Category: 2000s

Jia Zhangke | 1hr 53min

In some ways, Unknown Pleasures is Jia Zhangke’s spiritual sequel to Platform, immersing us in the materialistic, hybridised culture of Eastern and Western influences that emerged within China’s cultural landscape at the end of his sophomore film. The rallies we observed marching in support of the one-child policy have finally taken root, so much so that those babies born in the wake of the program have now grown up into the “birth control generation”, and become our focus here in Unknown Pleasures. They are isolated, passive teenagers, whose limited attention spans are dominated by television sets detaching them from reality. 
 
Jia has previously demonstrated his ability to work resourcefully on tight budgets, but as his first film shot on digital rather than film, there are moments here where the footage looks more like a home video in some clumsy movements and over-exposed images. That said, this switch to handheld digital also allows for more lightness and spontaneity in his unbroken tracking shots, and especially allows for more freedom in his panning camera, which still remains one of his best tools. He smoothly shifts between mid and long shots of his characters, letting our attention wander to an arrest taking place elsewhere on the street, or to one of many TV sets they silently watch together. Most importantly, the Rossellini-inspired neorealism seeps through in the derelict, industrial architecture, towering over the bleak landscapes through which these lonely teenagers wander. 

It isn’t until about forty minutes in that we witness the first major disruption to the lives of our three main characters. As Xiao Ji sits at home, drinking his soda while the news plays in the background the next room over, an explosive sound pierces the monotony. Not long after, we discover that a local textile mill has been destroyed, and the object of Xiao Ji’s desire, Qiao Qiao, is in need of his assistance to get her injured father to the hospital. Through this crisis, the two grow a little bit closer, and as they celebrate afterwards Jia draws parallels to the boisterous couples of Pulp Fiction. Xiao Ji first imagines themselves as Pumpkin and Honey Bunny holding up the diner, and then in an uncharacteristically energetic whip pan, Jia cuts to a discotheque where the two perform the famous Jack Rabbit Slim’s dance. 

While Jia grounds Unknown Pleasures in real historical events such as the announcement of the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Xiao Ji and his friend, Bin Bin, seem to act in sharp opposition through their emulations of movies, even as their attempts fall humorously short. There is no fighting against the messiness of reality, which constantly forces them back into the helpless passivity they are so familiar with. While these young adults find some comfort in Zhuangzi’s philosophy to “do what feels good,” these ancient words ultimately become little more than a despairing assertion of what little agency they really have in the face of this constrained, globalised Chinese culture.

Unknown Pleasures is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Jacques Audiard | 2hr 35min

In the lineage of epic gangster films stretching from the original 1932 Scarface, through the genre’s resurgence in the 70s, and all the way to the present day, Jacques Audiard’s A Prophet slots in neatly as a drama just as rich in character development and narrative power as any of its predecessors. The traditional rags-to-riches story arc finds new life in Algerian teen Malik El Djebena, whose six-year prison sentence lands him in the midst of a gang war between Muslim and Corsican inmates. Malik, being neither, is taken under the wing of the Corsican mob after carrying out an assassination on a Muslim prisoner, Reyeb, then later earns the trust of the Muslims as well after learning more about his own heritage.

Audiard’s stylistic approach to the raw grittiness of the piece emerges in his handheld camera and cool, blue wash all through the penitentiary, within which his detailed accounts of the gangs’ complex power structures unfold and root this narrative in a modern-day, multicultural France. The contained scope is captured in high-angle wide shots of the prison courtyard where the rival factions congregate on either side, the disdain hanging thick in the open, empty space between them. Though all the inmates speak French, the language divide of Arabic and Corsican serves to isolate them from each other, and it is Malik’s resolve to defeat his illiteracy and master all three languages that provides him the key to great power, becoming “the eyes and ears” of the prison. In playing both fields he gradually finds himself rising up the ranks of the mob hierarchy, this upwards trajectory bookmarked by chapter titles imprinted over freeze frames and slow-motion shots that temporarily remove us from the immediate action.

These formal breaks are further justified by the bursts of magical realism which make their way into Malik’s otherwise grounded journey, endowing him with a divine clairvoyancy. On a practical level, it is a reflection of his ability to reach further than his usual grasp through his learned multilingualism and sharp wit, and yet within his own mind it manifests as ghostly visions of Reyeb, acting as his spiritual guide. In this ethereal form, holy fire follows Reyeb whenever he appears, sometimes wreathing and burning his body, and at other times burning atop his finger as a flame. Through all of Malik’s loneliest moments, Reyeb is there offering wisdom and companionship, but also silently reminding him of the sinful act that set him on this path.

If we were to doubt the reality of such hallucinatory visions, then Audiard brings Malik’s two worlds together at just the right moment during a tricky business dealing, when his prophecy of a car colliding with a wild deer comes to manifest. At this point, as the deer is flung high up into the air, Audiard returns to the slow-motion photography we have witnessed in his chapter breaks, emphasising this manifestation of Malik’s spiritual gift. Just as he wins the astonished respect of those present to witness his prophecy, he similarly goes on to earn the esteem of high-level mafia operators with his insight and diplomacy, leaping over those who he once served. The model of reformation that Malik embodies might superficially point to the success of the justice system, as he does indeed come out from behind bars with an education, refreshed spirituality, and a new lease on life. And yet there is a distinct irony to the fact that in achieving these goals, prison has also incidentally turned a petty criminal into a drug kingpin. As Malik finally reaches the end of his six-year sentence and suavely leaves with a leather jacket and neat haircut, Audiard’s powerful final shot reveals an entourage of black cars silently trailing behind them. Now with a mass of allies and associates, endless opportunities await the Algerian prophet and crime lord as he continues to expand his empire into the society that once despised him.

A Prophet is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Martin Campbell | 2hr 24min

With a new era of James Bond came a re-invention of not just the character himself, but an entire sub-genre of action espionage films. Here is an actor throwing his body into a role like a Buster Keaton-type stuntman, building a full identity out of that visceral recklessness, and carrying it off with all the class we would expect from a character so notorious for his charm and seduction. When asked if he wants his vodka martini shaken or stirred after losing a round of high-stakes poker, his response is a sharp “Do I look like I give a damn?”, marking an abrupt departure from his cool, aloof predecessors.

This is the image of 007 that has become inextricably tied to Daniel Craig, and yet the success of Casino Royale goes beyond his central performance, oozing stylish elegance in Martin Campbell’s sleek camera movements that avoid harsh cuts where a simple pan, tilt, or rack focus would suffice. The latter in particular efficiently guides our attention between Bond and the subjects of his scrutiny, letting visual information emerge organically without the need to move away from his face.

Building up this character even further are Campbell’s spectacular set pieces, each one revealing different aspects of Bond’s identity. The first one, a chase across cranes, scaffolding, and construction sites in Madagascar, sees Bond pursue a bomb-maker with a knack for free running. While the target is sliding through tight spaces and leaping fences with ease, Daniel Craig’s Bond simply can’t keep up. Luckily his devil-may-care attitude and resourcefulness is more than enough compensation. He runs through drywall as a short cut, and he takes possession of a bulldozer to wipe out any obstacles in his way. The denouement in which Bond assassinates his target against official orders pays off on his established rebelliousness with a final stinger, uncovering a dangerous ego which lies beneath his otherwise quiet allure. And all throughout, Campbell’s camera never stops moving in agile, controlled motions, imbuing the scene with the same energy and momentum that makes James Bond such a dynamic character.

Facing off against Bond in this instalment is Mads Mikkelsen’s sumptuously wicked banker, Le Chiffre, a truly reprehensible villain to behold. A “derangement of the tear duct” causes him to weep blood, and with a scar slashing across a clouded eye, he is set apart as an inhumanly damaged force of malevolence. The scenes of Texas hold ‘em poker distils his conflict with 007 down to a game of wits, in which both foes are fairly evenly matched. Even then, Bond’s smarts aren’t enough for Le Chiffre’s dishonesty, who, after losing all his money, kidnaps, strips, and beats the MI6 agent. As superhuman as Bond seems to be at times, Daniel Craig’s vulnerability here reveals an exposed man with nothing to rely on but a smart-ass attitude. Though his fortitude remains, his elegant style isn’t inherent in his being. At his core he is a reckless, egocentric asshole, always wanting to get in the final word.

In the striking final set piece of a large building sinking into Venice’s Grand Canal, Bond displays his first true bit of selflessness in trying to rescue his associate and love interest, Vesper, from her doom. As they say goodbye beneath the water, he reaches through the bars of the elevator that she is trapped within, watching the life drain from the only woman he was ever willing to give up everything for. As much as James Bond is typically considered a standard action hero archetype, Martin Campbell’s masterfully efficient set pieces paired with Daniel Craig’s complex performance of a man fighting with his ego thrillingly rejuvenates this classic mainstay of British film, and together hold Casino Royale up as a remarkable piece of character-driven, action cinema.

Casino Royale is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Jia Zhangke | 2hr 34min

Unsatisfied with the escapist, expressionist Fifth Wave of Chinese filmmakers, Jia Zhangke burst onto the scene in the 1990s leading the more grounded Sixth Wave, and with his second film, the neorealist epic, Platform, he turned to China’s recent history to bring in the new millennium. This “epic” descriptor is only really applicable in the way it might be for a film like Richard Linklater’s Boyhood – not much “happens” in any individual moment, but the sheer span of time which we spend with the same characters reveals an accumulation of small changes set in motion by an increasingly globalising culture, pressing in on their lives and pushing them in separate directions.

As the 1980s dawn upon the young performers of the state-funded Peasant Cultural Group, they collectively ruminate on what sort of future lies ahead for their country in the year 2000. “The four modernisations: industry, agriculture, defence, science,” one of them conjectures, and he’s not wrong, though clearly they are unprepared for the sort of social and artistic shifts which will impact them in a far more personal manner than anything else. Three years after chairman Mao Zedong’s death, his likeness still adorns the walls of their homes, but in the coming years it is the new Paramount leader, Deng Xiaoping, whose influence and embrace of consumerist policies will come to dominate their lives.
 
Even when we first meet these characters though, many of these changes are already in motion. There are no pivotal turning points in Platform for Jia’s characters, but their lives are rather made up of miniscule shifts in cultural behaviours towards western trends. Foreign films and fashion fads are considered bad influences, and as early on as the ten-minute mark we see one of the group’s central performers, Cui Minliang, being scolded by his parents for wearing bell-bottomed jeans – an attitude he simply puts down to “the generation gap.” 

In choosing to shoot on location in China’s Shanxi province, Jia makes the most of the region’s dilapidated architecture, dwarfing his characters beneath these towering, crumbling buildings in an abundance of wide and mid-shots. The lack of structural maintenance is evident, as we return twice to the same set of half-constructed stairs which turn this part of the city into an obstacle course for Jia’s characters to navigate, leap across, and climb. Much like Cuarón would do in Roma 18 years later, Jia often pans his camera around his scenes, soaking in the detail of the dirtied interiors and streets of 1980s China. Early on, a trivial conversation between two performers, Zhang and Zhong, is set right next to a political rally for the newly-imposed one-child policy, and although the two affairs don’t directly collide in this moment, it paints out a politically-charged landscape of cultural turmoil that is slowly seeping into the everyday lives of its citizens.

Later, Cui and Yin, a performer with whom he shares a mutual attraction, meet on the ramparts of a grey brick fortress to discuss their relationship. With the camera planted just halfway around a protruding corner, we are only ever privy to one side of the conversation at a time, as both characters alternate positions into our scope of vision to deliver their own perspective. In doing so Jia effectively creates the same isolating effect that cutting to either side of the conversation might have, and yet through his patient, static camera, he instead uses the imposing architecture of the city to come between his characters. 

Eventually Yin finds herself slowly dragged away from her friends and passion to enter a planned marriage. “Everything’s arranged for me,” she quietly laments, and yet even in falling into this traditional custom, she too finds herself swept along a separate strand of consumerism which dominates China’s workplaces and private homes. Though she is bound to her stable, middle-class station in life, even she still can’t help bursting out into a small dance when she finds herself alone in her office, reminiscing on her nostalgic past.

The inevitable privatisation of the Peasant Cultural Group plays out in such understated moments, we might almost hope along with the characters that it won’t affect things too much. There is a brief reflection from one performer on how putting them up for sale effectively cheapens their livelihoods, but it is quickly cut short by the leader’s reassurance that he is making as much of a sacrifice as them. Regardless, we do witness a drastic evolution taking place in Jia’s sprinkling of their performances all throughout. While touring into an urban area, they are requested to “play concerts of light music” as opposed to their more traditional fare, in a bid to appeal to the more worldly city types. Later, Zhang returns home from an overseas trip with some new cassette tapes featuring euro disco music, and the song “Dschinghis Khan” quickly becomes a hit within his social circle. 
 
Bit by bit, the Peasant Cultural Group’s repertoire of Chinese folk music shifts to pop and rock, their muted outfits are replaced by colourful spandex and double denim, and they are eventually renamed the All-Star Rock and Breakdance Electronic Band. They have spent their careers spreading the state-approved message that a bright future awaits their generation, and yet by the end these promises are revealed to be utterly empty. 

“Young friends, this spring will be yours. Yours and mine. The new generation of the 1980s!” 

When it comes to the source of these promises, we turn to the older generations who, while not a significant focus of Platform, do find representation in the form of Cui’s troubled parents. Despite all their moral and ideological reprimands, they are far from sinless, as Cui’s father’s affair is only briefly confronted before it becomes a natural part of life, slowly fragmenting the family over the years. 
 
This is the way relationships come to an end in this new modernised culture – not with a farewell and a hug, but a silent tapering off, disappearing before anyone realises it. This set pattern pays off in an especially weighty scene towards the end, as Cui and Lin run into each other again after years of unresolved separation. Though they ruminate over the old days, the interaction remains morose. The closure they find in this moment together is special, but they also recognise it is not a privilege that they were granted with their other friends, recalling the last times they were together. 

“Leaving without a word. And since then, no news.” 

These losses and adjustments are incremental yet irreversible, and it is in this slow, gradual development over ten years that Jia’s melancholy reflections on China’s modernisation comes into focus. He isn’t exactly full of praise for the Cultural Revolution of the 60s and 70s either, as he exposes the superficiality which lay beneath its nationalism and deification of Mao, but he rather expresses a nostalgia for the blissful hope and ignorance of youth that seeps away with time. Though we can appreciate the immediate impact of Jia’s stark, minimalistic aesthetics giving visual context to these characters’ struggles along the road to modernity, it is only by the end when we look back at his formally ambitious construction of China over a ten-year span that we realise the full extent of the loss that has taken place.

Platform is available to stream on The Criterion Channel.

Joe Wright | 2hr 7min

It is evident that Joe Wright isn’t all that interested in creating a straight page-to-screen adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, as the 1995 BBC television miniseries is already there for anyone looking to scratch that itch. His cinematic interpretation of Jane Austen’s novel brings a stylistic and formal flair to Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy’s terse romance that we haven’t seen before, efficiently constructing the world of 19th century England in long takes that soar through lavish ballrooms, hallways, and mansions.

As we glide alongside his characters, we occasionally find ourselves detaching from one and hooking onto another, as if trying to eavesdrop on a little bit of every conversation going on. When we reach the ball scene, Wright’s camera sways and twirls around Elizabeth and Mr Darcy’s dance, binding them together in a whirlwind of tension that separates them from the rest of the crowd. By constantly adjusting our frame of reference Wright heightens the romantic impressionism of Elizabeth’s world, and keeps finding new ways to paint her and other characters within intricately blocked crowds and gorgeously adorned rooms.

Given how much the literary format lends itself to directly conveying a character’s personal thoughts, there is a challenge that Wright takes on in visually establishing the coldness of our main couple’s relationship while imbuing it with a touch of sensuality and yearning. He emphasises Mr Darcy’s hands in cutaways, usually betraying some sort of emotion that he is too taciturn to express. When the two lovers dance together at the ball, Elizabeth is one of the few women to not be wearing gloves, accentuating the skin-to-skin contact taking place between them.

All of this comes to a head in the final profession of love between the two. As Mr Darcy emerges from the early morning fog, Wright refuses to the push the camera forward like he has in almost every other scene. Instead, it is Darcy who makes the decisive movement to approach us, signifying his momentous opening up. When he and Elizabeth finally embrace, she notes the coldness of his hands, tying off the motif that has finally turned from subtext to text.

One must certainly give credit to Jane Austen for providing Joe Wright such a rich piece of literature to begin with, but it is the extra dimension of cinematic world building that lets this adaptation of Pride and Prejudice flourish. No doubt there were plot points were removed or condensed to fit the entire novel into two hours, but considered on its own there is nothing here that feels incomplete or missing. This is a full-bodied period piece brimming with visual detail, from the rolling green hills of the English countryside to the 19th century ballrooms, and there is little that can detract from the power of its romanticism.

Pride and Prejudice is currently available to stream on Binge, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.