MPAA: Rated PG for frightening images and brief mild language.
Release Date: June 10, 2005
Runtime: 119 min
Country: Japan
Language: English / Japanese
Director: Hayao Miyazaki
Starring: Chieko Baisho (Sofî, voice), Takuya Kimura (Hauru, voice)
[ official website ] [ trailer ]

Howl’s Moving Castle is the latest feather in Miyazaki’s cap. It is a precious film, so overflowing with ideas and visuals that our boring flesh and blood and concrete world could never contain its charm. Good animation possesses an innate precocious sensibility that even CGI is at pains to achieve, which in part explains why the live action Fantastic Four was so far from the bar set by Bird’s similarly super-powered and family-centered The Incredibles. Aside from marketing forces, it is this precociousness that drives so much animation to feature children characters, but Miyazki in his old age ingeniously stretches this sensibility to the world of senior citizens.

Castle features Sophie (Emily Mortimer), a young haberdasher who spends her free time making hats for herself from straw and lace. It is a clear day in her unnamed village when the famed Moving Castle comes limping through the countryside. Her fellow workers fawn and fan themselves in an echo of modern-day celebrity worship, sharing rumors of Howl (Christian Bale) and his reputation for eating the hearts of young beautiful girls. Howl’s castle is a wonder in itself, a hulking mass of conjoined parts that move independently of each other, bobbing and breathing, brought to life by smokestacks and pulleys and four tiny legs.

When Sophie unknowingly runs into Howl on the street, she’s taken off her feet literally and figuratively. Howl is equally enamored with the young girl, but it is his attraction to her that draws the wrath of the jealous Wicked Witch of the Waste (Lauren Bacall). Jealous of her youth and beauty, the witch places a curse on Sophie that transforms her into a ninety-year-old woman (now voiced by Jean Simmons).

The most remarkable thing about Sophie’s transformation is the ease with which she accepts it. At first frightened by her reflection, it is mere minutes later that Sophie says “oh well, at least now my clothes will match me”, and goes walking slowly through the streets ready to start a new phase in her life. She approaches old age with a simple curiosity that grows to a state of joy and contentment.

She seeks out Howl and his magical powers, and ends up working in his castle as a caretaker and housekeeper. There, she becomes the latest addition to an oddball family, each with their own personal curse: the fire-demon Calcifer (Billy Crystal) who must keep the castle powered and will kill Howl if he stops burning; Markyl, Howl’s apprentice who is talented beyond his years but must adopt an old man’s beard in order for people to take him seriously; Turnip-Head, a former prince now scarecrow who bounces around on a stick, following Sophie, and often landing upside-down in a ditch; and Howl himself, who’s heart has gone missing, is avoiding the King’s war draft, and transforms into a winged creature at night to fight untold of demons.

Miyazaki draws together many elements that flesh out Howl’s universe. From a political landscape rife with real world issues, to a detailed geography featuring several countries and even an otherworldly dimension, to a believable network of witches and wizards and demons, Howl’s world is much more contained and structured than those seen in Princess Mononoke or Spirited Away. This, however, may also be the film’s drawback, as the viewer spends much time keeping tabs of everyone’s alliances, where they came from, figuring out whom is cursed by whom, who transforms into what, and remembering where exactly everyone is located. At its worst it can be frustrating, at its best it distracts from the wonderful story and impeccable visuals.

The idea of transformation seems to be the central theme. The Wicked Witch of the Waste is cleverly named, for, embodying the ideals of the West, she is superficial, greedy, fat and lazy. She is carried around in a hansom cab, perpetually sweating, heavily bejeweled and ostentatious with every breath. When her transformation comes she turns into a kindly old woman, at times senile, though still tunnel-visioned with greed for (literally) Howl’s heart. Her only lucid moments are those of selfish wanting.

In fact, none of the characters change too much with their metamorphosis. Howl remains childish and dashing, noble and petulant. Sophie is forever caring and kind and bottling up her frustration with her circumstances. An interesting aspect of the film is how Sophie once in awhile, temporarily, morphs back into a younger version of herself, sometimes as a teenager, sometimes seemingly in her thirties or forties, and yet it is never dwelled upon or made a cause for rejoice. Like the Moving Castle itself demonstrates, change is a part of life, and no matter where you go or what you look like, you are never anything but yourself, never anywhere but home.

Each character and their respective curse comes with an important clause: you cannot talk about your curse. Therefore, Sophie is unable to tell her new friends of her true age, Howl dashes off at night to place only Calcifer knows about, and Calcifer cannot tell Sophie the secrets of Howl or the castle. Even Turnip-Head never gets to relay his story until the end, for he no longer has a functioning mouth. Miyazaki ventures to show that in order to grow you must not dwell on the past. In demonstration, the most rewarding part of Sophie’s life starts when she is ninety years old, and Howl and Calcifer must give up the castle in order to truly find their homes.

The messages and themes of Howl’s Moving Castle may seem overly cheesy or simplistic to some, but I’m willing to bet that merely depends on your stage in life, regardless of age. The deftest stroke of Miyazaki is that he restores a sense of wonder, intelligence, grace, and respect to two age groups that are often seen as a generation off from being “real people”.

Ever the humanist, Miyazaki’s concerns and politics may not reach everyone, but even the darkest cynic and the hardest realist cannot marvel at the visual magic on screen.

Jef is a Halfway Staff Writer

This review contains some spoilers.

MPAA: Rated NC-17 (USA)
Release Date: May 6, 2005
Runtime: 99 min
Country: USA / Netherlands
Language: English
Director: Gregg Araki
Starring: Joseph Gordon-Levitt (Neil), Brady Corbet (Brian)
[ official website ] [ trailer ]

Mysterious Skin, however, wrestled this preconception out of my hands and tossed it to the floor like popcorn. Although flexing strenuously with Araki’s trademark punk attitude, Skin balances the more sensational aspects of Araki’s aesthetic with genuine heart and delicate performances. This is the film his fans and detractors have been waiting for, and is also the film his long under-represented characters deserved.

Perhaps tellingly, Mysterious Skin is Araki’s first film to be adapted from an outside source. Based on Scott Heim’s 1995 novel of the same name, Skin follows the separate stories of two boys who long ago shared a common sexual involvement with the same little league baseball coach. Neil McCormick (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), whose relationship with “Coach” (Bill Sage) is more akin to puppy-dog romance than to child abuse, grows up to be an unapologetic prostitute who never shakes the memory of the man who first taught him about love. Brian (Brady Corbet), on the other hand, has no such romantic visions of the past. In fact, he is so traumatized by his molestation that he spends his entire time in the film attempting to fill in the gaps of his childhood memories.

Despite being a novel adaptation, Mysterious Skin encapsulates everything we’ve come to expect from Araki’s films; from the frank sexuality and staunchly queer politics, to the hipster aesthetic and characters, to even a subplot involving Araki’s preoccupation with aliens and UFOs. Indeed, it is the handling of the UFO subplot that best demonstrates Araki’s maturation as a visual storyteller.

The movie begins with a nod to E.T — with Brian watching from his kitchen window as his backyard glows and his fence vibrates — a beginning that proves to be unsettling not because of its sci-fi/horror qualities, but because of the deeper darkness it represents. The film draws eerie visual and narrative parallels between the experiences of the UFO abducted and the sexually abused. It is the perfect way to frame a child’s dark past that gets across the horrific physical intrusions while maintaining the child’s innocence and sense of wonder. Araki is able to convey the horror of the situation without robbing Brian of his interior life. It is an intricate plot weave that could have been obvious and gimmicky, but instead works well and plays beautifully.

The story of Neil, on the other hand, speaks to the more salacious side of Araki’s themes. Neil, unlike Brian, remembers every aspect of his abuse down to exacting detail. One of the film’s most memorable shots is of Neil rejoicing in the slow-motion tinkle of rainbow coloured breakfast cereal as it comes down upon his head, a snapshot sensory moment of a food fight which took place on the first night Coach made his physical advances.

Neil grows up trapped in the sexual model of young boy/older man. He tricks himself out to neighbourhood johns, all of them older, all of them lusting after Neil’s youth and sexual confidence. In these beginning scenes, Neil does not look victimized. He gets off and loves it. It never even seems to be about money. Rather, Neil is just another stir-crazy small town kid, looking for a way out of his bland suburban nightmare. When Neil finally rages at the sky and vents his angst, it has nothing to do with sex or abuse or having a fucked up childhood.

The boys’ respective storylines are kept separate, and we never see them in the same frame (except for childhood flashbacks) until the end of the film. Still, their lives intertwine. Brian, in his X-Files-ish search for the truth, learns that his abduction is connected somehow to one of his little league team members. He searches for Neil, who at this point has escaped the town and moved to New York with his best friend, Wendy (Michelle Trachtenberg). Instead of confronting Neil, Brian forms a friendship with Neil’s other good friend, Eric (Jeffrey Licon). Together, Brian and Eric explore the mystery that is Neil; Brian because of their linked past, Eric because he is in love with him.

It is Neil’s time in the Big Apple where Araki comes close to losing focus of the film. Part of why Mysterious Skin works where Araki’s other films have not is because of the small town setting and its lack of a social scene. When Neil moves to New York Araki once again succumbs to clichéd big city aesthetic. Everyone is suddenly dangerous and vacuous, the buildings and bars are ominous; and Araki uses this as a metaphor for Neil’s downward spiral. Neil’s New York clients indulge in violent and weird sex, which has the odd effect of making Coach’s paedophilia seem sweet and caring in comparison. Neil’s plunge into darkness culminates with one of his clients beating and raping him. Araki draws another visual reference here, this time with Hitchcock’s Psycho, which unlike the opening sequence seems showy and unnecessary.

Luckily, the New York section of the film does not last long and Araki does not dwell on it (we never even find out what happens to Wendy in the end). Its effects on Neil go no further than to bring him back home, where he finally meets Brian.

The issue of paedophilia is both danced around and confronted head-on. Even the actual molestation scenes are shot in a way that comforts while churning the stomach. The tight close-ups on faces and appendages fill the frame with issues most would like to never to see in such detail, and yet it is reassuring to know they were shot in a manner that enabled the young actors to act without the Coach/Bill Sage present, and perhaps even in a manner that stripped their scenes of context.

Mysterious Skin is just that, a wonderful balancing act. Araki takes on issues, stories, and even visuals that tipped too far in one direction could have proven disastrous for a movie. Even his choice in actors, with stars from TV’s 3rd Rock From the Sun and Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and Elisabeth Shue to boot), shows incredible insight and faith in what could have been nothing more than distracting stunt-casting.

The end of the film demonstrates just how excellent the actors are. In the end, Neil and Brian go to the house where it all went down, Coach no longer living there and all of his personal effects gone. Neil fills in Brian’s memory gaps, and Gordon-Levitt’s stone-faced delivery is cold yet caring. Each actor nails this scene (Corbet is a future Oscar winner, and you can put money on that statement), which with its tidy catharsis could have ruined the movie but instead ties everything together and cuts everything open again. The film’s last frame leaves the boys like a stain upon the screen, a deep stain that sticks to you as you leave the theatre. Whatever mystery might still be left in the air, one thing is clear — Gregg Araki has arrived as a fully-fleshed filmmaker.

Jef is a Halfway Staff Writer

Needless to say, Bart isn’t a very nice fellow. He’s bald and has a leering Glasgow accent. He yells at his underlings and takes photos of himself while having sex with whores. All this, plus he uses Danny as a means of collecting money from his numerous enemies, taunting rivals with the threat of taking Danny’s collar off. Of course, some refuse to pay and beautiful action sequences are thus born.

The weirdness comes when one day Bart is squeezing money from thugs who operate out of a piano warehouse. Danny is for some reason left alone in the storage area when Sam (Morgan Freeman) comes in to tune the piano. Sam is blind and can’t see that Danny is wearing a dog collar and is visibly distressed by having to talk to someone who isn’t his owner. Danny stands silent and conflicted but drawn to both the calmness of Sam’s voice and the beautiful sounds of the piano. (Danny loves pianos. It, like, you know, makes him more human and stuff.)

Sam coaxes Danny into sitting beside him at the piano bench, and they share an odd, interracial, older/younger, homoerotic scene with Sam massaging Danny’s hands and telling him to push the piano keys harder. “That’s it, harder!” says Sam. “Yessss,” replies Danny, giggly and virginal. For someone who is blind, Sam gives an odd amount of eye contact.

The film switches gears after Bart encounters some unfortunate car troubles, allowing Danny to escape and seek the care of Sam the Piano Man. Sam brings Danny to his home, where Danny wakes up bandaged and wearing fuzzy pyjamas. This is screenwriter Luc Besson’s forte – a stitched-together makeshift family, a strangely mature child or a strangely childlike adult on the verge of sexuality, and the threat of violence looming everywhere, threatening to tear apart the sense of home.

For a martial arts film, the film spends an inordinate amount of time establishing the family and developing their relationships. Unfortunately, the entire middle section of the film falls flat and drags the entire movie behind it. Morgan Freeman sleepwalks through his role, and who can blame him? The Wise Old Black Man—he’s been here before and several times too many at that. Sam’s adopted daughter, Victoria (Kerry Condon) is unfortunately miscast, giving the character a confusingly indeterminate age range. She seems somewhere between twelve and twenty-three, which was perhaps intended, but makes her romantic connection with Danny, who for all intents and purposes is mentally challenged, all the more out of place and unsettling.

This is a family of outsiders if ever there was one. A blind benevolent black man, a smart plucky girl with braces and short hair, and an Asian dog, all with a penchant for classical music and ice cream, all on the run from a white male villain dressed in a clean white suit (in this film, the bad guys wear white).

Unleashed would be such a smart film if its surface story didn’t seem so lazily written. Sam brings Danny shopping and teaches him how to tap melons. Danny thus spends a lot of the film tapping things and calling them ripe. “Ripe means sweet, and sweet means gooood!” he says. Victoria teaches Danny how to eat ice cream, and Danny spends a couple of sequences saying, “Vanilla is gooood!” And so on.

So much of the film depends on the establishment of these characters as a believable family, but it never happens. Part of the problem is that they accept Danny from the get-go. In Victoria’s first meeting with Danny, he is scared and hiding under a bed. She prances into the room, crouches down on the floor, and talks to Danny as if she’s known him her whole life. The film could have done well by establishing a sense of people growing to love each other, instead of positing a wonderfully PC rainbow family who seemingly would love any weirdo that waltzed into their bedroom.

The best character development occurs within Yuen Wo Ping’s fight choreography. Unleashed sports a different style for Ping, more violent and less ballet-like, wherein Danny fights viscously and efficiently. Mirroring the way Danny learns about the world around him, when Danny lands a hit he attempts the same technique four more times. “Vanilla is gooood!” These sequences best get into the mind of Danny, where you can see his physical virility, his childlike innocence, his animal instincts, and his love for peace and happiness, all in the same sequence of right elbows to the face.

The end fight sequence is particularly apt, with Danny literally using his “home” to escape the villains, crawling through the walls and ceilings. This is all while Sam and Victoria hide shivering in the closet, and just after Bart has referenced Sigmund Freud with his cronies.

In the end, the subtexts of Unleashed stay under wraps, hidden beneath layers of clunky storytelling. If Danny were to tap this movie, he might say it were sweet. But then again, Danny thinks everything is sweet.

Jef is a Halfway Staff Writer. All stills in this article are property of Rogue Pictures.

This Review Contains Spoilers and Specific Plot Aspects

I’ve tried to write this review of Chanwook Park’s Oldboy several times already. (You can ask my editor about how long it took me to finally hand this in.) But no matter what I talk about I can’t seem to get at the core of the movie’s appeal. I can’t seem to say exactly what I want to say.

As an experience, Oldboy gets deep into your gut and wrenches. Much hoopla has been made over the third act’s careening turn into incest and suicide, mutilation and humiliation. And as a film, Oldboy crisps over like bacon with sharp compositions, both static and fluid. But there is something else happening deep within the film, something that goes far beyond declarations of shock, schlock, or pure visceral imagery. It’s elusive and perhaps unintentional, but I couldn’t complete a review without acknowledging its existence.

It’s difficult to put my finger on it, but there is a dialectical debate at play within the film. At one point our villain, Lee Woo-Jin (Yoo Hi-Tae), asks our protagonist, Oh Daesu (Choi Min-sik), “Do you seek revenge, or do you find the truth?” At another point Oh Daesu muses to himself, “Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Weep, and you weep alone.” The film posits truth as something horrifying and alienating, and demonstrates this within its own disturbing final scenes. But there is an escape: the shallow pleasures of the revenge film, the comforts of laughter. It’s almost as if Oldboy outright tells you that if you can’t handle its truths then just enjoy the movie as another hipster-friendly gore-fest. Watch through the ironic eyes of a Tarantino, rather than the pained gaze of our own Oh Daesu.

And so what do you do? Do you settle for the shallower pleasures of laughter and of the bloody revenge sequences? Or do you dare go deeper and risk all that “deeper” entails? It’s of note that the film’s most talked about scene is when Oh Daesu fends off an army of henchmen with a hammer in his hand and a knife in his back. For, sublime and impressive as the sequence is, it isn’t entirely successful. Many of the punches and kicks miss their mark and thus recall fight choreography from professional wrestling. The un-pivoting side-scroll, though seeming fresh, is merely theatrical, a regression in cinematic imagination. And really, the sequence has nothing to do with any of the film’s major developments.

The real star sequences of Oldboy are the ones nobody wants to talk about: the incest and humiliation scenes. It takes a lot of gut power to declare the love scene between Oh Daesu and his daughter Mi-do (Kang Jye-jeong) “beautiful”, and yet it is. It’s a hungry, passionate scene, with Oh Daesu gorging on Mi-do much as he did a live squid earlier in the film. It might seem baffling that attractive young Mi-do would ever be attracted to this dishevelled crazy man, half ranting lunatic, half Fear Factor contestant, but the film by this point has established Oh Daesu’s desperate need for human contact so thoroughly that we’re there with him. As a love story, theirs may not make sense but we allow it because we want it as well.