dosed and confused

Even without foreknowledge of neither Gaspar Noe’s crave to goad nor any info involving a horny dance troupe and a very portentous bowl of sangria, you know you’re headed towards a hellscape. The opening shot, directly overhead, features a blood-soaked woman wriggling in anguish, snow-angel style on a white snowy canvas as the end credits scroll up. I fell for it, pushing pause and seeing if I somehow started it at the wrong place. From here we watch interviews with the company, presumably audition videos peppered with tidbits of data regarding their personalities, information that doesn’t really add up to much though the ensuing perpetrator is hiding here in plain sight. This smorgasbord of humanity is then shown in beautiful solidarity performing a choreographed dance to Cerrone’s Supernature. For me to call this a highpoint in this scalawag’s brash career might seem like a snide commendation as said career has mostly annoyed the shit out me, but for once his talent isn’t eclipsed by his true vocation to eternally stick in bourgeois festival leech’s crawl. In this he has made a brand and stuck staunchly to it. I’ve said before that such an aptitude is rigged to avoid any true criticism; react and out yourself as a delicate sucker. Still, it’s nice to see him filming his actors with such adoration and grace even if it’ll all end as it typically does with everyone either dead or worse. These scenes are intercut with dialogue that implies certain characters are here to either fight or fuck, some of the implications suggest that the sex won’t be consensual and this seed is planted making much of what’s to come all the more alarming. Nobody in their right mind would suggest that dialogue is Noe’s knack and Climax is no exception. The aforementioned bowl of sangria has been spiked with LSD, and I’m guessing based on everyone’s eventual ruin it was a substantial amount. The effects don’t rear their ugly head until at least 45 minutes of relative niceties have passed (including another dance sequence shot directly above the performers). The preliminary shock leads to three of the dancers getting fucked up by their troupe; one burn victim, one frozen man, and one pregnant woman kicked in the stomach. This violence and the violence forthcoming seem to stem from Noe’s puerile notions of foul human nature coaxed out by the acid. This is where Climax started to lose me, but not completely. My problem with the descent into hell wasn’t that it was horrid and disturbing (the sound of a scared tripping 5 year old screaming for his mother, who locked him in a storage room and lost the key, was sufficient nightmare fuel for me), it’s that Noe can’t resist tethering contrived plot to what ought to be pure nonsensical anguish and chaos. The worst and most unforgivable also takes up the most time; a brother chasing down and attempting to rape his sister. This is the type of puerile baby baiting that distracts from the genuinely revolting and oddly beautiful funhouse of insanity strewn about the red soaked dancefloor. The callbacks only sidetrack us and break the spell. Noe is working with a dream synopsis, so simple that it doesn’t really require much. His need to spike this punch with reason is telling. Stop making sense. 

dragged across burning

It’s hard for me to believe that the inherent danger in associating fictional actions with creative consent has become so widely accepted in media discourse. It’s comical to read grown adults worry that audiences won’t be able to discern things for themselves; as though we laymen are simply sponges hoping to soak up our wavering values through Hollywood. Even if this assertion occasionally holds water, I wonder what the alternative would be. Should we implement another Hayes Code? Should there be a certificate that said film either falls in line with a certain credo or perhaps we can slap a certificate of approval when a movie is believed to present no clear and present danger to progressive society. Maybe this sense of danger comes from a voice inside us that might rationalize a wrongheaded point of view thus momentarily walk in the shoes of a racist, misogynist, serial killer, or homophobe. I think this same fear has alerted mega conglomerates to lace their otherwise empty tentpoles with hints of “activism.” If you aren’t immediately wary of Disney imploring you to see their latest superhero movie lest mouth breathing incels take over the cinema forever (you only have one shot here guys, either pay to see this movie or there will never be another _______ caped crusader, don’t fuck it up), then you are a sucker. Either way, I think that within that sense of danger we learn something perhaps unsavory about ourselves or maybe even unsavory about evil and its enticement. As they say, the first step to redemption is in recognizing the problem. S Craig Zahler doesn’t shy away from the problem, including corrupt cops (the only kind) justifying their actions with what, on the surface, seems like sound reasoning. These are the lies they tell themselves to justify their unjustifiable actions. The imminent conjunction of cop and thief in Dragged Across Concrete is predictable, but it’s the beats along the way that make it so fresh and intricate. The decision to portray a dirty pair of cops (one played by mad Mel to complicate matters) without the ethical markers that shepherd and soothe the diffident, dwarfs the more substantial decision to give equal if not deeper consideration to their counterpart (Tory Kittles who deserves all of the awards). Zahler specializes in weaponizing desperation; a harbinger for approaching carnage. In this department he might just be the current champion, which predictably has landed him under the ever-watchful eye of milquetoast handwringers for the foreseeable future. And at times he is irrefutably pitiless. Take the scene involving a mother’s return to work, a scene that uses a mother’s hardest day (the first without her child) as a revolting punchline to both further complicate the complicity of Kittles’ character as well as fortify the almost mystical heartlessness of a masked villain. Like the Sadfies’ Good Time, another genre film to draw suspicion and contempt regarding its authorial provocation, Dragged Across Concrete never feels banal or predictable, toppling nearly all narrative and spoken clichés in its path. Here’s hoping that its financial woes don’t prevent Zahler from continuing to shine a light on the worst of us.

Lee Chang-dong’s Burning spends the majority of its two plus hours in the company of an isolated and horny South Korean youth tending to his recently incarcerated father’s farmhouse in Paju. The young man’s name is Jongsu and he is a writer, though we get very little insight outside of a petition as to what his prose is all about. Early on, he reunites with a childhood acquaintance from his hometown. Her name is Haemi and it’s immediately evident that her version of reality might be slightly skewed. For instance, we are told she has a cat whom Jongsu has been entrusted to feed and water while she is in Africa for a short trip. We may or may not ever see this cat at any point of the film, thus sharing his confusion as to the validity of its existence. The importance of this cat’s existence plays a large role in what lies ahead. Chang-dong’s careful and deliberate structure ensures that all information pertinent to what will eventually unravel is slyly withheld; clues dangled just tantalizingly enough to let our minds do most of the heavy lifting, perhaps leading to a shared fixation with our tortured central character. This method is nothing new and in fact there is a crucial pantomiming sequence that recalls the finale of Antonioni’s Blow Up, another film about a fanatical man turned greenhorn sleuth as a result of meticulously withheld evidence. In Burning we learn that one character’s secret to persuasive performance is simply believing in that which is simply not there. This is a movie full of instances in which we are baited to do just that. Here Jongsu scrambles frantically to find Haemi after a phone call seems to imply foul play. The main suspect is Ben, a wealthy socialite whose company Jongsu is forced to suffer thanks to his jealousy. Ben constantly seems amused by his newly acquired underprivileged company and a later scene would imply that he’s been down this road before, that the poor are simply diversions until they inevitably get tossed aside or worse. Haemi’s disappearance is worthy case to crack, especially as cryptic signs seem to lead further past the point of no return. A drawer full of female possessions, a flippant mention of arson, a yawn, a bizarre trip to a lake, and even a cat fuel the fires of distrust. Unrequited desire begets resentment and confusion which in turn begets anger and delirium regarding our gumshoe’s increasingly bewildered state. Even the miserable final scene contains a single line of dialogue that only sends us further into uncertainty, which surely has left most to rejoice and luxuriate in its scrupulous and never not beautifully composed chaos. I couldn’t help but feel that the last twenty minutes piled it on too thick, but I’m certainly on the outside looking in. Love hurts.