway across the US. However, the two films were made at the same time and The Wizard was actually released a day earlier (according to IMDB) than the classic starring Hoffman and Cruise. Though one might believe that industrial espionage had taken place between the studios, the idea that a competitor decided to use the concept of a star-studded drama as the basis for a cringeworthy family product-placement flick is perhaps even more bizarre than the film itself.